I runwithout looking back for what seems like forever. I’m so afraid that if I pause to look back and see if Jett’s following—even for a second—I’ll get dragged back onto that bus.
My legs are burning from exertion and my pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out all the other post-show sounds. I'm dizzy, disoriented, and my mind’s spiraling from too much alcohol and adrenaline. Still, I don't stop running. Some primal instinct keeps my feet moving against the pavement and grass as I flee deeper into the labyrinth of trailers and equipment.
Everywhere I look, debris from the festival litters the ground—discarded cups, crumpled setlists, broken glow sticks trampled into the field. Lights flicker and buzz, painting the night with chaotic hues. But the crowds are dispersing, and the crew’s working hard to clear the space and pack up the equipment.
It's like I've stumbled into some dystopian aftermath, a world after the party ends.
"Looking hot there, cutie." Someone in a group of guys I pass laughs. A whistle follows.
I round a corner and finally come to a stop near an empty media tent, my chest heaving. It takes me a few moments to realize that it’s actually pretty cold. My skin prickles from the temperature drop, goosebumps rising on my arms and legs. I'm suddenly acutely aware of my own state of undress as I stand there in nothing but my underwear.
With trembling hands, I pull my dress back over my head. The fabric feels insubstantial, but it's better than nothing. I zip it up with clumsy fingers, willing my rapid breaths to slow.
I glance around while attempting to get my bearings. I'm on some kind of access road behind the main stage, hemmed in by looming scaffolding and idle equipment trucks.
I start walking before someone spots me. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Fuck, I can hardly get enough oxygen into my lungs.
I walk and walk and walk until I can make out a collection of buses parked further down the path.
One of them is clearly The Deviant's bus.
I know because the band’s name is painted in huge shiny letters. It’s impossible to miss. Even though I’m drunk.
It’s like they want everyone to know who they are.
I start toward it on shaky legs, my progress slow and faltering. But with each step, my doubt grows as my stomach clenches with anxiety.
If you still think Jett is going to give you the future you want, you’re one dumb bitch, Wendy Fields.
Run while you can.
So I do.
I run to where every drunk hormonal twenty-two-year-old girl runs when she finds out her man is a total shithead—into the arms of another man.
11CRUZ
The bus isa mess of bodies and noise, with Angelo's voice tearing through the chaos being the loudest. "Get him some water!" He launches his hands skyward in red-faced frustration.
Chance is sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, sweat soaking his hair and neck. With the remnants of makeup on his face, he looks like a ghost, and I can't shake the feeling that we're watching him disappear.
One of the girls—Justice's latest fling for the night—darts to the mini fridge and snags a bottle of water.
"Get that window open!" Angelo bangs a fist against the plastic table, the thud reverberating through the cramped space.
Chance's eyes roll back for a second, and I swear my heart stops with it.
"I think he needs a doctor, man," I supply.
"Fuck the doctor," Chance cackles from his spot. How he has the strength or mental capacity to be upset at the medical professionals right now—I have no clue. I can barely think straight after that set. And I’m stone-cold sober.
Justice lounges on the edge of the leather couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his grip. "Guess the party's nothappening," he slurs, trying for a joke that doesn't land. Typical Justice, always the last to flinch. He’s been hitting the bottle since the middle of the set. Took three shots on stage with the crowd.
I don’t exactly approve, because when someone in the band is out of sync, we start sounding like shit, but I have to give the guy kudos. He can still belt out all the lyrics without missing a pitch. It’s a skill only a lucky few have.
"Not in the mood to party tonight," Zanders mutters, rubbing at his temples as if to remove the makeup. It’s long gone, though. We’ve all showered and changed. Chance is the only one who’s still in his stage costume.
"We need to get him cleaned up," Sam whispers at Angelo, her eyes flicking between the commotion and her phone she's holding.
