I straighten slowly, feeling the weight of their stares. The panic, the unspoken fear—it's all hanging in the air, and I'm not supposed to walk away from it. But I chose to anyway.
"Umm… I’ll step out for a bit," I mutter as I grab my jacket.
Angelo's glare could cut steel. "Now? Are you fucking kidding me?" His words are a challenge, daring me to leave, to abandon them.
"You don’t need my help. You know what to do. You just don’t want to because it’ll affect the tour."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Our manager’s face is redder than it was a minute ago. But somehow, I don’t care about his state of mind.
"I'll be back," I say.
Justice raises an eyebrow, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he calls after me, but there's a note of spite beneath the machismo.
Zander looks up from his phone. "Cruz, man," he starts, but I cut him off with a shake of my head. "Take care of him." And I know I'm shifting a burden onto their shoulders.
Samantha watches me with an impassive expression. Chance manages a weak smile, a silent "go" that twists something deep inside me. Angelo doesn't say another word, just gives me a look that promises retribution. I nod to him, a quick jerk of my chin, then step out into the night.
12WENDY
I don’t knowwhy I’m here.
I can’t figure out the logic behind my coming over to The Deviant’s bus.
Alcohol, I tell myself in the privacy of my mind as the cold wind scrapes my skin. But as soon as Cruz steps out of the bus, the truth becomes strikingly clear.
I wanted to see him.
I wanted to be in his presence, wanted to feel that solid warmth of his. That reassurance.
And for a moment, I just stand there, staring at him, into those eyes as dark as midnight.
"Wendy," he says. There's a whole sentence in that single word. He slips out of the shadows, almost like a dream. He's a wall of damp black hair and tattoos. His jacket is slung casually over one shoulder, and I forget to shiver.
"You look cold. And drunk," he says, moving to stand in front of me.
I don't answer. I just pull him into focus, closer, and keep him there. Past his shoulder, I see his band’s lineup of buses and trailers. It looks like the spine of some broken monster.
Cruz gives me a soft smile and carefully places his jacket on my shoulders. I'm drowning in leather that smells like him. Like music.
"I was looking for you," he says. "After the set."
"Left halfway through," I reply. "Jett was blowing up my phone."
"What are you doing here so late?" His voice hangs in the air, and I let it. I have to stretch out the moment, to catch up.
"Jett's drunk again," I finally supply. "Didn't know where else to go." I hold my breath so that my answer sounds steady.
He raises an eyebrow. "I told you… You can always come here."
"I know." I feel stupid all of a sudden. Stupid and pathetic.
"Come on." He reaches out to grab my hand, and when his skin brushes mine, it’s all spine-tingling heat. I can feel the thunder in it, distant but getting closer.
I glance away. Don't tell him how badly I want that storm.
"You’re shaking," he whispers. "We should get you something warm."
"Didn't know you cared," I toss back, bright and sharp like sparks from a fire. He says nothing, but the way he looks at me—I almost start believing him.
