"You hungry?" he asks.
"Maybe a little." My voice sounds distant.
Cruz adjusts his grip, intertwining his fingers with mine, and I feel almost weightless, swept along by his quick and steady pace as he leads us toward the last bus in the line of The Deviant tour convoy.
"I'm not offering you much," he says as we walk. "I don’t know what they have left." He motions at the vehicle ahead and we stop. Here, the fairground lights hardly reach, like even they're too afraid to look.
"I'll take it," I say, barely knowing what I mean. Only knowing I mean him.
The heavy curtain of his hair lifts in the wind slightly. "Then keep watch," he instructs as he yanks the door open. "Tell me if someone's coming."
I nod, shivering less, grinning more. "Who are we stealing from?"
"Our crew." Cruz moves inside the bus, half dissolving into shadows and steel. I follow him onto the step and look around.
One of the guys on a top bunk turns over but doesn't wake up as Cruz moves toward the kitchen area. I keep watch, my eyes sharp as he bends to the fridge and grabs a few things. Two beers. Some sandwiches. From the shelf above the fridge, he grabs a soda. I trace the curve of his inked arms with my gaze, let my mind fill in the rest.
He throws a smirk over his shoulder and slips the sandwiches in the microwave. We get out quick, faster than we got in.
"Guy on the top bunk didn't wake up," I say. I'm short of breath but laughing.
Cruz hands me the soda, cool and stinging in my grip. "Old Mark.” He lets out a chuckle. "Dude’s been touring all his life. If he's tired, he'll sleep through an earthquake."
"You think they’ll notice stuff is gone?"
"Nah."
We round the bus and walk some more until we get to the band's collection of trailers. There, Cruz grabs an abandoned folding chair, secures it into the ground, and then sits me down.
"Now eat." He pops my soda open for me.
I draw a deep breath and take a small sip. It's room temperature and I'm glad. Then I remove the wrapper from the sandwich and bite into it. It’s something with pesto andtomatoes and mozzarella cheese, and it tastes divine. But more importantly, it’s warm.
"Good?" Cruz asks, munching on his own food.
My mouth is full, so I nod my approval and take another huge bite, wanting to fall into the night’s open arms and disappear. That way, I don’t have to face tomorrow. Face Jett.
"You need that many vehicles to haul all your gear and props around?" I ask, motioning at the buses and trailers looming around us.
"You saw our stage setup," Cruz replies, watching me and sipping his beer. The edge of his mouth curves upward. "Sorry, I’m not offering you beer, because you look like you already had one too many."
"Yeah. I did." I lift what’s left of my sandwich in the air. "But this is helping me to sober up."
"I’m glad."
We eat and drink in silence for a while, just exchanging glances and taking our time to chew.
Finally, he says, "Why can't you walk away from Jett?"
"Ummm… It’s not that easy."
"Just pack and go."
"Well, truth be told, I'm a little stuck," I say, the words prickling my throat, cold and hard. I swallow them down, chase them with a gulp of soda.
"Stuck?" Cruz echoes, letting it stretch like an old, painful scar.
"When we met, I was in a bad place," I explain. And I typically don’t talk about it to anyone, but I suppose the alcohol is making it easier tonight. Besides, after tomorrow, we’ll go our separate ways. So I feel like sharing won’t really hurt me or my pride. "I didn’t have anywhere to live. I stayed with some friends while trying to get into a beauty school and working two jobs.Things happened pretty fast between us, and he asked me to move in. Said I didn’t need to work so much."
