"One of these days," Cruz adds, his words so harsh, they could bruise me, "Jett will do something he can't take back, something you won’t be able to erase from your memory." He throws his empty beer can at the trash container nearby. It misses. "You won't be able to run away from it." His eyes hold mine until the ground tilts beneath me, until my pulse stutters. "I just hope you’re safe is all."
I want to breathe him in forever, to catch his words and keep them. "Maybe I need a few strings," I blurt out. Could be just my reckless girl brain or this sick need to attach myself to a man because I can’t be alone. I have no explanation.
I give it one second, two. Then I'm on my feet, breathless, crazed, pulling him down by the T-shirt. I press my lips to his, wanting a taste, wanting to know what it’s like to kiss a man who respects me, to kiss a man who’s unattainable to most women.
It’s a slow burn at first, but it catches fast. My heart is fire and fury, brazen and wild, desiring more than it should. His surprise is sweetness. His arms are gravity, heavy and hard as they wrap around me. I'm flying, scarlet against the black. Then I'm falling, and it's breaking me wide open.
I push away before I break for good.
He reaches out a hesitant hand.
"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that," I murmur, spinning around.
I don't look back. I start running, holding his jacket to my chest so I don’t lose it, so I don’t lose the scent and the warmth he’s given me tonight.
13CRUZ
I’m notsure what time I wake up the next day.
All the windows are shut, and the dim bus is empty and quiet.
I stare at the bunk above me for a long stretch of time, trying to piece together last night’s events. The set itself. The crowd. Chance high and making mistakes on almost every solo—fans will trash-talk him for weeks after this disaster. Justice being moody and inadequate for no reason, except maybe because of Chance’s fuckups. Zander in complete denial. Angelo always yelling.
Amidst this jumble of unpleasant memories, there's just one I want to remember—Wendy kissing me.
Wendy as in Jett’s girlfriend.
The idea of that fucktard somehow being in the picture riles me up.
The longer I lie here, the louder it is, my thoughts drumming like the crowd's pre-show noise.
Is she safe?
Where did she go when she ran off?
It’s hard to let it go. I throw off the blanket and roll to the side, then get to my feet. I try to shake off the obsession beforeit sinks any deeper. Unfortunately, it’s too late. It already has its claws in me.
I clean up, put on a fresh change of clothes, and step outside. The day is gray; the light is thin, hardly reaching from beyond the clouds.
Chance is leaning against the bus, a cigarette stuck on between his lips, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"Hey," I say as I take a couple of steps in his direction.
He coughs and shrugs, flicks an ash off his sleeve. "Hey, lover boy. Sleep well?"
"Not really." I was too tired when I got back to the bus last night. "You?"
Chance looks up to the sky and takes a long drag. "Like a fucking baby, man."
"No shit. You were halfway dead." I shake my head.
"Yeah. Definitely was a mess yesterday," he mutters, and it’s almost a laugh. I want to tell him to maybe reassess his health, see a goddamned doctor. But motherfucker is stubborn. He won’t listen to me.
"Justice and Zander still alive?" I say instead.
"Out. Went to town. Bar hopping."
That explains why the bus was empty when I woke up. "This early?"
