"Think they'll mind if I crash in your bunk tonight?" I ask flippantly.
"Yeah, I do," she says sarcastically. "Jett especially."
The name feels like a crack in the ground, one I might fall through if I'm not careful. I have to remind myself that Sonic Trash is heading back to the States before we reunite after our Morocco gigs. And that should be the end of our tour leg with Jett's band. The end of it all.
Only instead, it feels like it’s the beginning of something. She’s the beginning of something.
"It could work," I say, keeping my tone light, keeping my hopes from showing. I lean in and whisper in her ear, "We sleep together. Literally. And you hide me under your blanket."
"You think that's all I’m good for, Cruz?" she says, feigning a scowl. But her eyes, bright and teasing, give her away. She’s not one of those girls who takes everything seriously. She can have fun.
"I think you're good for a lot of things," I say as we round the corner of a building. "One night might not cover it. But an agreement is an agreement. Right?"
She's not talking, and I feel it then. In the quiet way her fingers slip from mine and the way she turns her head. She's not going to give me her number. She’s not going to make it easy. Besides, we’re not alone anymore. In the distance, what remains of a VIP section comes into view.
"You wanna get a drink?" I motion at the white tent. "One for the road, so to speak."
"Sure. But just one."
We change our course and walk toward the tent where those left behind for various reasons are congregating. I spot Zander and Justice and also a couple of execs. Some faces I’ve seen around the scene
We’re right in the thick of it, amongst the remaining guests clinging to the party that should’ve been over yesterday. But for many of us, it’s not just work but a mix of work and pleasure. Gotta live up to that rockstar reputation.
"Where the hell have you been?" a guttural shout comes from the crowd.
I turn to the sound.
Jett is cutting through the last scraps of hangers-on like a blade through butter. Messy hair, tasteless tats, his movements weaving and wild.
Next to me, Wendy freezes.
"Where the fuck have you been?" he yells, stopping right in front of us. His red-rimmed eyes land on her first, then shift over to my face. "I told you to leave my girl alone, didn’t I?"
"She’s not your property, asshole," I growl out.
"Who's the trash now, huh, Wendy?" the fucker wails out. His body is half on the attack and half about to collapse. I’ve seen this kind of drunk before, the type that turns violent when it can’t stand. I feel her stiffen beside me even more, a tension like a rubber band about to snap.
"We’re done, Jett," she says, her voice as sharp as broken glass.
"Like hell we are," he slurs. "Like hell we’re done." He whips out his hand and tries to grab her wrist, but she deflects it. "Come on. Let’s go. Before I paint this motherfucker’s face red." He jerks his chin toward me like I’m not here, like I’m two hundred pounds of an afterthought.
My instincts are buzzing through me, telling me to hold on to her, to hold tight.
But Wendy's not a girl you hold without her letting you, and she’s moving toward Jett now, small and fierce and unafraid. She’s moving toward him, and I’m helpless to do anything but follow.
"Why the hell are you embarrassing me?" Jett fumes. He can’t help himself, that little abusive weasel. He grabs at her hair, then slaps her cheek. It’s not hard but it pushes me over the edge.
I step in, putting my body between his and hers, and shove both palms against his chest, knocking him back a few inches. I want more. Want to snap this fucker’s neck for eventouching her, but she’s been through enough bullshit this week. "Apologize," I demand.
"What? Get lost, Deviant," Jett barks. "Get fucking lost and leave us alone."
And then it happens. That stupid move every pissed-off, wasted asshole makes. That fucking stupid move where he thinks he's king of the fucking world.
He swings. No aim. Just a fist flying through empty air.
I block it with the hard line of my arm, my body moving like it’s done this a thousand times. Like it knows exactly what to do. Because it does. Growing up where I did taught me some decent fighting skills.
"Stay the fuck out of this!" Jett screams with his teeth bared and ugly. He lunges again, his balance shot to hell. But I’m faster. I’m faster, and he doesn’t see it coming. My knuckles find his jaw, dead center, and I hear the satisfying crack of bone before he reels back, shocked and off-balance. His eyes are wide with disbelief. Like he’s never been hit before. Like he’s untouchable.
