"Fuck!" he cries, doubling over, grabbing at his bleeding nose.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t even think. I’m on him, twisting his arms behind his back. The world collapsing to the rapid thud of my pulse and his hot breath near my face as I hold him down.
Wendy’s forgotten me in the midst of it all. She’s focused, livid, striding in with her bright hair and bruised emotions.
"What the fuck, Jett?" she says. I can feel her heat, her absolute certainty.
"Let go!" Jett demands.
The crowd swells around us, everyone catching the scent of blood and drama that’s long overdue this weekend. I tighten my grip, adrenaline eating my sense of time, drowning me in this insane blur of anger and noise and Wendy's fire. She’s blazing,fierce and pure, and in the split second before she speaks, I wonder what she’s waiting for.
"You're a disgusting rapey asshole!" she says, each word loud and clear. "My things won't be at your place when you get back home!"
What?
My mind short-circuits
Rapey?
I'm still processing when her hand slams into his face, a final, shattering punctuation, and the sound reverberates through me. A boundary drawn. A truth spoken. Everything, all of it, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.
16WENDY
"I hope his jaw hurts double,"I grit out through clenched teeth.
Cruz's hands are fire against my throbbing fist, his fingers steady while mine tremble. He's quiet, confident, the opposite of everything I've ever known.
We’re in the common area of The Deviant’s bus, and he’s putting an ice pack on my knuckles. All around us, his bandmates are rowdy, their taunts of Jett rising above the low rumble of background music. The lights here are blinding, harsh, and I close my eyes against them, imagining the bruises, imagining the memories and how easy it would be to let them both fade away.
"It's not too bad," Cruz says. His voice has that quiet warmth that vibrates inside my chest. He sits across from me on the leather couch, his face in deep concentration, as if holding that ice pack equals launching a rocket into space. "Battle wounds are pretty."
I'm struck by him, by the way he manages to be all grit and tenderness in one tight, inked package. It makes my head spin, especially after a year with Jett, where everything had its own upside-down kind of logic.
"I’m too young for battle wounds."
"Plenty of stories for the grandkids," he chuckles.
"Are you calling me a grandma already?"
He shifts the ice pack a little, the chill of it biting at my skin. "No."
"Brother’s got no game," Chance, their guitarist, says with a playful wink, leaning in for a second. "Like at all."
"Fuck off," Cruz hisses at him.
Chance just laughs. He’s the band’s charmer. A little loopy from all the booze he’s been consuming from that bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hands. But nice. Friendly.
"Jett had it coming," Zander croaks from the couch across from us. He’s on his phone, texting furiously. He’s got wild blond hair, a little lighter than Chance’s. Their lead singer, Justice, is in the corner, leaning against the wall. Without the makeup, he is even more intense. Black hair. Gray eyes. Perfect square chin. He’s got the dark aura of authority. I can understand why women and men all over the world worship him. He’s not my type, though. Too out there.
Still, there's a weird comfort in being here, even if they're practically strangers to me. It feels safe with Cruz by my side. Better than I ever felt with Jett and his bandmates. I think of the last thing I heard that piece of shit yell before he was dragged away.
You won't find anyone better than me.
Yeah, right.
"Cruz's got himself a real wild one," Chance drawls with a knowing smirk on his lips.
"Bet Jett's losing his shit," says the drummer.
