"Someone needed to give that asshole a reality check a long time ago," Justice comments broodingly.
Cruz stays silent, his concentration fixed on my hand as if willing it to heal. And I appreciate it that no one asks me anyquestions about what I said earlier. The rapey part. I didn’t plan on spilling it but it just happened and now that it's out, I feel strange.
"He's a real piece of work, your boyfriend, isn’t he?" Zander asks matter-of-factly.
"Ex-boyfriend," I correct him.
Cruz shifts his gaze from my knuckles to my face as if making sure I mean the ex-boyfriend part. There’s hope in those dark eyes. Bright and genuine hope. And then there's this other thing—the concern.
I feel bad. Maybe I was too harsh when I shut him down when he asked for my number.
Maybe not all guys are the same. But Jett was also nice at first.
My thoughts are a train wreck, too fast, too slow, but all headed in the same direction. The door. A way out.
It’s best to leave, because getting tangled up with another guy in a band is not on my to-do list.
Still, I don’t move.
I remain on the couch.
"You okay?" Cruz asks. His voice pulls me back to him, to the soft command in his words. The question feels bigger than it is. The ice burns against my skin, and I nod, even though I'm not sure if it's true.
"I’m fine."
The band returns to their banter—more laughter, more off-color jabs that make me wince and smile at the same time. They've all got the same vibe, rough and alive, like they've seen everything and still get a kick out of it all, only to build their own thing that’s become this massive mania of worship.
I’m imagining the Sunset Boulevard loft I’m leaving behind. Jett's drums, Jett's sound, Jett's promises looping on repeat. It all seems distant now, unreal, like I watched it in a movie andcan't remember how it ends. I wasn't going to do it this time. Wasn't going to let myself get sucked into another fantasy. But Cruz appeared like a quiet answer to a question I didn't even know I was asking. And now I don’t know what to do with him and his googly eyes.
"We can go look for a medic," he supplies.
"Really, you don’t have to. It’ll be okay."
"It’s not a problem."
"Don’t give that asshole’s jaw too much credit."
"Alright." He laughs a little.
Someone offers Cruz a beer, and he takes it without loosening his grip on me. The bottle sweats between his fingers.
"I’m sorry this weekend was shit," Cruz says, the slightest curve to his lips.
"It was definitely a learning experience."
"You can always hop on the bus with us and tag alone to the next city," Chance challenges. "Have you ever been to Morocco?"
"Yeah. The next stop isn't that far," Justice chimes in in that cold, unbothered manner.
"Maybe she doesn't need the next stop," the drummer teases. "Maybe she needs something else."
Cruz’s cheeks flush. "Shut up, Z-man." He flips him the finger.
They don’t shut up. But they don't mean much by their jokes either. They’re all drunk, catching up on partying before tomorrow.
Eventually, they leave us. Justice exits the bus, and I hear some giggling outside. Zander moves to his bunk and shuts the door to the sleeping area. Chance just disappears. I don’t know where or even when. I noticed that he has this strange habit of being right in your face one minute and gone the next.
Cruz sets the beer down, rests my hand on the table, and fumbles for a piece of paper from one of the notepads on the couch. He then proceeds to scribble something on it.
