"What about Jett’s…extracurriculars?" I ask, keeping my tone light.
Ramses gives me a sideways look, his smirk widening. "Doubt she knows. Or if she does, she’s playing dumb. Either way, she’s still here, right?"
I shouldn’t care. It’s the world of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, and no girl in her right mind should be expecting exclusivity if she’s seeing a dude from a popular band. But, damn, thinking about this shit makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t know why,and I don’t know why now. Besides, I’ve never been a man of virtue myself. But I’ve never really had a girlfriend either.
"Man, Jett’s got it made. Girl like that…" I let the words linger in the air.
Ramses grins, clapping me on the shoulder. "That’s life,hermano. You’d know if you weren’t so busy being Mr. Responsible."
"Responsible?" I snort. "Since when?"
"Since always. You’re the guy who actually shows up to soundcheck on time. That’s practically a sin in this business if you’re a headliner."
I laugh, but my eyes drift back to Wendy. She’s moving again, disappearing into the crowd, her orange hair the last thing I see before she’s swallowed by the sea of bodies. Something about her sticks with me, though. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, like she’s got something to prove. Or maybe it’s just the way she looks, all fire and attitude, like she could burn you if you got too close.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m curious.
Really curious.
3WENDY
The festival groundsare a different kind of mayhem at this hour. Most of the tents and structures have been erected by now except for the main stage, and the air is thick with the smell of booze and campfire smoke.
I weave through the crowd of partying event staff and roadies, unsure what exactly I’m looking for. Maybe a familiar face or maybe just a sober one.
The sky has darkened and the temperature has dropped a little. Enough to put on a hoodie.
As I pass the main stage, the crew there is still lugging heavy equipment, shouting orders to each other over the din of buzzing generators.
When I arrived at the band’s tour bus earlier, Jett was absent. Instead of searching for him, I walked in on their guitarist, Griffin, and lead singer, Kian, playing poker. They looked positively high, and the interior smelled like weed. And of course the beer can tower was there as promised.
"Wendy, babe! About time you showed up," Griffin said, giving me an overly familiar hug. His fingers lingered a bit too long on my lower back.
"Where's Jett?" I asked, extracting myself from his grip.
Kian shrugged. "Probably already in the VIP tent, getting a head start on the party. You know how he is."
They showed me to my bunk bed and retreated from the sleeping area to continue playing. I took a quick shower, then tried to nap, but sleep never came. My mind was too wired. And the muffled voices and raucous laughter from the front of the bus made it even harder.
I changed into a pair of clean jeans and a fresh tank top, then grabbed my passport and some of my jewelry and shoved them into my gym bag. Not a chance I was leaving my valuables unattended with these clowns. Kian is more or less of an okay guy and doesn’t try to grope me, but Griff is a disgusting piece of shit who was once arrested for stealing a pack of chips from the grocery store. On a dare.
"Hey, Wendy, wanna join our poker game?" Kian called out when I walked out of the sleeping area.
"Yeah. One round," Griff added. "We can make it interesting. Play a little strip poker..."
I rolled my eyes and gave them both the middle finger before heading out.
But even now that I’m out of that stinky tour bus, frustration continues to build in my chest. I was excited to fly out here when Jett asked me, but something tells me I’m not going to have a good time this weekend. It’s this stupid gut feeling that I try to ignore because it’s gotten me in weird situations before.
I fish my phone out of my bag and dial Jett's number. Straight to voicemail. Fuck.
Spotting a harried-looking festival staff member, I approach her. "Hey, sorry. Can you tell me where the VIP lounge is?"
She barely glances up from her clipboard. "Down that path, past the trailers. Look for the white tents behind the red velvet rope."
"Thanks," I mutter, already heading in that direction.
I walk for a good ten minutes before I finally see the lounge. It’s just like the girl said—a collection of a dozen pristine white tents on a neatly trimmed lawn. Even from a distance, I can hear the throbbing baseline of music and the laughter of groupies.
