Page 11 of Sanctuary

I take a sip and force a smile, trying to ignore the unease churning in my gut. Something about these guys feels off. But Jett is too far gone to notice, his eyes glazed and unfocused.Right now, as he beams at me, he reminds me of a kid who did something wrong and is trying to be cute to avoid harsher punishment. I think this cuteness is what drew me to him in the first place. He’d be the asshole of the year, but then just wash it all away with a silly smile like the one he’s flashing me presently.

"Sorry, darling," Mick supplies. "Didn’t mean to offend you in any way."

"Be nice, babe," my drunk boyfriend demands. "Mick and I are gonna be doing business together."

I’m not sure what to make of all this. Jett’s been talking about his own vodka brand for several months. I have no clue where he got the idea, but he’s been making a fool out of himself in front of every potential investor. And they’re getting worse and worse. Now, we’ve got googly-eyes Mick and his icky buddy Clem, who look nothing like people who’d know how to manage a new brand of alcohol. Unless, of course, consuming it is their main marketing strategy.

"Isn't this great, babe?" Jett says, nudging the shot I’ve barely touched yet closer to my mouth. "Let’s celebrate."

My earlier frustration gives way to a sinking feeling of dread.

I plaster on my best supportive-girlfriend smile and grit out, "Can we talk? Privately?"

"We’re all friends here."

"Not really, hon." I slink my arm around his elbow and yank him to the side. "I just need a minute." To Mick and his sidekick, I say, "We’ll be just a sec, guys."

I lead Jett a few steps away toward the quieter corner of the tent. "What the hell, Jett? You said you'd meet me when I got here. You didn’t show up."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Wendy. You know I'm always working, even on my days off. I'm hustling for both of us."

"You said you were going to have free time."

"Yeah, to do some goddamned business. And I need you with me on this one. Can you play nice for a few minutes?"

His words sting, the implication clear. He's the one putting in the work, while I'm just along for the ride, living off his dime.

"You didn’t have to pay a penny to get here. Got you the ticket, didn’t I?"

Does that make me an ungrateful cunt if I don’t feel much appreciation? He can sometimes be so convincing that I get confused.

"You made it sound like you’d have a lot of downtime and we’d spend that time together. And there's no hotel," I whisper angrily. Although I’m not sure if I’m angry at him or myself.

Jett's eyes flash with annoyance. "Time together? What, so you can complain about my potential business partners some more? They're my shot at the big time, babe." He slams his chest with his fist as if he’s trying to prove something. "I need this investment from Mick. For our future."

He reaches for my hand, but I pull away, glancing around to make sure no one's watching. No one is. Everyone’s busy partying.

"Thatpotential business partner"—I use air quotes—"of yours doesn’t even know me yet, but he was ready to suck my fingers in front of you," I grit out.

Jett's expression shifts, and I can’t tell if he’s understanding what I’m trying to say or if he’s too drunk to put two and two together. Then he leans in close and says quietly in my ear, "Come on, babe. I know they're a little weird, but we’re in goddamned Europe. Everyone’s weird. I need you to be my ride or die like you promised."

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my beating heart. I want to believe him, want to trust that he knows what he's doing. But the doubt lingers, a strange bitter taste in the back of my throat.

"You know what?" I take a step back to remove Jett from my personal space. "Find me when you’re sober."

His face twists. "What?"

As I spin on my heel, I can't resist one last parting shot. "Oh, and thanks for the heads-up about sleeping with your farting bandmates in that shitty trailer. Real classy, Jett."

I don't look back as I shove my way out of the tent.

Goddamn Jett and his empty promises. Hotel room, my perky ass.

I’m fumingas I stomp through the VIP area in the direction of the exit. My combat boots thud against the narrow asphalt pathway snaking between the sections, and I’m kinda hating this damn gym bag I’ve been hauling around with me. And I'm cold. I should have grabbed a hoodie.

Expectations vs reality—the eternal struggle.

I pictured fluffy matching robes and room service, not bunk beds smelling like it’s a dispensary.

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