Page 24 of Sanctuary

"Ah, hi."

"You look great." His eyes drop to my feet and then slip up my body and to my face. And I at once feel naked. I had no idea a man could do this. I’ve definitely heard about the trick—undressing a woman with his eyes, but I’ve always thought it was exaggeration. Never been on the receiving end of it. Until now.

"So do you," I reply.

He chuckles. "It’s just a work uniform."

"I don’t believe people out there"—I gesture to the crowd in front of the stage—"think that."

"I hope they don’t."

There’s a moment where it’s somewhat awkward between us. Just a split second—a heartbeat longer than it should be—the space between us almost crackling with static.

Wake up, bitch!

What the hell are you doing?

Cruz leans in, closing that already-teetering gap, and asks softly, "How are you holding up after last night?" His voice drops to his lower register. I can almost feel him—like a hum beneath my skin—and Jett has never reached me this way before. It's disorienting. And not in a bad way, leaving me breathless and on the edge of something unnamed.

Bad Wendy.

Very bad Wendy.

I’m caught off guard by this realization.

What is this shit? Why now and here while we’re surrounded by all these people?

"I'm okay," I say. "Just tired, you know? It was a long couple of days."

"Your boyfriend treating you well?"

I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's not a big deal. He was just stressed about the show, that's all."

Cruz frowns, clearly unconvinced. "You don't have to make excuses for him. What he did was not okay."

"I don’t think it’s the time or the place to discuss my relationship," I reply with a smile.

"Sorry. You’re right."

Around us, the backstage area is a flurry of activity as The Deviant's crew hustles to put the finishing touches to whatever needs those touches.

They dart through shadows, lost in a whirl of last-minute adjustments. Out there, on the other side of the barricade, the crowd is feverish with anticipation. People of all ages, dressed in the band’s merch or something similar to what their favorite band member wears on stage, are pressed against each another.

"Good luck," I tell Cruz. "Or break a leg. I don’t know what to say in these situations. I don’t really mean you should break a leg, but?—"

"Good luck doesn’t really help, right?" he finishes my sentence for me. "Or at least, that’s what they say."

"Yeah. I’ve heard that too."

"Don’t worry, we got this." He winks at me, his charm cutting through layers of expertly applied makeup.

"Velez?" someone calls, pulling Cruz’s attention.

Looking over his shoulder, he raises a hand in an easy wave at the source while neon lights coming from the rack suspended above dapple his skin like liquid fire.

A jittery man materializes from behind the velvet curtain, anxiety written all over him as he pats Cruz on the back—a touch that seems urgent and a little patronizing. "We’re gonna do a quick one-on-one right now with those YouTube guys," he urges, oblivious to my presence.

"What, right now?"

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