Page 25 of Sanctuary

"Yes, right now."

"We go on in ten minutes, man."

"That’s the whole point. They’ll film that part. But we need you to say a couple of words too."

Cruz nods dismissively, brushing it off with casual coolness. "Yeah. I’ll be right there."

"Hurry up, alright?" the man insists, finally shifting his gaze to me. He says nothing before disappearing into the dim glow of backstage.

"Fucking Angelo," Cruz mutters under his breath, and I guess it’s just a reflex, but he rakes his hand through his hair streaming down his shoulders and a strand sticks out right on top of his head.

I suppose it’s an instinct for me too. I reach up to put it back in place, my fingers careful not to mess up the rest. "Sorry," I mouth at him, straining upward. "Your hair…"So soft and nice."You got a little…mmm." I feel like an acrobat all of a sudden balancing on my tippytoes—if platforms had those, of course—to brush my palm over the top of his head to smooth my work.

Another charged second passes between us when our gazes meet in this tiny space. Before I’m completely lost in the moment, I pull back slightly. "Sorry. Hair is my specialty," I blurt out the first excuse that comes to mind.

He punches up an eyebrow.

"Cosmetologist in progress," I explain.

"See, I told you you’ll get where you need to get."

I swallow hard, my heart suddenly racing in my chest. There's something about the way he looks at me, the gentle understanding in his eyes, that makes me want to spill all my secrets, to bare my soul to him right then and there.

"What the hell is going on here?" Jett’s voice demands right behind me.

My pulse stutters. I feel a rush of panic, my stomach twisting into one huge knot.

Please don’t make a scene.

But, of course, when I turn to look at Jett, his eyes are blazing with fury.

"Hey." I plaster a smile onto my face, but it’s a futile attempt to pacify him.

Jett's not listening, his gaze locked on Cruz. "I knew it," he snarls. "I knew you were trying to steal my girl, you fucking punk." He whips out his hand and slams his palm into Cruz’s chest.

Heads swivel in our direction. I can feel the eyes of the stage crew and band members on us, their whispers like a thousand tiny daggers against my skin.

"Jett, please. You’re drunk." I sandwich myself between them before the blow is reciprocated. My heart is thrashing behind my ribs as I raise my hands to keep Jett at bay. "Let’s not do this here. Let's just go somewhere and talk about it."

But he's beyond reason. I can tell by the stench of alcohol wafting at me from his mouth. "You're nothing but a lying, cheating whore," he spits out, shoving his finger at my shoulder right above my collarbone. "And this asshole"—he shifts his attention to Cruz—"needs to learn his lesson."

A fist flies right past my head, surely aimed for Cruz’s jaw. I can’t tell what the result of the attempt is, though, because this is the moment when chaos erupts around us. People are shouting and pushing through as they try to intervene. I'm jostled back and forth. And then the security guards are there, their arms wrapping around Jett and dragging him away.

"Fuck you, Velez!" he yells.

Hysterical flashlights dance across the crowd. "Everyone clear out! Only the band and their crew stay. No guests! I said no guests! Everyone out!"

In an instant, I'm being pulled away too, strong hands gripping my arms as they escort me out along with the rest of the onlookers. The last thing I see before the curtain falls is Cruz’s face—puzzled, shadowed by a touch of melancholy.

Five minutes later, when the first chords of The Deviant's set vibrate through the festival grounds, I’m standing outside the backstage area, cut adrift from everyone and everything.

What a shit show of a day.

7CRUZ

The energyon stage and beyond is wild.

I don’t think we’ve ever headlined anything this big. Hell, if someone had told me ten years ago, when I was playing tiny clubs in LA for a crowd of six, that my band would be headlining a major European rock festival, I wouldn’t have believed it.

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