Page 2 of Carnival’s Playground

"Not funny. I have a headache the size of Dallas," she tells me, reaching for another pumpkin, careful with it.

"Takes one to give one," I quip, rubbing my own forehead, and sure enough there's a knot rising already. "Gonna have a lump to match yours by tonight."

"Good," she says, with no sympathy in her voice at all. She keeps gathering the surviving pieces. "Serves you right for barreling around corners like you own the place."

"In fairness, I don't recall you slowing down much either," I point out, setting a pumpkin gently into the crate. "You were carrying inventory. I was carrying a phone. I think we both know who had the right of way."

"Didn't realize props and effects came with traffic laws," she says, glancing at me, one eyebrow raised.

"They do when you got glasswork worth more than what you probably make in a week riding around on your candy apple stand," I respond. I pick up another intact pumpkin, checking it for cracks.

She mutters something incoherent before sitting back on her heels and watching me work. If my hearing works correctly, and according to the last test I had it does, she’s bashing me and my machine.

"You got a problem with motorcycles, or just mine specifically?"

"I got a problem with men who think a loud engine excuses bad manners," she berates. She glances up, quick, and there's a spark in that look that isn't quite angry anymore, though it isn't friendly either. "You planning on riding that thing through my prop lot every day, or was this a one time introduction to disaster?"

"Depends how long the job runs. Circuit's got Grimwood Crossing through Halloween, then we head on," I tell her, picking up another pumpkin and checking it for cracks before setting it in the crate. "So you're stuck with me a couple weeks, minimum."

She makes a sound between a groan and a laugh, sitting back on her heels. "Wonderful. Four days to opening night, with Halloween still a few weeks away, and half my centerpiece display in pieces, and now I got a rigger with a lead foot and a motorcycle ego who's apparently sticking around for the whole run."

"I don't have a motorcycle ego," I defend, meeting her eyes.

"Every man who names himself after a piece of machinery has a motorcycle ego," she responds. She stands, brushing dirt off her jeans.

"I named myself after the job, not the bike," I argue, standing with her.

"Same thing, different chrome," she decrees. She holds a hand down to help me up. Her grip's strong, calloused in places that tell me she does more than direct other people's work. "You said you're good with your hands. That true, or another line?"

"True. Spent six years doing rigging and stage carpentry before I picked up the road name. I can build, hang, weld in a pinch, and I don't complain about hours, on account of the hours don't ever change from town to town," I explain as I dust off my own jeans.

She studies me a long second, head tilted, like she's pricing a piece of equipment she isn't sure is worth the investment.

"Fine. Here's the deal, Carnival. You broke my glasswork, so you're gonna help me fix the display before opening night. Working the haunt walk with me, evenings mostly, since your rigging's gonna eat your days. You any good at building things that are supposed to look scary instead of just structurally sound?" she probes as she picks up the crate of surviving pumpkins.

"Built the entrance archway for a haunted corn maze in Oklahoma. Had a mechanical reaper that dropped out of the rafters on a pulley system and scared the living shit out of half the teenagers who came through. I can do scary," I tell her, helping her balance the crate.

Something flickers across her face, interest, maybe, buried quickly under a raised eyebrow. "A mechanical reaper. Fancy."

"Wasn't fancy. It was effective. There's a difference," I defend, shifting my weight, watching her.

"We'll see," she tells me. She picks up the crate, balances it against her hip, carries the weight easy like she's done it a thousand times. "Rigging trailer’s past the big top. Dutch'll want you in twenty minutes for the safety walkthrough, unless you'd rather stand here trading insults with me instead."

"Might rather do that, honestly. But I did just tell you I don't complain about hours, so I ought to go prove it," I say, starting to walk backward, keeping pace with her.

"You ought to," she replies. She turns to go, then stops, glancing back over her shoulder. "Carnival."

"Yeah?" I stop walking.

"Watch the corners," she tells me, her voice as dry as the dirt under our boots. "Next time it's my crate of glass or your head, I'm betting on the crate."

"Careful. I'm growing on you already," I tease as I grin at her.

"Like a fungus," she sasses, walking off toward the haunt tent without looking back, leaving me standing there with a knot rising on my forehead and something settling in my chest that feels a whole lot like anticipation.

Four days to opening night, with Halloween still a few weeks away. A crate of broken glass is now apparently my responsibility. A job that's gonna run me through Halloween, evenings spent alongside a woman who's already made it clear she thinks my road name's ridiculous and my driving worse.

I pick my phone up off the ground, check the screen for cracks, find none, and head for the big top where Dutch is waiting to see if I'm worth the hire.