Page 23 of Carnival’s Playground

CHAPTER TWELVE

CARNIVAL

Sleep is a damn joke. I kick my twisted sheets off at four in the morning, pull on my heavy boots, grab my leather jacket, and head out into the freezing October dark with a fresh thermos of black coffee and a flashlight in my hand.

The carnival grounds look like a ghost town. The big top rises up against the starry sky like a black mountain. The Ferris wheel frame sits frozen against the horizon, and out past the tree line, a lone coyote howls once before cutting out.

I head straight for the north generator, running my bare fingers over the fuel lines, the main distribution lugs, and the grounding rod. Everything is cold, tight, and untouched.

"You know, normal people sleep when the gates are locked."

I don't even flinch. I just stand up slowly, shining my light toward the edge of the maintenance shed where Avery is walking toward me. She's bundled into an oversized canvas jacket, a knitted beanie pulled over her bleached hair, her breath puffing white in the beam of my light.

"I'm not normal, spitfire," I tell her, unscrewing the thermos lid and pouring a steaming cup before handing it to her. "And neither are you."

"Fair point," she dryly admits, wrapping her gloved hands around the cup and taking a long swallow. "I spent two hours staring at the roof of my bunk, waiting for an explosion that never came."

"Same," I say, falling into step beside her as we start a slow, unscripted loop around the equipment yard.

We move from generator to generator, checking lines and testing connections by habit, our boots crunching rhythmically in the dry Texas dirt. The stillness of the early morning wraps around us, cold and sharp, broken only by the canvas flapping in the sudden gusts of wind.

"This is exactly how every bad horror movie starts," Avery quietly remarks, crouching beside the haunt maze fog machine to run her fingers over the new junction box we installed yesterday. "The part where everything is quiet, the music is calm, and the girl thinks she's safe right before the masked psycho jumps out from behind the cornstalks."

I drop to one knee beside her, the scent of her vanilla shampoo cutting right through the cold air and diesel exhaust. "Don't jinx the equipment, woman."

"I'm not jinxing anything," she sharply retorts, looking at me sideways with that sassy sparkle back in her eyes. "I'm stating a structural narrative fact. Besides, you're the one riding around on an antique motorcycle with lucky charms hanging from your leather. Bikers are the most superstitious bastards on the planet."

"They're not lucky charms," I dryly correct, checking the secondary conduit. "They're road tokens. There's a distinct mechanical and spiritual difference."

"Right. Marketing spin for lucky rabbit feet," she playfully teases, her mouth curving into that full, wicked grin that hits me right in the center of my chest.

"You're a menace to my peace of mind, Avery," I tell her, and for the first time all week, the words carry no weight of dread, just pure, clean heat.

We check the last set of props at the entrance of the haunt maze, passing the wooden archway where the hand-painted sign reads enter if you dare in dripping red letters. The wiring is solid, the switches are pristine, and the breaker box is locked tight.

Avery stands up, dusting off her jeans, and lets out a long breath that fogs in the air between us. "That's the entire yard. Checked three times in twenty-four hours. Nothing."

"Nothing," I repeat, standing right in front of her, closing the distance until there's barely an inch of freezing air separating her canvas jacket from my leather cut.

She looks up at me, the humor draining out of her face, replaced by that raw, guarded vulnerability she tries so damn hard to hide behind her smart mouth.

"Dutch is opening the gates tonight, Wyatt," she whispers.

"I know."

"What if we missed something?" Her voice wavers just a fraction, her throat working as she swallows. "What if whoever is doing this waits until the tent is packed with six hundred people before they hit the next switch?"

"Then you and I will be standing right there to shut it down," I tell her, my voice dropping low, hard, and steady. "I have got your back, spitfire. Every damn second of the night."

She looks at me for a long, silent moment, her chest rising and falling fast, her green eyes reflecting the moonlight. "You know what is crazy?"

"What?"

"Four weeks ago, you knocked me flat on my ass in a mud puddle, and I was ready to slash your motorcycle tires and run you out of the county," she softly says, a quiet laugh catching in her throat. "Now, I don't know how the hell I would get through this night without you standing next to me."

"Feeling is mutual," I tell her, my hand coming up on its own, my bare fingers sliding along the cold skin of her jaw until my thumb brushes the warm corner of her lips. "You have got a mouth that deserves a fist full of soap, but there's no one else I would rather have in a foxhole."

"Don't go getting soft on me now, Carnival," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away. She leans into my palm, her eyelids fluttering shut for a half-second.