He snorts. “Yeah, because you won’t be there to save my ass.”
“Not that. It’s just… We don’t know anything about this guy. It could be a cult. Like one minute you’re serving corn dogs, the next minute you’re worshiping carousel animals.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke. “Last week Kyle pushed me under at the lake. I swallowed so much water I threw up all night. I don’t think… I don’t think I’ll last long here.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Then go. Get the fuck out.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. They could be a human trafficking organization, for all I know. Going around to small towns, picking up people that no one would miss.”
I’d miss you. I don’t say the words. Neither of us wants it to be true.
The friendship of our childhood has no place in the lives of two adult outcasts.
“What job did he offer you?”
“A clown.”
I rub my forehead, remembering his terror as Kyle and the assholes had smeared white paint on his face and tried to give him a red rubber nose. They’d done it to humiliate him. It had worked. “And that seems…fun?”
He shrugs. “It seems like a job that pays better than the gas station. And I don’t know… I’d get to become someone else. I would get to hide in plain sight.”
“You’d get to act.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. Travis was the male lead in every one of Forrester High School’s theater productions. Especially if singing was required. It was one of the many reasons he’s never been able to hide who he is.
This way he’d get to hide in plain sight.
There’s something alluring about the idea.
Because no matter the shadows that follow me through Forrester, it seems like I’m always visible. The boys talk shit about me, making up notches on their bedposts. The girls believe them because it’s easier having the boys lie about me than them. The older folk disapprove of me. Whether it’s my alcoholic father or my Indonesian mother, the Coles aren’t loved in this place.
If you ever get the chance to leave, Sienna Mae, leave. Don’t worry about me.
Does she know that Dad threatened to find me if I ever left?
Did he ever threaten to hurt her if I left?
“Good luck if you go,” I say, my voice thick. “And fuck you if you don’t. But don’t worry about me. He’s interested in showing me a good time under the big top, which apparently is circus lingo I know now. Not the biggest tent they have, but still an impressive size.”
“Who has an impressive size?” Maisie chirps from behind me. “Hey, Travis.”
He gives a small nod. Maisie is one of those people who can impressively get along with everyone. It’s a mystery why she hangs out with me.
We leave Travis behind in the dark EXIT corner. As we finish walking through the Wonders From Around the World, I catch Maisie up on what happened with Kyle yesterday. (“Those rat-bastards.”) I also tell her about Logan’s visit to the Coffee Bean. (“I can’t believe you were holding out on me.”)
And I show her the VIP ticket.
She reads from the black and gold foil placard. “The bearer of this ticket is granted full access to the grandeur and the delight of Cirque des Miroirs. So this guy really wants to bang you, huh?”
“Let’s find out.”
I want to confront Logan Whitmere for a lot of reasons. To make sure he has decent intentions when it comes to my not-friend Travis. To find out why his big-time circus is bothering with the shitty town of Forrester.
And maybe to see if he’s really as handsome as I remember.
CHAPTER FIVE
No amount of flirting or pretending to be slutty circus starfuckers convinces the man at the door to let two of us inside. That’s how I end up ditching my best friend for the second night in a row—this time with her blessing.
Red and purple mats line the floor. A large square trampoline is on one side. People jump with beautiful form. I’ve seen the circular trampolines in people’s backyards, the kind with frayed plastic canvas around the edges so your feet don’t get stuck in between the springs. This is something much more grand. It’s not about children playing. These are athletes with clearly defined muscles and impossible height.
Almost everyone here is wearing athletic clothes, from the performers to the people coaching them. Only a few other people are in street clothes.
Logan is there, looking tall and imposing in a suit.
And so fucking important I almost don’t recognize him. It was easy to imagine him as some kind of handsome, super strong worker bee the circus hires. Now he’s pointing and commanding people in the show. A group of muscled men leap off a giant swinging platform one at a time, each performing their own twists and rolls and dives.
They turn to Logan, as if he’s the director of the show.
A white collared shirt hugs his biceps, the sleeves rolled up around thick muscle. He’s strong. Not like these athletes, precisely. Like a fighter. Someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Black slacks hug lean hips and long legs.
He’s standing with the man who interrupted us earlier, the one who’s darkly handsome, looking vaguely disreputable even as he wears a tuxedo complete with red velvet cumberbund and red velvet jacket. He holds a top hat with a red velvet band. The ringmaster, then. The announcer. A performer, even if he doesn’t swing from a trapeze like some of the other people in the room.
The third man is someone I haven’t seen before. He wears jeans with a dark, rough wash effect. His black button-down shirt makes him look subtly dangerous. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing extremely muscled forearms with flexing tendons.
He notices me first, which prompts Logan to turn and face me.
His expression smooths when he sees me. “You came.”
I force myself not to show the pleasure that warms me at his voice. I force myself not to react outwardly, even though my insides are roiling. It’s like my emotional baseline is the black springy surface of the trampoline. I’m usually resilient. I’ve learned how to handle blow after blow, but he slices through my fabric like a knife. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes.”
The answer is given casually, as if men regularly admit to missing a woman they barely know. God, the men in Forrester barely admit to missing women they supposedly love.
Honesty leaves me speechless.
He gestures toward the men with him. “Allow me to introduce Emerson Durand, our ringmaster. And Wolfgang Albrecht, our resident knife thrower.”
“Do your friends call you Wolf for short?”
“Only if they want me to throw a knife at them.”
It sounds vaguely like a joke, but it becomes less funny when he glares at me. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Logan says, giving his friend a warning look. “Wolfgang normally takes a lot of shit for his name, and he does it with grace, but he’s uncomfortable around townies.”
“And you?” I ask the ringmaster. Emerson Durand. The one who flirted with me. He’s doing it now, in a way that’s silent but hardly subtle. His eyes seem perpetually at half-mast, seductive and promising dark delights. “Are you uncomfortable around townies?”