“Oh, I remember, all right,” he says in a way that tells me he would rather forget that fact.
I turn my back on him, literally and figuratively, to keep him from seeing the tears welling in my eyes. “I have nothing for you.”
I hear
the door slam, and he mutters something that sounds a lot like spoiled bitch. I sniff, pressing my palms to my eyes, before bending over to retrieve my box. I take out enough cash for a cab and a little extra to spend before I secure the lid. I stand on my tiptoes, shoving it as far back as I can, sticking one of my useless throw pillows in front of it for good measure.
I’m going to the carnival.
IT’S AN ODD FEELING, KNOWING you’re going to die. I might not know exactly when or exactly how, but I can almost guarantee two things: I won’t see twenty-five, and when I do go out, it will be in some catastrophic way. A fire. A car accident. Maybe I’ll get struck by lightning. It’s my curse to bear, and I’ve known it for as long as I can remember.
We all have—Eros, Tres, Lathan, and me. We’re doomed to die young. Just like our fathers and their fathers before them. Very few of the men in our family have lived to be over twenty-five. Some aren’t even lucky enough to make it out of the womb. Or maybe we’re the unlucky ones. You could chalk it up to our line of work—most of us were stuntmen or daredevils in some capacity—but how much tragedy can surround one family before people start to realize there’s something else going on there? Curse or coincidence?
We each cope in our own way. Eros lives every day like it’s his last—fucking and loving and riding. Lathan drinks to forget his days are numbered, and Tres…well, Tres chooses to ignore it. As if that will somehow change our fate. As for me, I’m resigned to the fact my life will end before it ever really begins. I’ll keep tucking away cash to take care of my mom and grandmother once I’m gone, and in the meantime, I get to do what I love, searching for a thrill the only way I know how.
The four of us don’t live by societal norms. As kids, we vowed not to be reckless like our fathers. We wouldn’t get married or have kids. No one left to pay for sins they didn’t commit. We abstain from committed relationships, opting to keep things casual, but that’s more of an unspoken rule. What’s the point if we’re all going to be dead soon? All we have is each other. We used to joke about different ways we could all go out together in a blaze of glory so none of us would have to live without the other. I realize now that’s probably not what most twelve-year-old kids think about.
“Seb!” Eros pounds against the side of the bunkhouse, which is essentially a glorified trailer fitted with four bunks, a small kitchen, and a bathroom, but it’s home for the summer months. “Let’s roll!” A second later, I hear Randy Jessup announce my name, followed by a loud applause.
My hands are braced against the sink, head bowed, cigarette between my lips. I pinch the filter, taking one last drag, letting the smoke cloud my reflection before flicking it into the sink and dousing it with water.
It’s showtime.
I’m on autopilot, posing for photos next to women who don’t seem to mind the fact that I’m sweaty as fuck, scribbling a sloppy signature onto pads of paper, photos, and whatever else is thrust in front of me. I feel a sense of déjà vu that has me pausing mid-autograph. I look up, the cap to someone’s Sharpie between my teeth, searching for what, I don’t know. And that’s when I see her. High, blonde ponytail. Skintight, pale pink dress with jacket tied around her waist—just like the last time I saw her—long, tanned legs, and white tennis shoes. Evan.
She looks so fucking pure, and she was, I think, when I first met her. I can still remember how she trembled against me. The smell of her skin. The way I got hard as a fucking rock when she was pressed against me on the back of my bike. The way her eyes widened after I kissed her. Her brand of innocence doesn’t come along every day.
Imagine my disappointment when I found out she was underage. And again, a year later, when she had somehow morphed from this innocent angel looking for a thrill to a stuck-up brat who thought the world revolved around her.
I knew I’d see her here. Knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. In fact, I was counting on it. Took her long enough. Tomorrow’s the last day here, then we’re heading out for the northern part of the route.
I feel a hand press up against my crotch, snapping me out of my trance. I look down to see some chick peering up at me with what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive expression as she casually gropes me through my jeans, using the pushy crowd as an excuse to rub up on me. I’ve seen her around. She works at the Sugar Shack.
“Oops.” She smiles. “Accident.”
I give her an apathetic stare until she realizes I’m not interested and puts a couple inches of space between us.
“Come on, Liz. There are children present,” Eros chides from my right as he signs some chick’s tits. The irony of his statement and what he’s doing is lost on him. “But if you’re dead set on molesting someone, I’ll be in my trailer in ten.”
“My name is Destiny,” she says with a comically confused expression plastered to her made-up face.
I chuckle, shaking my head. Liz is short for Lizard. As in Lot Lizard. Every carnival has ’em. The girls who sleep their way through every carny who breathes in their direction. They’re especially drawn to us. For some reason, it seems we’re more sought-after because we’re not actually with the carnival. Our show is contracted by them, we travel together, and we even have some family who works for them, but we’re a separate entity.
“Right. Destiny,” Eros says, eyeing her long legs in her cut-off denim skirt.
I make quick work of signing everything before I make my way to the trailer, Eros falling in line beside me.
“Saw Jailbait out there,” he says, watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “You were right.”
“When am I not right?”
“How’d you know she’d come?”
I shrug. “It was just a hunch.” I did have a gut feeling that it wasn’t the last I’d see of her, but it was more than that. She’s drawn to the carnival, for some godforsaken reason. Girls like her see the bright and shiny exterior, but if she bothered to peel back the layers, she’d see the dirt and grime. It’s all an illusion.
“Speak of the devil.”
I follow his gaze to find Evan leaning up against our trailer, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.