Carnival (The Traveling Series #4), Page 2

  Now, I could take a ghost ride anytime I wanted, but I never did.

  I sighed, wondering if the carnival would ever feel magical to me again.

  “Good news about Kes and Aimee—new life. A child will keep the carnival alive.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t sure that Ollo was right. It was a hard life, the traveling carnival, and many of the smaller outfits had shut down or gone out of business. I knew as well as anyone that there were no guarantees in life, but I hoped Ollo was right.

  “Yeah, I’m happy for them.”

  I watched a shooting star shimmer across the sky, wondering what the world had in store for me, wondering if fate was planning some new torture.

  “She wasn’t right for you, Zef.”

  Ollo’s voice broke and squeaked like a twelve year-old boy, although his body was no taller than the average seven year-old.

  Ollo was a dwarf and had lived his whole life in a traveling carnival. He’d done every job from clowning to tumbling, fire-eating and fire-breathing to knife-thrower and rodeo rider, fairground barker to roustabout, and everything in between. He was old now; no one knew how old, probably not even Ollo, but he’d been with Kes’s family since the second world war, so he must be at least eighty.

  He probably weighed no more than ninety pounds. I could have picked him up and tossed him over my shoulder without a problem, but I had too much respect for him to do something like that.

  So I sat back and listened to what he had to tell me.

  “You’re the second person tonight to say that Mirelle wasn’t right for me,” I said, my voice wry.

  Ollo spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the hard-packed soil, aiming at one of the iron tent pegs.

  “Are you surprised? Her family has uprooted once—she wasn’t going to do it again. Not for you.”

  “Feel free to sugarcoat it!”

  “Aw, is the big, tough stunt rider feelin’ sorry for hisself?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nah. Just pissed that she was seeing someone else and didn’t tell me.”

  There was a long silence and in the distance I could hear the sound of Luke’s guitar playing.

  “I had a woman once,” Ollo said softly. “Long time ago.”

  His voice was quiet and it sounded like a confession.

  “She wasn’t like me,” he said. “She was a townie, a petite lil’ thing. Delicate all over, tiny waist. Taller than me, of course. We were in Boise for the summer and it was the swinging sixties. She had long straight hair, golden brown, the color of corn. I was a rodeo clown in those days, and she’d come to see the ponies. We got talking and became friends. I’d wait for her to come for me at night. We’d hold hands and sit watching the stars from the top of the Ferris wheel. We fell in love.”

  “Sounds . . . nice?”

  “Yeah, it was. She was going to come with me at the end of the summer,” he chuckled quietly. “Run away and join the circus.”

  “But she changed her mind?”

  Ollo shook his head.

  “I don’t know. One night, she didn’t come. I waited every night, knowing that soon we’d be moving on. I went to look for her. In the town.”

  I stared up at Ollo’s stars, knowing that this story didn’t have a happy ending. I imagined how brave he’d have to be, leaving the carnies—his people—to go look for this girl among strangers, among townies.

  “I didn’t find her, but her father found me. Gave me what they used to call a damn good beat-down, and told me he wouldn’t let a deformed freak like me near his daughter. I don’t know if she’d been sent away or whether she was locked in her room, listening to her father whip me with his belt as I kicked and screamed and tried everything to fight him off. I always wondered about that.”

  “Jesus, Ollo!”

  My voice was quiet, shocked, and he was silent for a moment.

  “You never saw her again?”

  “Ah, but I did. Ten years later, we were in Boise again doing the northern circuit. By then, the music was louder and angrier. We were all trying to forget about Vietnam, and everything seemed a little wilder. Borders were breaking down, and even the townie boys were starting to wear their hair long. That’s when I saw her. She was with a rube and they had two kids—a boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old. They had her eyes, I remember that. She saw me watching her and she stared back. She smiled at me, then she turned and walked away.”

  His voice disappeared, lost in memories.

  “That was the last time I saw her. I never tried anything with a townie again.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Jeanie. Jeanie with the light brown hair.”

  I heard the soft patter of Bo’s footsteps, and he appeared out of the darkness, his tiny body curling into Ollo’s arms as he chirruped quietly.

  I watched Ollo stroke the soft gray-and-white fur.

  “Am I supposed to take some deep meaning from that story?” I asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Ollo coughed out a laugh.

  “Nope, just a story about a boy and a girl under the stars.”

  And then, as silently as he’d arrived, he stood up and walked away, Bo still cradled in his arms.

  I leaned back against the canvas, thinking about everything he’d said. If I was honest with myself, I’d known from the start that me and Mirelle wouldn’t last, but it still stung that she’d obviously been with this other guy for a while. And that she’d picked someone who was the complete opposite of me.

  I didn’t have any trouble hooking up with women who wanted a one-night stand with a biker carnie, but even I had to admit that had gotten old. And now Kes was married and about to become a father, and Tucker lived half the year with his woman in LA. Everything was changing.

  I’d had a family once—Mom, Dad, and a little brother. I still had my brother, but he was a man full grown now, successful and living his own life. He didn’t need me anymore, and he definitely didn’t need the shit I’d brought to his door. It was better that I kept moving, kept those wheels rolling.

  The other Daredevils were my brothers too, but now they all had partners and I was on the outside again.

  Sometimes it felt so damn lonely.

  I grabbed a piece of funnel cake as I passed the stall, licking the sugar from my fingers and winked at Maddie when she pretended to scold me.

  Despite the heat that bleached the sky a burning white, the midway was jammed as townies made the most of our final day in Missoula. Tonight we’d be packing up and heading west for one more stop by the shores of Moses Lake in Washington state. After that, we’d head south to our base at Pomona in So Cal. We played there July through November, took a winter break, and started touring again in the spring.

  I loved being on the road although our most spectacular stunts were reserved for the arena at Pomona, where we regularly filled ten thousand seats.

  In truth, we could have made a ton more money staying at Pomona year round, but Kes had carnie blood in his veins, and he longed for the open road as much as I did. Only his promise to give his wife a permanent base had made him take the Pomona gig. It was a compromise of sorts. I guess love will do that to you.

  I frowned as I thought of Mirelle. I missed her. Not that we’d ever spent more than a few days together at any one time, but I missed being a part of something bigger than myself. I shook my head at the thought, Must be getting old.

  I wasn’t sure when thirty-two started to feel old, but my damn knee was aching today. A year ago, I’d had an op for a torn cruciate ligament. It had healed, but some days . . .

  A woman with dyed red hair and a heavily made-up face caught my eye, or rather her tits did. She might as well serve them up on a plate, the way they were spilling out of her halter top. She licked her lips trying to be sexy but her obvious moves didn’t do anything for me anymore.

  Been there, done that, got the penicillin shot.

  I ignored her, nodding at the carnies as I passed by the various games,
rides, slides, stalls and sideshows: a booth selling cotton candy in pink, white and blue; hoopla; tilt-a-whirl and helter-skelter; bumper cars; the shooting gallery; Drown the Clown, smirking at the way Sid razzed the audience standing in front of his dunk tank; the tiny tots’ carousel with lions, ponies, giraffes and unicorns, playing old fashioned Vaudeville music; and at one of the games, the barker pretended to knock some balls into the midway, asking a group of kids who were passing by to pick them up for him. It was an old trick to get the rubes talking, because talking led to playing the game and spending money.

  It was loud and chaotic and different from any other way of life. And in the last few years, it had become my home. But I turned and looked over my shoulder, feeling separate from the families, kids and groups of teenagers. At the far end of the midway, the Ferris wheel was silhouetted against the stark sky, and I stared up, wondering if it was the same one that Ollo had taken his girl on all those years ago. We weren’t that far from Boise—her kids and grandkids could be here right now.

  I wondered if I’d be like Ollo one day, still on the road no matter how old or bent over I became. Or maybe I’d crash doing a stunt, and end up at the Pearly Gates backwards in a ball of fire.

  Zach said that red-tape was killing traveling carnivals like this one. So maybe we wouldn’t be on the road forever, but I hoped we would. It would be a sad day when we couldn’t bring a little magic to these small communities, putting stars in the eyes of those kids.

  I shook my head. Fuck it.

  Time to get ready for the show.

  A spark of adrenaline coursed through me. You’re not dead yet, Colton.

  The mini arena had two jumps criss-crossing in the center, straw bales soaked in water and a fire-retardant foam making up a safety perimeter along with the metal barrier, and bleachers on two sides.

  We used to let people stand around the perimeter but health and safety had nixed that, so these days if you didn’t get a seat in the bleachers, we couldn’t sell you a ticket.

  Tucker was waiting for me when I showed up at the rig to change into my fireproof leather motorcycle armor.

  “You’re late, loser,” he grinned.

  That was Tucker’s way of cheering me up. Guy was kind of a dick, but he had my back and I trusted him.

  “I can’t help it if you miss me all of the time. I keep telling you to go jerk off some knuckle babies instead.”

  “Aw, you’re just sore ‘cause I’m prettier’n you are.”

  “Yeah, cuts me up inside not to have your cute blond bangs, Hannah Montana.”

  “I knew it,” he laughed.

  “How the hell Tera puts up with your motor mouth is a mystery,” I grumbled.

  “I’m blessed, brother,” he said smiling, but with a serious look in his eyes.

  “Quit talking about my sister and that joker,” said Kes, striding toward us.

  He hadn’t been totally happy about his sister and Tucker getting together, but he knew that Tucker worshipped the ground Tera walked on, and for some reason that evaded logic, she seemed to think the same about him.

  “Where’s Luke?”

  “Checking the flooded fuel plug on his bike again,” Tucker frowned. “But now he’s got a problem with the gear sticking in neutral. He’s checking the linkage of the gear shift, but it’s the third time this week that it’s happened. He says he needs an auto parts store—Zach’s hooking him up when we get to Moses Lake.”

  Most repairs could be done on the road, but sometimes we had to call on the assistance of a full-service auto shop.

  Kestrel nodded briefly then turned to look at me.

  “You good, Zef?”

  I nodded as he studied me intensely. If he’d thought for a second that I wasn’t at the top of my game, he’d have pulled me from the show. We took risks every damn day, but only calculated ones.

  He rubbed his lower back thoughtfully. It had become a habitual gesture since he’d crushed one of his vertebrae a couple of years back. The docs had said that he’d never walk again, but what did they know? They also said he shouldn’t ride bikes again let alone perform stunts. But a man has to have a reason to live and we’ve all got to die some time.

  I tugged my t-shirt over my head, toed off my boots and dropped my jeans on the dusty grass.

  My leathers were hanging inside out on a line where I’d left them last night. Other than my bikes, they were the most expensive things I owned. Alpinestars was one of the best brands you could buy, but with the hard life they had and the amount of money they cost, I took extra special care of them. I couldn’t just stick them in a washing machine—I had to remove the bio armor, use baby wipes and Nikwax to get rid of the grime and funky smell, dry them in the sun, then sponge on a leather conditioner, mindful of the stretch Kevlar panels.

  My boots, helmet and gloves were dried after every performance using a portable air dryer.

  It was a boring end-of-show routine that you couldn’t skip.

  I smeared on some fire-resistant gel that Tucker had already mixed in a bucket, spreading it over my wrists, neck and face, as well as over my leathers, all the vulnerable spots. It was freakin’ amazing shit—you could literally hold a blowtorch to your skin and you wouldn’t get burned. Not that we did that stunt in front of the crowd of rubes—Zach would have thrown a fit about our insurance premiums. And you know, no matter how many times you say, ‘Don’t try this at home, folks!’, someone always does.

  Luke jogged over, red in the face and sweaty.

  “Moses Lake can’t come soon enough,” he said. “Those sticking gears are driving me insane.”

  “I thought your boyfriend was doing that,” Tucker smirked.

  “I heard that,” said Zach, slapping the back of Tucker’s head as he strolled across with Ollo. “I just got an email from a journalist who’s driving out from Spokane to write a review of the show.”

  “She’s coming a long way to see you guys,” said Ollo with a grin, “so maybe you should just wear pants and helmets today—give her some eye-candy to watch.”

  Zach rolled his eyes but didn’t argue with Ollo.

  We all groaned. Not that we cared about showing a little skin, but it meant that we had to put the fire-resistant gel over the whole top half of our bodies, and that stuff was damn sticky when you tried to wash it off. And, of course, we had a lot less protection if we were dumb enough or unlucky enough to crash our bikes.

  “Come on!” Zach laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, whatever. Give the lady a show. And some of the boys.”

  He winked at Luke.

  “Want me to do your gel for you?” he asked.

  Luke nodded, his eyes closing, a small smile on his face as Zach rubbed the gel all over him.

  “Want to do me, baby?” Tucker asked me, making a kissy face that was asking to be punched.

  “Fuck off.”

  Tucker just laughed and slapped a load of gel on my back so it dripped onto my briefs.

  “Just protecting your ass,” he smirked, dodging out of the way of my swinging fist.

  Zach rolled his eyes.

  “When are you going to grow up, Tucker?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  A few minutes later we were all greased up and wearing just our boots and leather pants when Zach brought over the reporter lady.

  He introduced Kes first as “world record-breaking stunt rider Kestrel Donohue,” followed by Tucker, Luke and me.

  She asked a few questions and recorded Kes’s replies on her phone.

  Kes was a performer from birth and showman at heart, so he knew exactly what to say to get Ms. Scroggins of The Spokesman-Review.

  “This isn’t just a bunch of men riding sports bikes,” he said, his eyes staring into hers, mesmerizing her the way a snake hypnotizes a rabbit. “This is where we challenge the known physics of the universe; we perform stunts that defy gravity. We throw ourselves through the air, making the impossible beautiful. We put the magic back into people’s lives.�
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  Her eyes were large as she spoke, and I could see her falling a little in love with him. Like most women.

  “Obviously it’s dangerous,” she pressed, “so my readers will want to know what drives you to do it. How have you all found a love and passion for risking your lives?” she breathed.

  Kes was serious.

  “I can only speak for myself: I was born to it. Performing is the only thing I’ve ever done or ever wanted to do. It was on ponies when I was a kid; now it’s on dirt bikes.”

  Tucker gave her a big smile.

  “Riding a motorcycle is the most fun you can have with your clothes on, and one of the two things I’m best at.”

  The journalist dutifully recorded his answer but her cheeks were flushed, and I threw Tucker a look.

  “What about you?” she asked, turning to Luke.

  “I like bikes,” he said shyly, dropping his eyes to the ground to avoid her gaze.

  “And you, Zef?”

  “Same as Luke. I like bikes.”

  She frowned slightly.

  “Do you like the danger?”

  Kes knew that I wasn’t going to be answering that any time soon, so he diverted the attention back to himself.

  “Do you want to know the most dangerous thing that I’ve ever done?” he asked, leaning towards her and lowering his voice. “More dangerous than breathing fire, more dangerous than eating fire, more dangerous than turning somersaults on a two-hundred pound motorcycle over a torch of flaming oil, more dangerous than any of those things?”

  “Well, yes!”

  “I fell in love.”

  He winked at her and walked away, pulling on his helmet as Zach stepped forward and filled her in on some of the technical aspects, handing her a flyer of our dates in Moses Lake.

  I shook my head in amusement. Kes knew how to work a crowd—even a crowd of one.

  I stretched my neck and shook out my arms as I mentally prepared myself for our show, getting in the zone, thinking about the moves, imagining the ramps in my mind.

  However Kes spun it, describing the magic, one momentary lapse of concentration, and any one of us could be carried out of there in a body bag. We practiced the hell out of the routines, but the end of a long tour like the one we’d been on was when accidents were most likely to happen.