Page 18 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Not real smiles. They were wide, toothy, and completely unhinged. We looked like a pair of damn fools. We held the stupid grins, letting the imaginary silence wash over us.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Maverick yelled to the empty trees, waving his arms like the gentleman he isn’t. "You're too kind!"

"Get on with it," I grumbled, still smiling like an idiot.

Then, the smiles vanished. Our faces went slack. We turned and shuffled off the stage, our steps clumsy and loud.

We stood at the edge of the clearing, the silence rushing back in. Maverick started to laugh, a real, loud, unhinged sound that echoed through the trees.

"She's gonna think we're a couple of lunatics," he said, wiping a tear from his eye.

I just shook my head. "We are."

"Damn right," he said, clapping me on the back. "Now, let's go get some sleep. Got a big day of possibly gettin' our asses whooped by a sexy woman."

Maverick shoved me, hard, knocking me off-balance.

"Asshole," I grumbled, stumbling but catching myself.

"Can't take a hit?" he shot back, dancing away on the balls of his feet, a wide, stupid grin on his face. "Getting soft in your old age."

I lunged for him, and he squeaked, turning to run back toward the main trailer. We were like a couple of kids, shoving and tripping each other on the path, our laughter echoing through the skeletal rides of the old midway. It was just noise, the kind we made to fill the quiet spaces.

As we got closer to the trailer, Maverick stopped, his head tilted back. "Huh," he said, pointing up.

I followed his gaze. The single bare bulb on the porch was flickering, casting a stuttering, weak light onto the steps. It was buzzing, like a trapped fly.

"We best fix that before it goes out," Maverick said, his playful tone gone, replaced by a low seriousness.

I nodded. "Can't let it burn out."

"You know the rules," he said, his eyes still on the flickering light. "A light on the porch ain't just a light. It's a beacon. Keeps the haints away."

It was an old Appalachian rule, one Momma had drilled into us. You always leave a light on, but you never make it a beacon. It's for wandering spirits, for lost souls, but it's also a signal. A warning. You keep the bad out, but you don't invite the curious in.

I looked at my brother. He was right. This wasn't just about folklore. This was about our life. We grew up caught between two worlds. The world of the carnival, with its painted smiles and strange traditions, and the world of the Appalachian Mountains, with its dark hollers and even darker superstitions. Our family took them both seriously. The show must go on, and you never, ever whistle in the dark. It was a strange mix, but it was all we knew.

"I'll get the bulb from the shed," I said, my voice low.

The playful mood from moments before completely gone. The work was never really done. There was always something to fix, something to maintain. A light to change. A world to keep in balance.

We fixed the bulb, the new one humming a steady, calm tune. Stepping inside, the trailer was quiet, the air thick and still. My eyes went immediately to the bed. She was asleep, tangled in the sheets, her arms thrown up over her head still chained. It was a weird, vulnerable position, like she was ready to fly away even in her sleep.

I moved closer, my boots silent on the worn floor. One of her arms was tangled in the top sheet, the fabric twisted around her elbow. The dim light caught the ink there, the lines of the spiderweb tattoo. It looked like she was caught in it, the web of the sheet mirroring the one on her skin. A thought struck me, sharp and clear: We caught her. She was our little fly, all tangled up and waiting for the spider.

I stood there for a long moment, just watching her. Her breathing was slow and even, her face relaxed in sleep. She looked peaceful, but I knew better. I'd seen the fire in her eyes, the way she fought. She was a wild thing, and we'd caged her. And now, we were gonna make her ours.

I reached out, my fingers hovering just above her skin, wanting to touch the tattoo on her elbow, to trace the lines of the web. But I didn't. Not yet. It was better to wait.

Maverick walked over to the bed, reaching out to adjust the quilt up over her. My gaze was heavy, tracing a slow line down her legs, moving up the curve of her hip and the swell beneath the thin fabric of her shorts. I swallowed hard, a look of pure hunger crossing my face. The thought of her, warm and sleeping right there, was a slow burn in my gut.

"I'll sleep on the recliner," I said, my voice low.

Maverick paused, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll share the bed with ol' sleeping beauty here," he said.

I chuckled darkly. "I'm sure she's gonna love that."

Maverick didn't answer, just kicked off his boots and tossed them aside. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor, and slid into the bed next to her. I did the same, my movements slow and deliberate, watching her the whole time.