Page 24 of Carnival’s Playground

"Not soft," I answer, stepping closer, my boots nudging hers. "Just honest."

"Carnival," she breathes my name, and it doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like a plea.

"Avery."

I give her every chance to back up, to throw out another sharp insult, to duck under my arm and walk back to her trailer. She doesn't move an inch. Instead, her small, gloved hands come up, gripping the lapels of my leather cut, hauling me down toward her with a fierce, reckless pull.

When my mouth crashes down on hers, the cold morning air completely detonates.

She doesn't kiss like someone seeking comfort. She kisses the exact way she fights, all fire, teeth, and absolute, ruthless commitment. I slide my gloved hand behind her neck, burying my fingers in her messy hair, pulling her flush against my chest while my other arm locks around her waist, lifting her onto her toes.

She lets out a low, ragged sound against my lips, her hands sliding up my chest to knot into the collar of my jacket, dragging me closer until there's not a sliver of space left between us. Her mouth is hot, sweet, and demanding, tasting of bitter coffee and pure fire. Every muscle in my back locks tight as the desire I have been choking down for four weeks rips through my veins like high-octane fuel.

When we finally tear apart, both of us are gasping for air, our foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in white clouds in the freezing predawn dark. My heart is slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal. Her fingers are still gripping my leather so hard the seams are groaning.

"Well," Avery breathlessly whispers, her cheeks flushed bright pink, her eyes wide and glittering. "That certainly clears up the static."

I keep my hand planted firmly at the small of her back, refusing to let her step away. "That was not static, spitfire."

She lets out a shaky, beautiful laugh, resting her forehead against my chest for three long heartbeats. "I should probably say something incredibly witty and mean right now to keep my reputation intact."

"Don't bother," I roughly tell her, tilting her chin up with my thumb until her eyes lock on mine. "You're not fooling me anymore."

"Don't get cocky, biker," she playfully warns, but her voice has no bite, only heat and a softness that makes my chest ache in a way I have never felt in all my years on the road.

I lean down, pressing one more slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her parted lips, feeling her shiver against me. "What does this mean for us, Avery?"

"It means we're two stubborn idiots who just kissed in the dirt while a madman is trying to blow up our circus," she quietly answers, her fingers uncurling from my cut to lace tightly through mine. "It means we finish this job, we keep this crew alive, and we figure out the rest when the smoke clears."

"Fair enough," I say, squeezing her hand tight.

We stand there together near the edge of the maintenance shed as the first faint sliver of orange begins to bleed across the eastern sky. Out in the woods, a barn owl screeches into the fading night, but for the first time since I rolled into Grimwood Crossing, the darkness doesn't feel like an enemy.

It just feels like the road leading straight to her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CARNIVAL

The Texas sunrise bleeds across the horizon in streaks of bruised violet and copper by the time we walk into the mess tent. Avery keeps her fingers laced through mine right up until we reach the canvas flap, then reluctantly lets go, shooting me a sideways glance that dares me to say a single damn word about it.

I just smirk, holding the flap open for her.

The mess tent smells of burnt bacon, chicory coffee, and damp wool. Half the crew is already crowded around the long folding tables, looking hollow-eyed and strung out on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Dutch stands at the far end by the commercial coffee urn, his heavy reading glasses pushed up into his gray hair, reviewing a fresh stack of safety checklists.

He looks up the second we walk in, his sharp gaze flicking from Avery's wind-burned cheeks straight to my face, lingering for two seconds longer than usual. A faint, knowing twitch pulls at the corner of his mustache, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"Coffee is fresh," Dutch gravelly grunts, tapping his pen against the table. "Sit down. We have got fifteen minutes before morning roll call."

I grab two heavy mugs, filling both to the brim with black sludge, and slide the second one across the table to Avery as I drop onto the bench beside her. Marcy is sitting across from us, her left forearm wrapped in a tight elastic bandage, picking at a plate of scrambled eggs with her good hand.

"How is the arm, Marcy?" Avery gently asks, leaning across the table.

"Sore as hell, but the doctor says the tendon is intact," Marcy quietly replies, offering a tired, grateful smile. "If you two had not spotted that groove in the high clamp, I would be eating breakfast through a straw in County General right now. I owe you both a fifth of good bourbon."

"Save the bourbon for after we catch the bastard," I dryly state, taking a sip of the scalding brew.

Dutch clears his throat, the sound like gravel rattling in an oil drum, and the entire tent goes dead silent.