Page 27 of Carnival’s Playground

"A grudge that almost snapped Marcy’s neck in front of hundreds of people," I grind out, the fury ripping up through my throat before I can lock it down. It’s easier to be angry than scared, easier to let the heat burn through the cold knot in my chest. "Dropping an aerialist forty feet into the sawdust isn’t some petty carny prank, that’s cold-blooded attempted murder dressed up as equipment trouble."

"Nobody’s arguing with you, spitfire," Carnival murmurs, stepping into my personal space and wrapping a heavy hand around my forearm. The contact burns through my canvas jacket, solid and steady. I hate how much I need it right now. He doesn’t care that Dutch and Petey are standing right in front of us. "We’re on the exact same page."

"I know," I quietly admit, dragging in a ragged breath as some of the white-hot rage drains out of my shoulders, though the sick fear in my gut stays bitter and cold. "I’m just… I’m sick of shadows. I want a real name and a face."

"Then we track the bastard down starting with Rourke," Dutch decides, already pivoting toward the trailer line with his radio clenched in his fist. "I’m calling every contact on the southern circuit. Somebody knows who he runs with, what his ugly mug looks like, and where Vesper Crow has their haulers parked."

"You think the sonofabitch is still lurking in these woods?" Petey asks, his wide eyes darting toward the thick oak line. He takes a step back from the fence, unconscious, like distance will help.

"If he wants to burn this show to the ground, he has to be close enough to strike a match," Carnival answers before Dutch can get a word out. "He’s close. Closer than any of us want to believe."

"Fucking fantastic," Petey mutters, kicking the damp gravel near the chainlink fence.

"Shut your mouth and fix this wire, Petey," Dutch orders. "Grab the heavy ties and pliers from the rear shed. I want this gap locked down tight before noon, and I want an hourly perimeter sweep running day and night."

Petey hauls ass toward the tool sheds, and Dutch follows right on his heels, his phone already pressed to his ear as he starts barking at whoever picks up on the other end.

That leaves Carnival and me alone in the biting morning air, the Texas sun finally burning through the gray mist hanging over the trees. For a long, brutal minute, the only sound is the wind dragging through the dead mesquite grass and my own heartbeat pounding too loud in my ears.

"Talk to me, Avery," Carnival urges, his gray eyes searching every line of my face, reading things I’m not saying out loud.

"I feel sick," I admit, wrapping my arms around my ribs because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it. "Some psycho stood right on this perimeter, watching me work, breathing the same air, and I didn’t even notice. It makes my skin crawl."

"That shit isn’t on your shoulders," Carnival tells me. "Saboteurs thrive on stealth. They hide in the cracks until they can jam a wrench into the gears. You couldn’t have known."

"That doesn’t make it feel any better," I mutter, leaning into his heat anyway because his leather and hard muscle feel like the only solid thing left standing in this town. I’m shaking, just slightly, and I know he notices.

"I know," he answers, pressing a quick, fierce kiss against the crown of my head. The gesture catches me off guard, makes my throat tight. "We have a name now. That gives us a target."

"A target and a grudge," I counter, tilting my chin up to meet his dark gaze, trying to find my footing again. "That doesn’t let me sleep easily at night."

"No," Carnival agrees quietly, his thumb coming up to stroke the tense line of my jaw. "It doesn’t. But we handle the fallout together, that’s the deal, remember?"

"I remember," I whisper, the knot in my chest loosening just enough for me to breathe without feeling like I’m drowning. "God help me, Carnival, I’m trusting you on this."

"That’s all I need," he roughly promises, pulling me tight against his leather cut for three quiet heartbeats before the world comes crashing back in. I let myself have those three seconds, let myself feel safe, before I pull back and square my shoulders.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CARNIVAL

Petey charges back through the weeds fifteen minutes later, lugging a roll of heavy galvanized chain link and a set of steel pliers, sweating straight through his flannel shirt despite the cool morning. Avery and I drop into the dirt beside the breach, our hands working fast to splice the fresh steel into the old posts while Dutch paces a tight circle fifty feet away, cursing violently into his cell phone.

"Yeah," Dutch barks loudly into the receiver, his free hand chopping through the air. "Rourke. Check the roster from August."

I twist the tie wire hard with my pliers, cranking the steel until it bites deep into the support pipe. Avery kneels beside me in the mud, holding the mesh taut against the frame, her small hands steady despite the anger vibrating off her in waves. I can feel the tension in her shoulders and see it in the tight set of her jaw.

"You holding it together?" I ask her quietly beneath the noise of Petey's grunting.

"I'll hold together until we catch this bastard, and then I'll break his jaw," she coldly answers, not looking up from the wire. Her voice is flat and controlled, but I hear the tremor underneath.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, spitfire," I dryly murmur, trying to ease some of the tension.

"Too late for that, biker," she retorts sharply, though the faint twitch at the corner of her lips gives her away. It's not much, but it's something.

Dutch slaps his phone shut, his face dark as a thunderhead as he marches back toward our patched fence line. The sheer fury radiating off the old man makes Petey instantly stop working, and I feel Avery go still beside me.

"What did you find?" I demand, rising to my feet and wiping mud on my denim.