I sighed.
“Yeah, I’d probably have been okay, I just didn’t want to risk it. I’m careful. I’ll have a drink sometimes, but never too much, and never two days running. I . . . it’s just for the best.”
She gave a small nod, but wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“I got a reduced sentence because I testified against Roy’s bosses, some real bad people. I couldn’t go home to Savannah when I was released because that could have put my brother in danger, so I just disappeared. I drifted for a while, got day-work where I could. I’m a pretty fair mechanic, so that helped. But not many people want an ex-con working for them, so it was hard. People are always waiting for you to fail. When I fell into a job at the carnival working as a roustabout, no one cared who I was or where I came from.” I smiled to myself. “They weren’t as thorough on criminal background checks as Zach. Kes found me and offered me a job with the Daredevils, like I said. I haven’t looked back. In fact, I’ve made an art out of not looking back.” I paused. “And for all those reasons, a nice girl like you should stay far away from me.”
It was a relief to tell her everything, but now I had to wait for the cards to fall, for the rejection that was certain to follow.
But Sara surprised me again.
“I know.”
“What? What do you know?”
“Most of what you just told me,” she said, her voice a whisper above the waves. “Not all of it, but some. Aimee told me. She could see how I felt about you and she thought I should know. And it’s not what you think, Zef—she really cares about you. She was warning me not to hurt you.”
I blinked, confused by the mind-fuck that had just landed me on my ass. What else had Aimee said while she’d been running her mouth?
“How the hell did she come to that conclusion?”
“She told me about Mirelle.”
Oh.
We sat in silence, the ebb and flow of the ocean reminding me that nothing lasts forever.
“She must have really hurt you . . .”
“Not as much as Aimee thinks. Mirelle and me . . . we were friends of friends, friends who got together once in a while. That’s all.”
“Really? You’re not upset that she’s pregnant?”
Sara wasn’t afraid to ask the hard questions.
“I didn’t like that she was seeing someone else when I thought we were together. I have to be able to trust people . . .” I looked at her sideways, but she was frowning at a small pile of sand trickling through her fingers. “I guess I trusted her more than she deserved.” I shrugged. “She’s Aimee’s friend so I’ll run into her from time to time, but she’s not the woman I’ve been thinking about lately.”
Sara was still staring at the sand, still frowning.
“So . . . you’re mad at her for being pregnant with another man’s child, but you’re not mad at me?”
I didn’t understand her. Why would I be mad at her? I wasn’t fucking her at the time and we weren’t in a relationship. I let my lungs empty, pushing out the air before breathing in deeply, testing the truth of my thoughts.
“I’m pissed at her because she lied to me—but we were never exclusive, not really. When I first saw you, I wanted to protect you and I didn’t want to believe that I was attracted to you because you’re just a kid . . .”
“I’m not!”
“Sara, you were in kindergarten when I was in college. That bothers me.”
“Then get over it! I have.”
I choked on a laugh.
“I don’t care that you’re older than me, and it’s not even that much. You make it sound like you’re ancient, it’s so dumb! Why do you care what anyone thinks?”
Her words made me pause. Why did it bother me so much? It wasn’t her age exactly, it was the fear that I was taking advantage of her. I’d found her homeless and helpless as well as pregnant. Throw in the age difference and she definitely wasn’t thinking straight. So I turned the question around.
“Suppose we’d met somewhere else. Suppose you’re sitting in your hometown coffee shop with your high school friends talking about graduation and college, and I drive up in Zach’s old truck. I’ve got grease under my fingernails and oil stains on my clothes. Say you hear that I’m with the carnival, and a decade-and-a-half older. Maybe you hear rumors that I’m an ex-con. Would you still be interested? Or would you worry what your friends would think, what your family would think? Would you know that it was a really bad idea?”
She shook her head and gave me a small smile.
“I’d still think you were hot.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t know, Zef. Yes, no, maybe. But we’re not in my hometown and I don’t care what my friends or parents think. I’m living my own life for once and we’re traveling with the carnival together. We’re alone on a beach and I still think you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever met.”
My self-restraint shattered. My flesh demanded, my blood roared, and my body responded.
I pulled her across my hips and she gasped, her knees digging into my ribs, her fumbling fingers anchoring themselves on my shoulders, the short nails digging in, as our mouths met in heat and need, panting like dogs.
My hands cupped her cheeks, crushing my lips beneath hers, growling as she bit my bruised mouth. I knew she tasted my blood but she didn’t stop and I urged her on, letting her cool hands explore my body as she pushed beneath my shirt, scraping her fingers over my chest and stomach, tugging at the hair below my bellybutton, thrusting her hand under the waistband of my jeans.
I was rigid, throbbing from her touch, arching my back so I pushed into her hand. She bit my chest then sat upright, tugging off her tank top and unhooking her bra.
I filled my hands with her breasts and she shivered.
“They’re really sensitive now, because . . . you know,” she whispered, pleasure and pain in her voice.
I leaned up on my elbows, replacing my hands with my tongue, gently biting and sucking her breasts as she rode me through my jeans.
Her skin glowed, pale in the moonlight, and her hair streamed down her back, flowing like quicksilver. Her mouth was open and her eyes were closed as she moved faster and faster. I moved my hands to her hips, anchoring her core against mine and thrusting upward, starved for her touch, hungry for these feelings.
Unzipping her denim shorts, I stroked her smooth belly, then pushed one, work-roughed finger inside her, soaking into the hot, sweet center, coating my hand.
She shuddered and screamed at the moon like a wild animal. She was free and magnificent and utterly unexpected.
Collapsing on my sweat-covered chest, she panted, her breath hot and moist against my neck.
I held my breath, willing myself not to come in my jeans like a teenager. The irony would have made me laugh if it wasn’t so fucking painful.
She gasped a quivering breath and lay quietly, her body softening and relaxing against me.
“Zef, I’m cold.”
My eyes opened reluctantly as I tightened my arms around her. The stars were spiraling slowly, and I judged that we’d been asleep maybe an hour.
I rubbed her back to warm her up. I couldn’t see her bra in the dark, but I found her t-shirt and pulled it over her head.
“Come on, time to go back.”
I wished I could hold her properly but it was impossible given the soft sand and my crutches. Her teeth chattered as we slowly made our way up the beach, and she hugged herself trying to keep warm.
The bonfire was dying down, just a few glowing embers ringed by large pebbles remained, blackened by fire and smoke.
Sara opened the RV’s door and I scrambled up the steps. That was when she saw me in the light for the first time.
“Oh my God! What happened? Did someone hit you?”
“Oh, yeah. Kes. I said some things to Aimee that I shouldn’t. I deserved it.”
“About me?”
I didn’t reply.
She shook her h
ead, her eyes sad, then grabbed a towel and soaked it in cold water, wiping it gently over my face.
It felt good, being looked after, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the moment.
“Will you stay with me tonight?”
I opened my eyes at her question.
“Do you want me to?”
She gave a sly smile.
“Well, it is your room . . .”
I held her hand and kissed it, then reluctantly released her as I hopped along the narrow corridor.
I winced as I removed the leg brace, then undressed slowly, watching her eyes for any sign that she’d changed her mind.
She blinked as I stepped out of my jeans, her eyes darting down to my erection, but she didn’t say anything.
Then she stripped off her own clothes, and I wondered if I’d get any sleep tonight with her naked in her/my bed.
She lay with her head on my shoulder.
“I can hear your heart beating. It sounds so safe.”
“I’ll take care of you, Sara. I promise.”
She was silent for a moment, and when she did speak, I could hear the hesitancy in her voice.
“What was it like? In prison?”
A tremor ran through my body that was part fear, part anger, part reaction to her. I’d hoped never to hear the word ‘prison’ again.
“I don’t like to talk about that,” I said gruffly.
She reacted immediately, stiffening in my arms.
“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”
I sighed, running my hand along her waist, enjoying the silky warmth.
“No, I’m being an asshole. Again. It’s just . . . it was . . . bad . . . and I don’t want you to hear about the shit that went on there. I don’t want you to have it inside your head. Anyway, I’m not that person anymore.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice, which made me feel worse.
I grimaced in the dark and took a deep breath.
“What do you want to know?”
I could hear the rustle of the sheets as she pulled the quilt over one shoulder.
“You said you’re not that person anymore . . .”
“I’m not.”
“What’s changed?”
Her question was so innocent, I almost laughed. Not that prison was anything to laugh at. Everything changed—my whole world.
“It hardens you, and not always in a good way. You have to be as tough and ruthless as the toughest most ruthless bastard in there, or you’re just fresh meat. You have to send a strong signal that you can’t be fucked with.”
The words felt like acid in my mouth and I wished I had a drink.
“I did things that I’m not proud of, fucked up a lot of people, just to survive. You can’t trust anyone: not the guy you share a cell with, not the guards, not the warden, no one. And that gets pretty lonely. You build walls so high, it feels like you’ll never tear them down, and you don’t want to either, because walls protect you.”
“Do . . . do you feel like that . . . with me?”
Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her.
“No, Sara. You took a wrecking ball through those walls. I really should thank you for that.”
She gave a quiet laugh.
“You mean that?”
“Yeah, I do. I trust my brother; I trust Ollo, Kes, Zach, Luke and Tucker; I trust Aimee, Tera and my brother’s girlfriend; and now I trust you. It’s been a work in progress, and it’s taken more than four years, but I guess you could say I trust a lot more people than I ever thought I would.”
I could tell that she had more questions.
“What else do you want to know?”
“It’s a dumb question.”
“There are no dumb questions—didn’t you learn that at school?”
“Was there anything good about prison?”
“That’s a dumb question.”
“Hey!” and she gave me a little push as I laughed.
“Yeah, there was one thing: it made me get straight. No alcohol, weed, coke or crack. Well, hell, you can get all of that shit in prison if you’ve got the right contacts, but I kept to myself and I didn’t want to be in anyone’s debt. So I got straight by default. Best thing that could have happened to me in there.”
I felt her gentle kiss on my cheek.
“I feel like I know you a little better now,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”
We fell asleep wrapped around each other. I woke once in the night with the realization that she never had told me who’d called her.
I was expecting the morning to be awkward, but it wasn’t. It felt good. It felt right, and stupidly, I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to see her every day, her belly growing round and full beside me.
It was probably just as well that it wasn’t my child inside her—my gene pool was so seriously fucked up that extinction was definitely the best option.
I hoped the kid turned out like her and not the dickwad father who obviously didn’t know when he had a good thing.
Fathers. Fatherhood. I’d been thinking about that a lot lately: what made a good father, how to be a good father. I thought about the qualities that a man should have: patience—definitely, kindness, tolerance, discipline, a hard worker, someone who could support his family and set a good example, maybe even someone who didn’t care if his kid wasn’t like him—I thought that was important, as well. He should be loyal and a protector. And he should love his kids and let them know that they were loved—because how many people didn’t show love, even when they felt it? You could say I was in that category. Life, experience, both had taught me to lock emotions away. But I was trying . . . I was trying for Sara because I could tell that she needed to know that I cared. I’d tried to hide what I’d been feeling—obviously I’d done a lousy job of it. But I’d also left her confused about what I did think, and the gray matter that made up my brain had finally caught up to the fact that she needed something . . . someone that she could depend on.
My dad had been a good man, a good father, and I might have been a good man, too, if he’d lived. My brother, he was one of the best, and I knew he’d make a fantastic father one day. When Kes told us that he and Aimee had made a baby, I was surprised because it turned out that I really liked the idea of being an uncle—yeah, I reckon I could nail down that role. Kes was like a brother to me. Family.
Which was a reminder that I’d have to go eat humble pie, apologize to Aimee and hope that Kes had gotten over wanting to kick my ass to Boise and back.
He’d definitely been unlucky himself on the father front, although Tera seemed to have mixed feelings about their shared parentage. At least Kes’s father had tried to do the right thing eventually, even if it was 26 years too late.
As for Tucker, like me and Dan, his father had also died young, and he’d been brought up—if you could use that term—by a drunk for a mother and a stepfather who’d whaled on him every day until he was big enough to fight back. I think that was the reason he tried so hard to be happy—he’d already had enough misery to last a lifetime.
I told Sara that I’d take care of her and I intended to keep that promise, even when she didn’t need me anymore. I couldn’t help believing that one day she’d stop running; one day she’d go back to her family. Until that day, I’d do everything I could for her.
And if she needed a father for her kid, I’d be first in line.
The thought wasn’t uncomfortable—it was what a real man would do. I’d paid penance for my past mistakes—now I had a chance to make amends, to help someone who needed it.
Although it occurred to me much later that perhaps I should have shared my decision with her. Maybe even had a discussion. But I was only thinking about what she needed and what I had to do for her, not whether she’d want what I had to offer. I guess you could say I was dumb like that.
As I lay unmoving, thin fingers of sunlight had crept through a gap in the curtains, turning Sara’s pale blonde hair to gold. At rest, she
looked so young, so very young.
Ripples of self-loathing rose up my throat. Too young.
I pushed them away, but my body must have tensed because her eyelids fluttered and she yawned widely.
“Oh my God, that was the best night’s sleep in forever,” she said, a sleepy smile on her face as she stroked my chest, her eyes still closed. “You’re all warm and cuddly. Not cuddly because your muscles are too hard, just nice, you know? Sort of cuddly though, maybe even a bit furry. I really like your beard—it’s softer than I thought it would be. I thought it would be prickly but it’s not. It’s soft, well, not as soft as Bo’s but really nice. Did I say nice again?”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“Are you always this chatty first thing in the morning?”
“I guess so, yeah. Does it bother you?”
It should have, but it didn’t.
“Nope, chat away.”
“Your tattoos are amazing, really beautifully done. Some tattoos are just gross, or blurry and ugly, like someone just got shot with a splatter gun and they didn’t even think about how they’d all look together. Some are really bad and some are just nasty, but yours are kind of beautiful. I didn’t think colored tattoos would look that good, but they really do. You’ll have to tell me what they all mean. Oh, and this one on your ribs—is that Latin? What does it say?”
There were too many comments and questions in that one breath for me to answer, so I just focused on the last one.
“Yeah, it’s Latin, by the writer Juvenal. He lived around 100AD.”
“I’ve never heard of him. What does it say?”
“Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses,” I translated.
She wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t get it.”
“He was saying that people only care about eating and being entertained. He was being sarcastic, but I think he probably got it right.”
“Oh right, I get it now. We all need to eat, but we want to have fun, too, because the world can be shitty and serious, and sometimes you just need to think about something else.”
She definitely got it. She was also the first girl who’d asked me who didn’t think it was weird.
Carnival (The Traveling Series #4) Page 11
