Forbidden, Tempted Series (Book 1) Page 3

  He turned with his arms out, a happy gleam in his brown eyes. “Still fits. I wasn’t sure.” He patted his chest. “I want to head out soon.”

  The circus. Oh groan, she did promise him, didn’t she? Flint grimaced. “I’m totally there, Dad, but I’ve got a crap ton of homework. Can I at least finish my math before we go? And maybe get some food? I’m starving.”

  She dropped her book bag next to the door, heading back into the kitchen to scrounge up whatever there was. Opening a cabinet, she huffed. A bag of chips lay half opened. The fridge was hardly better. She yanked out the bread. “Only the heel. Is there even any cheese?”

  “I don’t know, baby, I’m sorry.” He looked flushed and she felt guilty.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I know you’re busy.”

  They both knew it wasn’t true, but he smiled and nodded anyway. “Becca would have never let it get that way,” he said in a sad voice, making her feel like an even bigger jerk.

  She loved her dad, knew it was hard on him. Eventually he’d snap out of it—she had to believe that.

  Flint pulled the heel out of the bag and took a huge bite. “Mmm... don’t even miss the cheese.”

  He grimaced and she forced the slice of bread down her throat, wondering why bread companies insisted on putting heels in since most sane people hated them anyway. After three stale tortilla chips, she called it good and turned around. “Homework and then we can go. Give me about an hour.”

  He glanced at his watch, a worried frown marring his brows. “Okay, but be fast. I want to make a good impression.”

  “Daddy.” Flint blew him an air-kiss. “It’s just math. You know I can whip that out in no time. What time is your appointment anyway?”

  Now he looked nervous. “Seven,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Seven.” She snorted, staring at the stove clock. “It’s barely even four.”

  “Yeah, but in case we get lost—”

  Flint grabbed her book bag, dragging it behind her by a long black strap. “Dad, you do realize we live in the boonies, right? I think I saw all of two stoplights in town. We won’t get lost. And now I know I can even take a shower.”

  “Flint DeLuca.” He used that voice on her, one she hadn’t heard in years. The one that said you’re in big trouble, young lady. It was good to see him so excited, but...

  Flint turned the knob on her bedroom door, flicking at the pink princess tassel dangling off it. “Can’t look desperate, Daddy. Relax—we’ll have plenty of time.” With a final air-kiss, she flew inside the door, clicking the lock shut behind her.

  Poor Dad, like a puppy with a new toy. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. But it was kind of refreshing to see him like this again. She just hoped he got the job, because she dreaded the thought of what might happen to him if he didn’t.

  Plopping down on her twin bed, she yanked out her books, and a scrap of white fluttered to the beige carpet. Curious, Flint bent to retrieve it and then unfolded it.

  They’re watching you.

  ~T

  Kicking off her bright pink Chucks, she scooted back against the edge of the bed, staring at the words as if she could divine who’d written them by the size of the scrawl. Tracing the words, she tried to remember all the people she’d met today.

  Two faces came to mind. Cain and the psycho with the bloodshot eyes. But Psycho hadn’t gotten anywhere close to her.

  Flint nibbled her bottom lip, stomach twisting with something close to nerves. Was it him? And if so, why? Why did he seem to hate her so much?

  Just thinking about Goth Boy made her lips tingle and her spine stiffen. She rubbed her striped socks together, toes digging into the moss-green paisley sheets of her bed. He was an irrational, muscle-bound mystery.

  Flint traced the words again; the writing was too pretty and neat to be his. Not that she had a clue what he’d write like, but everything about him screamed hard. Hard muscles, hard attitude, hard... writing? She grinned. Why was she obsessing about him at all? Shouldn’t a note like this totally freak her out? It probably wasn’t normal that aside from the dip of her stomach, she was more curious than terrified. She was too new to have developed a stalker. Besides, she was no shrinking violet. Being raised in circuses most of her life, she’d learned many tricks of the trade, one of them being blades and how to handle them.

  Mouth feeling like cotton, she jerked when her father bellowed, “Flint, I don’t hear you writing!”

  “Jeez, Dad,” she muttered, mentally grabbing her rapidly beating heart and tucking the note into her jeans pocket. What was he doing anyway, pressing his ear against her door?

  It was hard, but she managed to focus long enough to finish her math.

  ~*~

  She stared out the passenger-side window of her dad’s ancient Ford pickup. A rusted tin boat, held together by scraps and pieces. The sun was beginning to set, making the world zooming past her window look like an orange-and-pink mirage of flames setting behind the woods.

  Huge trees dotted either side of the two-lane highway as they drove out of town. They crossed a bridge, and a chipped red-and-white painted barn sat like an abandoned ghost, a dry creek bed running alongside them.

  It was beautiful out here. But kind of creepy, especially as the world began to grow dark with the first blue tints of night. They had to reach a clearing soon. Circuses couldn’t go up in woods, no matter how cool it would look. The large trees would be a hazard in lightning storms.

  No sooner had she thought it than a clearing full of corn spread out for miles around them. Their flat, broad leaves seemed to wave at them as they sped by.

  Pain bloomed behind Flint’s closed eyes. She’d showered, dressed in a pair of tight black pants—refusing to analyze why she’d chosen that particular color—and slipped on a crimson tank top. It was late August, and humidity levels were high enough to cause her auburn curls to frizz like a wild halo around her head. She’d tried to do something pretty with her hair, plait it like her friend Bethany had tried to show her over a hundred times. But Bethany’s dad was a hairstylist to the stars; doing hair had been a genetic trait beautiful, blond Bethany had in spades.

  Flint’s fingers were strong enough to smash walnuts in her closed fist, but nowhere near nimble enough to do something pretty with her hair. She’d finally given up on her hair as a lost cause, pulled it back into a tight ponytail, and tied a blood-red satin ribbon around it.

  “You’re awfully quiet.” Her dad glanced at her. He was still dressed in the spandex suit but now with black combat boots on his feet.

  She hadn’t had the nerve to tell him he looked ridiculous.

  “Just thinking,” she mumbled, eyeing the ghostly silver-white moon as it became visible in the sky.

  It was silly maybe, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Cain. Her gut reaction to him was intense; even now her body tingled with just the thought of him and his woodsy musk, his full lips so close that she could smell the mint on his breath. Not to mention the anger radiating off him in waves.

  The sane thing would be to run scared—most girls would. But she wasn’t most girls. For years she’d stared death in the face, defying the laws of gravity with some of the stunts she’d performed. Fear could not exist in her vocabulary, not if she wanted to live. That didn’t mean she thought he was likable. What she thought of Cain was the complete opposite. Pompous. Arrogant. And... bastard pretty much summed up her feelings about Goth Boy.

  And then there was gorgeous, heart-pounding, and mesmerizing. Her stomach twisted in a hard knot when she thought about the almost-kiss she’d given him at lunch. Flint bit the corner of her lip; it was like she couldn’t control herself around him. Some magnetic force was pulling her in. She didn’t like him, didn’t want to like him, but couldn’t stop whatever train wreck was headed her way.

  But that wasn’t the only thing obsessing her.

  The note. Had he really sent her that? And when did he stick it in her book bag that she hadn’t noticed? What in the wo
rld did it even mean? She picked at a loose thread in the hem of her tank top.

  “About what?” her dad asked, cutting her off from her thoughts.

  She wrinkled her nose, trying to shake the moody weight of all those questions. It was Dad’s time and she wouldn’t ruin it by acting like a silly girl.

  “School. Homework. I think my chem teacher hates me.”

  He flicked the blinker on and turned left down a gravel road. Rocks pinged like a symphony against the bumper.

  He laughed and again it was really good to hear that sound. She’d almost forgotten how infectious his laugh could be.

  “So, lots of detention this year again you think?”

  Flint rolled her eyes. “Gah, I hope not. I wasn’t even talking. I was just staring at a...”

  Twitching, heart going nuts, she clamped her mouth shut, realizing what she’d almost admitted.

  But her father wasn’t dumb; he figured it out in less than a second. “A guy?”

  Flint wiggled on the leather seat, hauling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms under her thighs. “Dad, I really don’t want to...”

  He held up a hand. “I know, I’m your dad. It’s not cool to talk about boys with me.” He sighed and she gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “Your mom was so much better at this than me, but you know. Be safe. Okay?”

  “Oh my God, Dad, seriously!” A hot trickle ran down Flint’s spine as heat spread through her belly. “I so don’t want to have this conversation.”

  He frowned. “Just promise me, Flint. We can’t have any babies right now.”

  She groaned, hiding her flaming face against her knees.

  “I do a crappy enough job taking care of you. We can’t have another human being to be responsible for.”

  “Dad!”

  “Just promise, honey.” His voice dropped to a sad whisper.

  It took everything she had to return his sincere gaze.

  She’d never even been kissed. Sex was so beyond the realm of possibility at this point. It wasn’t like she even knew anyone she’d want to lose her virginity to. Then a pair of dark shades and a body built like an NFL lineman popped into her head, calling her a liar. She nodded as her heart pounded. “I promise.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he stared back at the road. “Good. That’s good.”

  Wishing she had some bleach to scrub the past ten seconds from her brain, she contented herself with gazing out the window. Her eyes widened as it finally dawned on her that they were here. Or at least at the entrance of the circus.

  Though it was nothing like what she’d expected.

  She’d been looking for a red-and-white-striped tent, half-drunken clowns parading around their trailers, and the yip-yapping of house dogs.

  A large, black-spiraled gate loomed like a specter before them. The carnival was completely enclosed, set within the massive field. Black and dark red tents lifted like steeples above the gate. A wooden sign read:

  Welcome to Carnival Diabolique

  The words looked like they’d been clawed into the wood and then painted over in black.

  The wrought-iron Gothic framework opened on soundless hinges.

  “Wow, this is different,” her dad muttered before slowly creeping inside.

  “Where’re the people?” Flint stared out the window in open-mouthed wonder as the enormous scope of the place revealed itself to them.

  A giant tent took up the center of the massive square. It loomed like a giant, drawing the eye and making her muscles tense with something sort of like shock. A spiderweb network of smaller tents surrounded it.

  There were a couple of rides, one that might have been a carousel, but instead of horses there were wolves, bats, and something that even resembled a serpentine dragon with its golden scales and sharp-toothed mouth open in a silent scream.

  Flint could clearly make out the cages of a Ferris wheel and a spacecraft-looking shape. None of the lights were on, and more than that—apart from the carousel—they weren’t even colorful. Everything looked painted black. But instead of it being flat and dull, this black gleamed like obsidian in flame. There was a rich sparkle to the scene as their headlights bounced off the shapes.

  Silver-bullet trailers sat at the fringes of the clearing—lights off, looking empty and devoid of life. Just like everything else around here.

  Flint shivered as a terrible sense of foreboding crashed into her. “Dad, this place is—”

  “Creepy, huh?” A frown furrowed his thick brows. “Yeah.”

  He parked the truck in front of the only building that was lit, cutting the lights. His rabbit’s-foot key chain jangled as he bounced his foot on the floorboard.

  Flint unlocked her seat belt, twisting to stare out the back window. “It doesn’t even look like it’s been run in a while. Where’re the customers? The performers?”

  Scrubbing a hand down his smooth jaw, his brown-eyed stare was wide. “Should we go? Too much?”

  He was asking. But she could hear the desire still trembling in his words. He’d leave if she asked him to, she knew that. “Are you sure your meeting was today? Maybe they said tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m sure they said today.”

  Shadows flexed and swayed between the trailers, a sudden stirring of movement that made her stomach drop to her knees. This place was just creepy. The circuses they’d worked at before were always obscenely colorful. As if they felt the need to scream, “We’re a circus!” This was dark, and dangerous, and mysterious.

  Words that’d been running through her mind all day.

  Flint jerked her head. “No, we should go look, Dad. There’s probably someone in there.” She pointed at the lit metal frame in front of them.

  Something thrilling and exciting coursed through her veins. The unknown. There’d been a time in her not-too-distant past when she’d thrived on the heady rush of adrenaline. It was still in there, that desperate desire to skate the fine line between life and death, never knowing which side of the coin she’d land on.

  Since Mom’s death, she’d tamped it down, but now the seedling of that need stirred a tendril of longing that gave her feet wings. She opened the door and hopped out.

  Dad grinned, grabbed the keys, and followed her up the rickety wooden steps.

  Pulse hammering, she looked around. The light shining like a beacon inside the quiet, humming office was the only sound of life around. Gripping the base of her skull as it tightened with a ball of tension, she knocked on the door.

  Somewhere an owl hooted, and the wind whistled so loudly through the trees the branches shook.

  Cold sweat dotted her upper lip. Suddenly her need to be reckless paled in comparison to the need to get back in the truck and drive as far and fast away as possible. This didn’t feel right.

  A bird called and she stiffened as the quiet buzz of energy filled her limbs. Someone was watching her.

  Them.

  Flint glanced over her shoulder. Dad had his arms crossed, a sure sign he felt the same sense of unease she did.

  Blackened trailer windows were the only things she saw. Like vacant eyes in silver faces.

  “Do you think we should...”

  Whatever her dad might have said died the moment the door swung open and the hottest man she’d ever seen stepped up to the door. He looked her dad’s age, late thirties. Early forties, maybe. His hair was dark and lightly dusted with shades of silvery gray at the corners. Stubble dotted his cheeks and jaw, forcing the eyes to the full lips and harsh planes of his razor-blade cheekbones. But it was his eyes that really captivated Flint—they were the bluest depths of an ocean, almost black, and at their centers, molten swirls of silver light danced within. Where had he gotten those contacts?

  He was gorgeous.

  And intimidating.

  A long jagged scar cut a path from the corner of his right eye, narrowing down to a fine point at the edge of his lip.

  He was also huge.

  His body was as big as Cain’s. Bigge
r even. He wore a black shirt tapered and cut to his frame, revealing the impossibly thick expanse of burnished biceps.

  “Holy sh—”

  “Flint, we don’t talk like that,” her father hissed. And she knew he’d been standing in awe of the behemoth himself.

  Whoever the man was, he commanded attention.

  After brushing his right hand on his pants, her father held it out. “Hi, I’m Frank DeLuca. I called about the flier position that was available.”

  The man stared at the hand for a while, and Flint shifted on the balls of her feet. Was he really just going to leave her dad hanging? Fire burned in the pit of her gut. Big or no, she had to bite her tongue just to keep from giving him a piece of her mind.

  “Are you Adam?” Her father tried again, and she was proud that his voice didn’t waver despite his nervousness. She knew he was tense by the way he kept flicking the rabbit’s foot around and around on his finger.

  Finally the giant nodded and clapped hands with her father, a powerful movement that nearly made her dad lose his balance. He wasn’t a big man—fliers normally weren’t. But he was strong and Flint couldn’t help but wince at the way Adam flung her dad around like he was little more than a gnat.

  “Come on in.” His voice was cordial, deep, and smooth, and made Flint’s body rush with a flood of tingles.

  What was in the water out here? First Cain, now Adam. Even Abel had a nice quality to his voice.

  Adam was obviously trying to be less intimidating, choosing to sit behind his desk and gesturing for them to sit also. But Flint really just wanted to go. This was a super hugely bad idea.

  Her dad smiled, taking a seat and dragging Flint down next to him. He tossed the advertisement from the paper onto the desk and proudly pointed to his chest, in full salesperson mode now.

  “I’m the best catcher around. I’ve been doing it for over fifteen years. I know my way around the wires—rigging isn’t a problem. I can set up and take down...”

  Flint stared at the dark teal carpet, toeing it with her foot and nibbling on the edge of her thumbnail. She should have told him not to talk too much, to take deep breaths during his sales pitch, but she hadn’t and her stomach kept sinking lower and lower as her father continued to nervously chatter.