Page 10 of Carnival’s Playground

"Told you ten minutes," I announce, standing and offering her a hand up. She takes it without hesitation this time, no sharp comment, no pulling away too fast.

"Don't let it go to your head," she warns, but her voice is warm now, no bite in it at all, and when she looks at me, there's something new there, something that wasn't in her eyes four days ago when we collided outside that carnival sign.

Dutch appears at the tent flap, rain slicking his jacket, shouting something about doors opening in five minutes and needing all hands ready.

"We're ready," I tell him, and I mean it, standing here beside Avery in the flickering orange light, storm crashing outside, machine humming steady between us.

"We are," Avery states, glancing at me, and for the first time since I rode into Grimwood Crossing, the word we doesn't feel forced between us at all.

The first guests start filing through the entrance as thunder rolls overhead, laughter and screams mixing with the storm, and I catch Avery's eye across the haunt walk, both of us grinning like we just won something bigger than a fixed fog machine.

"Partners?" I ask it before I can think better of it, holding out my hand like it's some kind of business deal instead of something that feels a lot more significant than that.

"Partners," she agrees as she accepts, taking my hand, shaking it firm, and doesn't let go quite as fast as either of us probably expects.

Opening night's underway, storm and all, and somewhere between smoking wires and shared relief, Avery and I stopped being rivals and started being something neither of us has a name for yet.

CHAPTER FIVE

AVERY

The rain doesn't let up once the whole night through, and by the time the last guests stumble out laughing and screaming and smelling like popcorn and fear sweat, my boots are soaked clean through to the socks.

"You look like something the storm spit out," Carnival teases, coming up beside me at the prop table where I'm stacking rubber tombstones like they weigh nothing.

"Charming as ever, biker boy." I don't look up, though my mouth wants to smile and I hate that about myself right now. "You should see your own hair. Looks like you stuck your head out a car window doing sixty."

"Motorcycle, actually. Going ninety," he corrects, smirking. The man has no business having a grin like that after a night like this one where we’re all exhausted, soaked, and smelling like fog machine smoke.

Dutch hollers something from across the tent about counting the till and making sure every prop gets covered before the next storm rolls through, because Texas in October apparently can't decide if it wants one bad night or three in a row.

"Radio says more rain's coming," Petey announces as he ambles past, somehow still dry as a bone, which feels like a personal insult after the night I've had.

"Course it is," I mutter, hefting another armload of headstones toward the storage bins we keep near the equipment yard.

Carnival falls into step beside me without asking, taking half the load out of my arms before I can tell him I've got it handled.

"I didn't ask for help," I tell him, though I don't fight him for the tombstones either.

"Didn't say you did," he easily answers, like that settles the matter, and something about how simple he makes it feels dangerous in a way I don't have the energy to examine right now.

We work the tarps together, covering the props against the rain that's already starting to spit again, thunder grumbling somewhere off toward the horizon like it's not quite done with us yet.

"You think the fog machine will hold through tomorrow?" I ask while we're tying down the last corner, rope slick and cold in my fingers.

"Held tonight. Wiring's solid now," Carnival replies, tugging the knot tight, testing it with a firm yank. "As long as nobody runs it nonstop for six hours straight without a break."

"Are you poking fun at my admission?" I raise an eyebrow at him, though there's no real heat in it anymore, not like there was four days ago.

"Observation," he admits, holding his hands up, all innocence, though the corner of his mouth gives him away. "You've got a habit of running things into the ground when you want them perfect."

"I prefer dedicated," I sniff, stepping past him toward the next tarp, though I can't quite bite back the small laugh that escapes.

The equipment yard smells like wet canvas and diesel, generators humming low under their covers, and somewhere in the distance the carnival lights still glow orange and purple against the storm clouds rolling through.

"Watch your step," Carnival says, his voice sharpening suddenly, hand shooting out to catch my elbow before I step directly into a puddle hiding a downed power cable, sparks fizzing weak but present at the connection point.

"Well hell," I freeze, staring at it, heart suddenly loud in my ears. "That's not supposed to do that."