Forbidden, Tempted Series (Book 1) (5 page)

Adam cocked his head and she was pretty sure that she amused him. Her fingers dug into the faded blue cushioned armrests, Italian blood demanding she smack the smirk off his face.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who isn’t planning on signing on.”

Her father threw his arm in front of her as if shielding her from Adam. “I’d appreciate if you keep your sarcasm away from my daughter. We’ve done nothing to you, and she’s simply asking an honest question.”

Score one for Dad. He was so getting a kiss on the cheek when they left this freaking place. Heart a little warm and fuzzy, she smirked back at Adam, raising a brow.

Adam only nodded. “Apologies.”

And even though he’d apologized, Flint could not escape the thought that before them sat a predator. One who might be dressed in nice clothes and speak with manners, but that was just a mask hiding the true face beneath.

“They’re resting.” Adam looked back at her, those enchanting blue eyes weaving a sick spell over her yet again.

It was a struggle to rip her gaze away, and she felt like she was a charmed cobra, helpless to the pull and sway of those greedy eyes.

Flint kept her eyes firmly glued to a small bowl of orange slices on the corner of his desk.

“Are you the ringmaster, then?” her dad asked.

“No, my son is.”

Son? Forgetting why she shouldn’t look at Adam, her eyes rocketed back to his, only to note they were narrowed and shrewdly studying her.

Heart thumping chaotically, she forced her gaze back down, nails clawing grooves into the armrests now. Just because he reminded her of Cain didn’t mean he was Cain’s father.

True, he looked like the son of Satan, and Cain seemed built from the same stock. But the odds of that were astronomical.

“I can start tomorrow. Tonight, even,” her father said, the excitement creeping back into his voice.

Nerves, weirdness, none of that mattered to her dad. Flying was like crack for him. He was close to getting his next hit, and it would take an act of God to make him walk away now. Truthfully, Flint was surprised he’d gone a year without it.

“I never said you were hired.”

Flint bit her tongue, sparing a glance for her dad. His shoulders were slumped and his smile frozen in place.

“Oh.”

“I need to see what you can do before I decide. Then I’ll see what my staff thinks. But first...”

The door swung open, sending in a welcoming breeze. Flint turned and her eyes grew wide as the last face she expected popped inside.

Janet was waving and smiling madly. Her warm brown eyes were a welcome relief.

“Janet,” she cried as the petite Asian threw herself into Flint, giving her a quick hug. “Hey.”

It wasn’t strange at all that she barely knew Janet, had only met her this afternoon at lunch—or that that meeting had at times been totally weird—seeing her now was like a balm to her frayed nerves. She hugged her back and then laughed when she noticed the pink tutu around the girl’s slim hips.

Flint lifted a brow. “You part of the circus too?”

“Yep.”

“Out!” Adam boomed, making Flint jump because she’d briefly forgotten all about his presence. “I’ve business to discuss. Janet, out.” He pointed to the door.

But his words weren’t sharp or cruel, or even remotely sarcastic. He spoke to her with an edge of something that sounded suspiciously like fondness. With a sloppy salute, Janet grabbed Flint’s wrist and dragged her to the door.

“Dad, I’ll be—”

“With your friend.” Her dad winked and Flint squealed when Janet slammed the door shut behind them.

“Oh my gosh, thank you! You saved my butt. I don’t think I could have taken another second around the devil’s spawn.” Flint chuckled, feeling some of the curling tension in her gut begin to unwind.

“Adam can be pretty intense sometimes, but he’s all right. His bark is worse than his bite.”

Flint threw a parting glance over her shoulder at the office beginning to fade from sight. “You sure, because there didn’t seem to be anything remotely warm and fuzzy about him.”

Janet jogged toward the huge tent in the center of the grounds. The one that’d caught Flint’s eye earlier.

“I didn’t know you were a carney too.” Janet still hadn’t released her grip on Flint’s wrist—a surprisingly strong grip for someone who probably only weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Umm, I’m not.”

“Oh,” Janet said, sounding like someone had burst her bubble.

“Well, I was. But not anymore.”

“Oh!” The light gleamed bright in her eyes again. “So cool. Someone who knows the life of a circus freak.”

“Well, you hardly look like a freak.” She eyed the svelte, raven-haired beauty. The pink tutu looked completely garish, but perfect, on her. It paired nicely with the white leotard and spotted animal-print stockings.

“Oh, but I am. My parents came here from Japan. We’re contortionists. Oh, and then there’s Rhi. Rhiannon”—she waved her hand—“though she prefers Rhi. Anyway, she works here too.”

Janet pushed back the heavy black flap of the tent and the smell of hay and dirt smacked Flint in the face, the scents and sights of the big top so familiar they brought a small pang to her chest.

She remembered warm-ups, the excitement of watching the crowd trickle in, the pull of her muscles as she twirled and dived, maneuvering through the air like a bird with no wings. It’d been fun.

Smiling, she looked around, floored by the scope of the place. It was easily twice the size of any tent she’d ever worked under before. Blue lights added a ghostly ambiance. Black chairs—seats folded up—surrounded the entire length of the center circle.

It might be bigger, but it wasn’t all that different when it came down to it. Muscle memory had made Flint one of the best and most fearless. She bet if she tried, she could do it again without too much effort.

“Isn’t this place awesome?” Janet looked around as if she were trying to see it the same way Flint did. For the first time.

“Yeah.” Flint shoved her hands into her pockets. “It’s huge. And awesome. Wow, so you’re a carney, huh? I would have never pegged you.” Flint unlocked one of the seats and sat.

Janet shrugged. “Not like we wear a tattoo or something. I had no idea you did stuff either. What did you do by the way?”

“Lots of things. I grew up in this.” She flicked her wrist. “But mostly I did walking and flying, and every once in a while I’d juggle knives. I was being groomed to sword swallow, but my gag reflex couldn’t really handle that.”

Janet’s eyes widened. “You did all that? Do you know how impossible that is? I mean all that stuff take years to master. Who trained you?”

When she put it that way, maybe it was sort of impressive, though Flint had never thought of it like that. “Mom was a walker and Dad a flier. My best friend Evan—a retired Vietnam vet who occasionally moonlighted as a clown for birthday parties and a sword man at night—trained me in knives. Which totally pissed Mom off, but I loved it.” She chuckled, remembering all the times her mother would wail that her poor daughter would lose an eye one day. Her smile slipped, because it hadn’t been her to get hurt first.

Shaking away the gloomy thought, she struggled to remember what she’d been saying. “Every... every other day I’d work with one and then the next day the other. And then at night I’d play with knives. Mom always said it was amazing how well I picked up everything, but from the moment I started walking they were all training me.” She shrugged. “So I never realized it was weird or different until later. When others told me.”

Janet’s grin was huge. “I so wanna see that.”

“Oh, well. It’s been... a while. I’m probably pretty rusty now.” Though not as rusty as her father might think. Flint hadn’t given up the arts completely; she just didn’t want to do it in front of a thousand eyes anymore.

Janet cocked her head, a look of concentration on her face. Frowning, Flint tried to listen, hearing nothing but the eerie hum of the generators.

“Rhi’s calling for me. I’ll be back—you stay here. I wanna see you walk, ’kay?”

Flint frowned. She hadn’t heard a sound or a word. Janet bounded down the steps, running through the ring and then exiting through the curtained tunnel.

Drumming her fingers on her leg, she stared at the cable rigging fifty feet above her head. She had done lots of tumbling at her last high school, but she hadn’t walked in forever. What if she couldn’t do it anymore?

Twitchy, overcome with the queasy anticipation of walking, she stood. It really wasn’t safe to walk without a harness. But she’d gotten so good at it at one point that she’d stopped needing one. Glancing around, she looked to see if anyone was coming. No surprise that she didn’t hear another soul around.

Ignoring her better judgment, eager to feel that thrill again, she walked quickly down to the tower, easily maneuvering her way up to the small platform, proud that her body didn’t tremble or shake with nerves.

There was a net beneath. It looked like braided rope, not something she cared to fall into. It could scrape the skin right off her body, especially if she landed wrong. Which meant she had to do this without falling.

The worst part of walking was the nerves. If she let herself think she was too high, she’d fall. And she’d be lucky if all she did was get a giant bruise on her thigh and butt. Lots of walkers had suffered broken legs, backs, some—like her mom—had even died.

The sport was dangerous, but it was in the blood—a lure that drew the chosen few in like a moths to flame. Was that why she’d worn her walking slippers today? Hoping, maybe, she’d get a chance to walk the rope again?

Flexing her thighs, she slapped them, getting the blood to circulate. The sting of opening her blood vessels only heightened her tension, her desire to do it.

Testing the tensile strength of the rope with her foot, she sighed with relief as she felt it give just slightly. It was perfectly balanced. She didn’t have a balance bar, but she’d been training before Mom’s accident to learn to walk without it.

Her mom had told her once that her skills were superhuman, beyond amazing, which had only made Flint push harder. This had been her passion once too.

The first step was always the hardest. Finding that perfect balance between life and death, upright or falling.

Her calves shook as her toes gripped the black cording. Sweat dotted her brows. Flint threw her arms out to the side and slowly, inch by terrible inch, settled more and more of her weight on the rope. It shook for a moment, making her tighten her abs in response as she went perfectly still and breathed through the first initial step.

When she settled and the rope stopped swaying, she took the next step. Leaving the platform and getting back on the platform, that was the most dangerous part of the entire stunt. That was where a walker lived or died.

The rope shook harder and her heart stuttered, beating wildly in her chest. Forcing herself to reason through the panic that was trying to claw up her throat with desperate fingers, she waited until the wave of vertigo passed before lifting her back foot and stepping forward again.

Somewhere between the fourth and sixth step she found her rhythm. Smiling, she increased her pace just a little. Not jogging, definitely not running, but moving at a brisker stride.

Exhilaration pulsed through her blood like a drug, bringing back all the memories. The roaring of the crowds, the clapping of hands, and the silent hush when she’d performed her trickiest stunt, a backward handspring.

Though she didn’t think she was quite ready for that.

Flint moved, becoming one with the memory of the girl who used to be her.

Alive, and proud, she picked up her pace. Up here she wasn’t a clumsy girl with the hots for a creep who didn’t even know her name. She was Flint DeLuca.

A seriously bad-a walker, who though a year out of the game, still had it.

In the middle of giving herself some major props, she heard a distinctive murmur of voices. Deep and resonating with a scratchy burr.

Flint stilled, gaze frantically dropping to the ground just as the shadows moved into the light, highlighting the dark features of a boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

But the momentary lapse in concentration cost her.

Flint fell.

C
ain slammed Abel’s trailer open. The constant anger inside him buzzed like a disturbed hornet’s nest. “You can’t talk to her anymore.”

He crossed his arms, filling the doorway with his massive frame. He was still unused to the girth of this new body. Two years ago, he’d looked just like Abel.

Abel glared at him. “Flint?” He stressed the name as if daring Cain to deny it. “She’s my friend. And why did you have to act like such a bastard at lunch today? What happened to you, man?” Abel sneered, flicking his pencil down on his bed and making a beeline for the kitchen.

Cain shut the door behind him.

“You used to be cool. Now you always whine and moan about everything.”

“No, I don’t.” Cain gnashed his teeth, fighting to remember that this was his brother. A brother he loved.

A brother who didn’t understand. Didn’t know the truth. But Cain did. Cain knew a lot of things. Like the fact that Flint DeLuca shouldn’t be here.

“You need to stay away from her.” He tried to warn Abel again.

“Why?” Abel yanked on the kitchen door, sending a bottle of ketchup whizzing through the air to land with a dull thud in the tiny sink. “She likes me, and I like her.”

An image of Flint filled Cain’s head. She’d been staring at him all through class, her molten brown eyes studying his face, almost feeling like a warm caress against his skin. Her scent of flowers punched him in the gut, tightening things and driving him insane. He’d ignored her, kept his eyes pasted to the chalkboard, refusing to give in to the sick craving to look back, the agonizing need to stare and imprint her fine-boned face in his memory.

He’d succeeded until the end of class.

Cain had stood in front of her, unleashing the full force of his gaze onto her flesh, knowing she felt the look on a visceral level, deep in her soul. She’d had freckles on her nose, a bow-shaped mouth, and a heart-shaped face.