Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
The feed she set up. The fresh pic of Bryant and me is the only thing on it. I furrow my brow. “Right. That was the point,” I say, like it’s obvious.
She smiles, far too Mona Lisa-style for my taste. “Score’s tied, grump. I’ve got a pic of you on social, and I didn’t even have to take you anywhere to get one of your favorite things. Also, it’s a real favorite thing,” she says with the most confident, winning smile I’ve seen—one that sends heat roaring through my body. It’s annoying, my attraction to her. So annoying I don’t even have a comeback.
But she does. She waves, then says, “By the way, see you at the circus in Vegas. We’re catching an early flight before the team.”
Damn her. She’s good. No, she’s better than good. “Is it Cirque du Soleil?” I ask. I haven’t seen it, but if Asher likes it, maybe I can stomach going.
She sears me with a look. “In your dreams.”
But my dreams last night involved her spreading her legs on a trapeze so she might be right.
13
SWEET TORTURE
Max
“Welcome to the Most Spectacular Little Circus in Vegas.” A short white dude sporting a twirly mustache and a top hat waves grandly to the big top he stands under.
Or, really, the little top.
Everly found a tiny shoestring circus on the outskirts of Vegas to take me to. She’s an evil genius. She is Einstein-ian in her makeover planning, since I’m sitting on the cramped metal bleachers with my knees in my eyes.
This woman lives to torture me.
“I’m your ringmaster—Victor Valenti. Prepare to be dazzled by feats of wonder and magic, where reality blurs with illusion and dreams come to life before your very eyes,” the ringmaster booms, his voice echoing throughout the tiny tent. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy in the early afternoon.
The crowd of maybe one hundred erupts into cheers. Everly sits beside me, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing when she suggested we visit this circus. But as much as I want to be annoyed by her cunning ways, I’m too damn impressed. There’s no room for a six-foot-four guy here, and this was a brilliant way to make me suffer. She’s so beautifully mean, and since she expects nothing less than ire from me, I mutter, “These seats are smaller than coach.”
She arches a brow, whispering, “And you would know how?”
That’s fair. “True. I haven’t flown coach in years.”
“So you’re not really suffering much then, are you?”
I harumph. She’s got me on that too. Still, I counter with, “Define suffering.”
As the ringmaster waxes on about the death-defying acts we’ll soon witness, she levels me with a stare that’s as sexy as it is withering. “This,” she says, gesturing to her face. “This is suffering right now.”
I smirk. “Good.”
“I had a feeling you’d like it.”
“Just like you enjoy my pain,” I toss back.
She pats my thigh. “It gets better. I promise.”
I glance down at her hand on the denim on my leg. Well, that is better, truth be told. My body sizzles under her touch, even though it’s irritating, this reaction to her. But it’s especially irritating when she takes her hand away and I miss it.
How can one person wind me up and annoyingly turn me on at the same time? That’s the real feat of wonder and mystery—that the woman next to me in the snug blue button-up blouse with short sleeves that show off toned arms is vexing me every single second.
With a swish of her trademark ponytail, Everly turns her gaze back to the man in the center of the stage as he says, “And now, the Amazing Valentis.”
The lights dim, casting a hush over the crowd. We’re wedged in next to the rest of the audience. A spotlight illuminates the center ring all the way to the top of the tent, where a trapeze drops down. A woman, clad in sparkling purple sequins and white feathers that catch the light, has one knee hooked over the bar. The rest of her hangs gracefully upside down. She rocks gently, then quickly as another trapeze drops down. A man hangs from the bar, swinging toward her, and soon he reaches her.
She grabs his hands and he catches her so she’s sailing under him.
Everly gasps. Gone is the sassy woman who needles me better than an acupuncturist. In its place is a woman awed by each death-defying move of a pair of trapeze artists. They execute them perfectly, then land on a mat, sticking their arms straight up in the air.
Everly claps loudly, looking like she wants to jump to her feet to give them a standing ovation.
The ringmaster introduces the next act—a juggler who tosses flaming batons high into the air. As he throws higher and higher, I lean closer to my companion, my shoulder bumping hers. “So you’re a closet circus fan. I get it now, Rosewood.”