by London James
"Come on, Prince Charming. You're not going to make the damsel in distress rescue you, are you?" I tease playfully.
He stretches his neck to either side in preparation, braces himself, and runs into the spinning tunnel. The center portion catches his feet, and he stumbles slightly. There's a brief moment when I'm concerned I'll have a Lost Sock tumble dryer situation before he regains control. He throws himself out and lands beside me.
"Nothing but nailing it," he says.
"Yeah, that was smooth," I tell him. "How do we get out of here?"
"Aren't you having fun?" he asks. I laugh, and he grins at me. "There's another staircase. Let's find out what's up at the top."
His eyes sparkle as he eases past me and starts up the stairs. They’re even tighter than the first, but they lack the splatters. It seems whoever designed the Fun House gave up on the psychosis theme partway through. We reach the top of the stairs and find another attendant perched on a stool, staring down at his phone as he flips through social media.
"Lie flat on your back, cross your arms over your chest, enjoy the slide," he mutters in monotone without lifting his eyes.
"Winning points for your future career," Owen says, stepping up to the slide. He glances back at me. "See you at the bottom, Damsel."
Like a good listener, he sits down and crosses his arms over his chest mummy-style before slinging himself backward. The movement rockets him down the enclosed inflatable slide, and he's out of sight in an instant. All I hear is his delighted cheer as he slides, then a soft thud.
"Are you okay?" the attendant calls down the slide.
My eyes lock on his blue-striped hair, and the one hoop earring threaded precariously close to the edge of his lobe.
"What would happen if he wasn't okay?" I ask.
A bloodshot gaze replaces the earlobe. He pats the walkie-talkie on his hip seriously.
"Your turn!" Owen's voice comes up to me, muffled by the inflatable tube.
I sit at the entrance of the slide and toss myself backward the way Owen had, not thinking about the second instruction and leaving my arms by my sides. A few feet later, my body skids to a stop.
Chapter Fourteen
Avery
The top of the slide several inches above me is solid red, but a panel of thick clear plastic creates a window in the wall beside me. Owen's face pops into it, his hands pressed against the plastic on either side like he's staring into an aquarium.
"What are you doing?" he says.
"Nothing, apparently," I say. "I stopped sliding."
"Your arms aren’t crossed," he points out.
I slap my hands to my shoulders but don't move.
"It didn't help," I say.
"Having your arms crossed isn't magic."
I start bouncing, trying to propel myself down the slide.
"Ma'am, please don't do that. I don't know if the slide can take it," the sullen teenager drawls from above me.
My head snaps back to look at him.
"Did you just call me fat?" I look sharply at Owen. "I think he just called me fat."
"He didn't call you fat," Owen reassures me. I bounce again, gaining another couple of feet, but my apparent inability to operate an inflatable slide properly keeps me stuck in the tube. "Hold on. Give me just a minute."
He disappears from the window.
"Where are you going? Give you a minute for what?" I shout after him.
In the recesses of the Fun House, I hear heavy footsteps and some muffled profanity I can only imagine is Owen running up the stairs and getting nearly taken out by the spinning tunnel. His footsteps hit the landing.
"You have to wait until she's out of there," the attendant says.
Owen doesn't respond, and I get a nervous feeling in my chest.
"What are you doing?" I call up.
"Rescuing the damsel," Owen says.
The sound of his body slipping down the plastic material makes me shift out of the way, but not enough to stop him from colliding with me. Strong arms scoop me up, and I find my face buried against the side of his neck as we shoot down the slide. I dislodge from him just in time to hit the blue mat at the bottom, and we land in a tangled heap.
Owen's body crushes down on mine, his mouth close enough to my lips to feel his breath on them. His slow exhale slipping between them ends our laughter. My breath deepens, but his weight pressing down on me stops my lungs from expanding enough.
"Your arms weren't crossed," I whisper.
"Extenuating circumstances."
The tip of his nose brushes mine, but as he dips his head slightly closer, the attendant comes rushing around the side of the temporary building. His walkie-talkie crackles as he frantically speaks into it and Owen and I scramble to our feet.
"Just stay down," the attendant commands. "Help is on the way."
"We really don't need any help," I say. "We're fine."
"That's what the pad is for," Owen points out. "No need to call in the cavalry."
We rush away from the Fun House before he can tackle us and force us to wait for official festival emergency services to arrive.
"My turn next," I say. "You picked that, and I'm going to choose…" I let the word trail off as I look around. A grin curves my lips when I see it. "That."
Taking off before Owen can answer, I head directly for the Wild Mouse roller coaster. Time slips away, and even though I know I should be back at the table with Seb and Skylar, the draw toward Owen is getting stronger. The curiosity between us keeps growing—every moment I want to know what's coming next, and I can't find an instant to pull away from him.
An hour later, we're strolling along the edge of the green eating pieces of the enormous cotton candy cone I'm carrying, when Owen takes hold of my elbow.
"My turn," he says. He gives a slight nod to the side, and I see a sign.
"The Hall of Mirrors?" I ask incredulously. "I just brought us through what looked like the sex dungeon of a former high school cheerleader with a daddy complex who turned goth for attention and bought all her supplies at a Halloween store, and you're going to follow that up with the Hall of Mirrors?"
"The Haunted House ride-through was kind of amazing," Owen agrees. "I'm fairly certain someone was hiding at the end of the track pulling that little mine cart thing we were in by a rope. But this"—he guides me toward the black curtains hanging beside the sign—"this is a classic carnival attraction."
We push through the curtains and into the almost uncomfortably bright space. Created from a trailer hidden behind a huge picture backdrop and a small stage set up for live bands tonight, the Hall of Mirrors is vibrantly lit and crammed full of mirrors in various heights and shapes.
"See? Empty. No one wants to stuff themselves with carnival food and then be confronted with thirty-seven reflections of themselves," I say.
"Says the woman whose caramel apples should have their own wing at rehab centers."
"Awwww," I say. "Thank you."
"It's not a compliment. Just pointing out reality. Your apples thaw the cold, frozen heart of that blogger jerk," Owen says.
He steps in front of one of the mirrors and suddenly looks like he's made of putty and people are playing tug-of-war with him.
"You talked to GPS?" I ask.
"Not voluntarily."
"What did he say?" I ask nervously.
Owen shakes his head. "No. None of that. We're not here to think about Hometown Bed And Breakfast or Road Map."
"GPS," I correct.
"No. Consumer access to GPS technology was a very cool technological breakthrough, and he doesn't deserve it."
"Fair enough," I say.
"Right. So, we're here to have fun. Not think about any of that shit. Just cotton candy and terrible rides and mirrors unsuitable for those with mental instabilities."
I smile and step in front of one of the mirrors. The rippled shape is like an old wavy playground slide and makes me look like I'm being put through a pasta roller. Moving to the side,
I watch my head expand while the rest of my body almost disappears. Behind me, Owen laughs at whatever the warped mirror is showing him, and I step in front of the next.
"Ugh," I say, twisting side to side to look at myself from as many angles as possible. "Maybe I should buddy up with Skylar for my Halloween costume this year. If she's a dime, I could be a half-dollar."
Owen steps up beside me and glances in the mirror.
"Worth every cent," he says. The back of his hand pops against my ass in a playful spank, but the sensation that rolls through me is anything but silly. My gasp brings his gaze back into the mirror, and our eyes meet.
"Oh," I murmur.
"I'm sorry," he says. "That was... I shouldn't have…"
I shake my head.
"It's fine," I tell him softly.
Owen steps up behind me and touches my hand. There's barely any pressure behind his fingertips, but the touch guides me to turn around. One step brings him to within inches of me, and another presses me back against the mirror. The tip of his nose touches mine again. Our breath is heavy between us, and the electricity buzzing around us could spark a fire. His lips ease toward me.
This is it.
The last instant before I'll know what it's like to kiss Owen, to know what he tastes like with cotton candy on his lips and an afternoon of laughter on his tongue. I wish I could crystallize it. There's no way to know what's going to happen with that kiss, and if I could save this moment, I'd be able to savor the thrill of anticipation and desire dancing along my skin and the burn of his eyes into mine before they slowly close.
Our mouths meet, and I melt into him.
Nope. Forget the crystallizing. This is so much better than the anticipation.
Owen tastes sweet and warm. My fingers dig into his hair, and his hands slide around my waist as his arms wrap firmly around me. Our bodies crush together as our mouths move hungrily across each other. Far too soon, obnoxious voices and loud footsteps on the three metal steps leading up into the trailer pull us apart.
"I hate teenagers," Owen mutters into my hair.
Laughing, I nod. "They do have fantastic timing," I say.
"Come on."
He takes my hand and leads me out of the other end of the trailer where a doorway cut into the metal features the same black curtains as the entrance. Owen doesn't let go when we get back outside. Our fingers link loosely between us as we walk and he starts to pull me closer, but I notice a sudden strange look on his face.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
He points across the green toward another cluster of attractions. "It looks like something's going on over at the Ferris wheel," he says.
Following his gesture, I notice a crowd forming at the base of the glittering ride. The sun is setting, and the colorful lights around the wheel shine down on far too many people to be the line for a twirl in one of the large white buckets.
"Do you think everything's okay?" I ask.
"Let's go find out."
We hurry toward the crowd, and I see Ann from Hometown Bed And Breakfast.
"What's going on?" I ask.
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. I can't help but notice her lips twitching like she's trying not to let herself smile.
"I'm not sure," she says. "The story is someone is up on the Ferris wheel, and they aren't moving."
"Aren't moving?" Owen asks.
Ann nods. "Apparently someone on the ride called someone in the crowd because they saw the person in the bucket in front of them slump down. It's been spreading through the festival."
Owen and I look at each other, and he immediately begins pushing his way through the crowd, forming enough of a path for me to follow behind him. My heart pounds in my chest, and a sick feeling rolls through my stomach.
Could it be Sebastian or Skylar? Maybe all the apples sold out, and they decided to celebrate. I told Seb not to eat the ones with green ribbon because they have sesame seeds on them, and he is allergic to sesame seeds.
We make our way to the front of the crowd and step up to the gate. I notice a few people looking at Owen and wonder if any of them recognize him. As soon as that thought goes through my mind, a woman with smooth skin the color of espresso with just a splash of cream looks up at him. She's gripping a tall, thin man who is in all cream beside her with one hand, and the other lifts to point at Owen.
"You're that guy," she says. "I've seen you in magazines."
"Owen," he says, extending his hand to her.
She shakes her head. "No, that's not what they…" she gasps. "You're the prince."
"I am. It's nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you! I'm Julie. This is my husband, Andrew. I can't believe you're here in Vidalia Isle. What brings you out to this neck of the bay?"
Owen glances over at me. "Visiting my old friend," he tells her.
I lean forward enough to look at her. "Hi," I say.
"You're Avery, right?" Julie asks. "You run Hometown Bed And Breakfast."
I nod. "Yes." The realization hits me. "Your wedding guests stayed with me. I remember."
"It's nice to see you again."
"You, too." The exchange feels strange in the context, and I bring the conversation back to the situation at hand. "Do you have any idea what's going on here?"
She leans in conspiratorially.
"I heard someone on the ride passed out," she says. "Andrew and I were already here ready to take our romantic ride. We were hoping the operator would stop us right up there at the top so we could feel like we were kissing amongst the stars."
She sighs.
And bringing it back again. "What happened?" I ask.
"Someone called someone else and said they saw the person behind them slump down and were worried."
"Behind them?" Owen says. I look up at him. "Didn't Ann say it was the person in front of them?"
I look back at Julie. "Does anyone know who called?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"No one can nail that down. But someone got in touch with the operator, and he's trying to figure out who it could be."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the wheel bring a bucket to a stop and several people streaming out. It starts up again and another comes by. More festival-goers get off and scurry across the platform to the exit ramp. It seems like the call was a hoax until the next bucket slides to a stop in front of us.
"Oh, shit," I whisper.
"Is that…" Owen asks.
I nod. I'd know that red face and the terrible gold corduroy pants he's worn three times already anywhere.
"Mr. Mercer," I tell him.
There's no mistaking it—the man slumped on the bench in the bucket is GPS, and my attention quickly goes to what he's gripping in the hand rested on one thigh. I'd know that anywhere, too.
One of my caramel apples.
Chapter Fifteen
Owen
A woman rushes forward out of the crowd and climbs into the bucket with Mr. Mercer. It’s like watching a movie as she presses her fingertips to the side of his neck, then leans in so her ear is close to his nose and mouth. Her head shaking isn’t an optimistic sign.
“He’s dead,” she says.
A gasp ripples through the crowd around us, and Avery’s hand tightens around mine.
“Do you see what he’s holding?” she mutters loud enough for me to hear her but hoping no one else around us will notice.
“A caramel apple,” I say, looking down at her.
“Do you think it has anything to do with…”
“Killing him?” I ask. “No. He’s eaten his weight of those apples in the last week, so you know he’s not allergic to them.”
“There are a couple bites taken out of it. Maybe he choked,” she says.
“Look at the way he’s sitting. He’s not exactly perky, but choking isn’t a graceful death. If he’d taken himself out with a bite of that apple, he wouldn’t still be holding it,” I reassure her.
I’m trying to comfort Av
ery, but it seems the idea of a death at a Halloween-time festival is too much for the crowd to ignore. Whispers have already started, and the occasional gasp tells me the story is getting more exciting as it heads toward the back of the gathering of people around the Ferris wheel. There’s no telling what it’s going to be by the time it spreads out beyond the village green and to the rest of the people at the festival.
“Everyone please, just stay calm,” the doctor says, holding her hands out over the crowd like she’s delivering a sermon. “There’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“He’s dead!” a voice shouts from behind me.
“It’s not very encouraging that our doctor doesn’t think a man dying is something to get worked up about,” someone else says.
We’re rapidly sliding toward a mob situation, but the doctor stays calm and maintains her control. “Of course, a death is significant,” she says. “But there are no signs of trauma, and his position indicates to me, at least in my initial evaluation of him, that death occurred quickly. He didn’t even put down the caramel apple he was eating.”
“Oh, good gracious. She mentioned my apple,” Avery says, cringing.
“What do you think happened to him?” someone asks.
“I obviously can’t say for sure until I’ve had the opportunity to perform a full examination and an autopsy,” the doctor says carefully.
“Your personal opinion?”
The voice suddenly beside me sounds familiar, and I look over to see Ann, my fellow Guest House guest, pressing close to the crowd-control barrier around the edge of the ride. She’s staring up at the doctor with wide, anticipation-filled eyes.
“Without any further information than what I have right here, I’d go with heart attack,” the doctor says. “The suddenness of the death combined with his physical condition and statistical health risks are classic indicators of that type of event.”
I lean toward Avery. “That’s calling someone fat,” I point out.