Rewrite the Stars
Charleigh Rose
Copyright © 2018 by Charleigh Rose
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Rewrite the Stars
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Cover Model: Lucas Facchini
Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Preview of Bad Habit
About the Author
THE COOL BREEZE SWIRLS AROUND me, trees swaying in the twilight sky. Blonde strands from my once-perfect Dutch braids lash at my tear-streaked cheek, and the bottom of my tight, white, button-down linen dress flutters against my thighs. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking—must be close to an hour—or where I’m going, but I’m close enough now to realize that the lights I’ve been walking toward belong to a Ferris wheel in the distance. I see big rig trucks and trailers in a dirt lot and big top tents behind them. Harmonized screams come in waves, and the scent of something sweet and cinnamony fills my nostrils.
A carnival. Or maybe a circus. What’s the difference between the two? I’ve never been to anything of the sort, except for my high school’s annual fair for charity. It’s not like my parents would ever be caught dead at this type of thing.
I slow as I approach the hip-height metal gate, not wanting to draw attention from any of the people milling around, but no one seems to notice my presence. The profile of a guy in a black leather jacket catches my attention as he prowls across the patchy grass in front of me. He scratches at the stubble on his sculpted jaw and flicks his cigarette to the ground before he disappears behind a black and white striped tent.
Something flutters to my feet, and I look down to see a piece of yellow paper pressed against my once-white leather tennis shoes that are now coated with dirt. Bending over, I peel it off my ankles, reading the words:
Jessup Brothers Carnival Presents the Sons of Eastlake
Freak Show * Games * Rides * Food * Fun
This weekend only!
Noon-10:00 P.M.
Eastlake. Why does that name sound familiar?
I shouldn’t be here. I left after an argument with my parents got particularly nasty. Insults were slung, and feelings were hurt on both sides. Ignoring the nagging guilt inside my head, my feet move in the direction of Leather Jacket Man. I glance around, making sure no one will see me sneaking in, then swing one leg over the gate. I scurry toward the tent, looking over my shoulder in a way that screams guilty. When I’m finally inside, I’m shocked to see how many people can fit in here. There are rows upon rows of excited spectators of all ages with an aisle in the middle that leads to a giant ball-shaped cage of some sort.
“There he is, ladies and gentlemen! Sexy Sebastian has finally decided to grace us with his presence!” The announcer’s sardonic voice echoes throughout the tent, and the crowd starts to go wild. All eyes swivel to look past me, and when I turn to see what the fuss is about, I find Leather Jacket Man prowling in my direction. The leather jacket is gone, leaving only a black tank top with open sides, allowing for a perfect view of his sculpted stomach. Blazing green eyes roll at the nickname before they flash to mine for half a second. My back straightens under his gaze, and he lifts an eyebrow at me, as if he knows I don’t belong, before breaking the connection.
“Watch the Sons of Eastlake defy gravity in one of the oldest and most dangerous stunts in history!”
He—the one called Sebastian—makes his way toward two other guys on motorcycles, not stopping to acknowledge his fanfare. One of the riders wears a ribbed white undershirt—the kind my dad wears under his button-up shirts—and the other one has on a flannel with the sleeves cut off. The announcer hands Sebastian a helmet right before he gets to a third motorcycle. He nods to the other riders in greeting before securing his helmet and swinging one leg over the black bike.
I slip into one of the few open seats and watch, mesmerized as the lights dim, and “Dragula” starts playing from the speakers—a song my parents would be horrified to know that I like, let alone have heard of. The three riders make their way to the metal cage, and the announcer pushes on it, revealing a trap door. They file inside, Sebastian being the last one to enter, and then the door is closed, shutting them inside.
My foot taps to the catchy beat, shoving all thoughts of my parents to the back of my mind, and my stomach twists with nerves. Sebastian starts rocking back and forth on his motorcycle, the tires effortlessly gliding across the curved floor of the cage in a half-moon pattern. The other riders follow suit, but my eyes are glued to him and him alone, and I suspect the same is true for every other person in the audience. It’s clear he’s the leader, even though he’s done nothing to indicate that. It’s just something that can be felt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the Sons of Eastlake as they take on…the Globe…of…Death!” Well, that’s fitting. Each word from the announcer is drawn out for dramatic effect, and people scream their response.
The riders rev their bikes and it’s almost louder than the music, then Sebastian and the guy in the white shirt take off. They circle the rider in the middle, riding horizontally for a few rotations before he cuts through vertically. The crowd gets louder as they watch them barely miss each other with each loop. I’m literally on the edge of my seat, afraid they’re going to collide at any second, but they’re beyond choreographed, as if it comes as naturally as breathing.
I’m hypnotized by the way they communicate without words or even hand gestures. I can’t imagine the level of trust something like this must take. After a few minutes, all three riders come to a sudden halt at exactly the same time. Disappointed sighs echo throughout the tent, and my shoulders slump, wishing it wasn’t over so soon. But then I hear the sound of another motorcycle, and a fourth rider appears near the entrance behind me. The cage door is dropped open once more, and he rides up through the aisle in the center straight into the ball.
“You guys didn’t think the show was over, did you?” the announcer taunts above the applause as he shuts the cage once more.
My eyes must be as big as dinner plates as I take in the scene made even more intense by the fourth rider. This time, two go vertical—Sebastian and the new guy—while the other two riders circle horizontally.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a rowdy
group of guys to my left, probably around my age, with their feet propped on the chairs in front of them—chairs that are occupied. One laughs as he digs his hand into a middle-aged woman’s bucket of popcorn and throws a fistful at his friend. The friend punches him on the arm, both guys unaware that the lady’s husband has flagged a security guard down.
The security guard walks over to my end of the row before he ducks down into the aisle, trying to get their attention without causing further disruption. When he asks to see their wristbands, I direct my attention back to the show, ignoring the fact that things seem to be getting heated to my left. Suddenly, the guys shove past the security guard before he stumbles backward on top of me, causing us both to fall to the ground.
The security guard yells out before he stands, bringing his radio to his mouth to call for backup. My hip stings from hitting the rough, hard ground with two hundred extra pounds on top of me, but it could be worse. I stand too, using my hands to brush the dirt and gravel off the back of my dress. Four more security guards run in, and the jerks who started the fight raise their hands in surrender. Everyone’s attention is on the commotion now. Even the bikes have stopped.
“Let’s go!” the first security guard shouts, and the boys start moving. “You were just going to get kicked out. Now, you’re going to jail for assaulting a peace officer. You too,” he says, grabbing my upper arm as I try to sit back down.
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I said move it!”
“I don’t even know them!” I try again, pulling my arm from his grasp. He pauses, assessing.
“Yet,” one of the offenders says, wiggling his eyebrows even as he’s being placed in handcuffs.
“Where’s your wristband?” the security guard asks me, eyeing me warily.
Shit.
“It, uh, fell off. Skinny wrists.” I shrug, holding up my arms.
“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it for a second, and places the cuffs around my wrists. “Nice try. Let’s go.” He shoves his meaty palm between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.
“She’s with me.”
Silence fills the tent, everyone’s eyes on Leather Jacket Man. He’s straddling his motorcycle, helmet off, and he’s now holding the announcer’s microphone.
“She’s part of the show,” he explains, and my eyes widen. What?
The security guard doesn’t look convinced, but what can he do? He doesn’t have proof that I snuck in.
“Well, come on, Princess. We don’t have all night. We’ve got a show to do!” His voice has a slight edge to it as if he’s challenging me. My neck and ears feel like they’re on fire, but I swallow my nerves as the guard reluctantly removes the handcuffs. I shake off his grip and slowly put one foot in front of the other as the crowd cheers me on.
Once I’m close, the other riders exit the cage. One of them jerks his helmet off and speaks low so only Sebastian can hear, but I can tell he’s not happy. He cuts his eyes at me and shakes his head before storming off to the side.
Okay, then.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, looking between Sebastian and the aptly named Globe of Death. He extends an arm, motioning for me to step inside. I hesitate, considering bolting instead, but something in me is dying to see what he has planned.
“You better know what the hell you’re doing, Bastian,” the announcer mutters as I cross the threshold. “I don’t need a lawsuit because you want to get your dick wet.”
“First of all,” Sebastian starts, encroaching on the announcer’s personal space. “When have I ever fucked up on my bike? Second, you talk to me like that again and I’m gone. Good luck selling tickets without me.” He slams the mic into the announcer’s chest, then enters the cage behind me. He jerks a chin to one of the other stuntman, and he follows suit.
Pride wounded and resentment written all over his reddened, chubby face, the announcer slams the gate in place, effectively locking the three of us inside. I flinch at the jarring sound of metal clanging against metal, and my heart kicks in my chest. It’s smaller in here than it looked from the outside. There’s maybe a foot of space in between the bikes and me.
“That, uh…sounded final.” I try to joke, but my nerves get in the way. Sebastian props his motorcycle on the kickstand and stands in front of me, those green eyes inspecting. Assessing.
“You scared?” he asks. His voice is low and softer than it was a second ago.
“No.” I scoff, the lie flying off my tongue without a second thought. He arches a disbelieving brow and smirks. His friend chuckles behind me, and I scowl at him over my shoulder. I feel warm fingers on my cheek, gently directing my face back toward him. My breathing turns shallow, and I stare at his chest as I wait for him to drop his hand, but he doesn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asks, tipping my chin with the tips of his fingers so I’ll meet his eyes. Maybe he’s a hypnotist. I mean, this is a carnival. Don’t look him in the eye.
“Evangel—” I start. “Evan,” I correct myself, giving him the nickname my parents refuse to use. Evangeline sounds so uptight and snobby. And so what if I am both of those things? Right now, I don’t want to be that girl.
“I’ve been riding longer than I’ve been walking. I’ve never laid my bike down.”
“Not for lack of trying,” the other guy mutters under his breath.
“And that asshole,” Sebastian says, flicking his chin toward him, “is Eros. I trust him with my life.” His eyes burn into mine, as if they’re trying to force me to believe every word. It must be working, because I do. His hand falls from my face. “Wanna have some fun, Evan?”
A smile stretches across my face, and I nod, feeling both sick and invigorated all at once. Fun. What a foreign concept.
“Atta girl.” He smirks, grabbing the helmet that dangles from his handlebars. “Keep your hands at your sides and stay still.”
“Okay,” I say firmly, nodding. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to block out the noise coming from the audience.
“It helps if you focus on something out there to keep your balance.”
“Spotting,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Like with dance,” I explain once I see the confusion on his face. “You pick a set spot to focus on, so you don’t get dizzy.”
“Right. Just like that. So, what’s your spot?”
I look out at the crowd, their expectant stares trained on us. Their attention makes me nervous, so I look up and lock onto the strands of lights hanging above them.
“The lights,” I say decisively.
“Good choice.” Sebastian surprises me when he lowers the helmet onto my head and fastens it underneath my chin. He pats the top of the helmet before turning for his motorcycle. It’s all matte black and not at all sturdy looking. It looks like it’s seen a few falls, but I push down my fear and decide to trust him—this man I don’t know. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“What about you?” I ask. “You’re the one who needs the helmet.”
Sebastian’s wink is the only answer I get. With the crank of his wrist and the push of his foot, the bike revs then purrs, and the vibration replaces the erratic beating of my heart. The other rider does the same, and they both do that rocking back and forth thing on either side of me.
“You don’t get to see this particular stunt every day, folks! It’s your lucky day. Let’s make some noise for Sebastian, Eros, and their beautiful, daring young victim!” The announcer makes a show of clearing his throat exaggeratedly, and I bristle at his words. “I mean, erm, volunteer!”
Sebastian gives a slight shake of his head, as if to let me know that the announcer is full of it.
It’s all for show. Breathe.
“Hands at your sides and focus on the lights, Princess!” Being called Princess is enough to make me momentarily forget my nerves and glare at him, and the smirk I get in return tells me that was his intention.
The music starts up again, and I’m not sure what the song is, but the bass rumbles through
me, seeming to amp up Sebastian and Eros as well as the crowd. Eros yells excitedly, pumping his fist in the air. They circle me slowly at first, like sharks circling their prey. They watch each other, taking silent cues, then all of a sudden, they’re whipping around me. They’re going so fast all I can make out is Eros’ brown, shoulder-length hair peeking from underneath his helmet and Sebastian’s black shirt in a blur.
Between them whirling around me and the loud music, my equilibrium is thrown, and I feel like I might tip over. I wobble and sway for half a second before I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
The lights. Look at the lights.
I open my eyes, finding the strands of glowing bulbs, surprised to find that it works. As I steady myself, I feel my fear start to morph into exhilaration. They switch from doing horizontal circles around me to an X pattern, crisscrossing diagonally, getting so close that my braids whip in the wind they create. I stand stock-still as goosebumps prick every part of my skin, feeling like I could laugh and scream and cry at the same time. I’ve never felt anything so…thrilling in my boring, closely-monitored and pathetically-regulated life.
All too soon, the music stops, the motorcycles coming to a perfectly-timed halt. The audience roars and the announcer plays his role as a showman, but I don’t hear anything he’s saying over the ringing in my ears. The gate is opened and Eros rides down the ramp and out of the sphere, but Sebastian parks his bike and walks over to me as I rip my helmet off, none too gracefully.
Everything inside me bubbles up, and I drop my head back, laughing like a maniac. Once he’s close enough, I throw my arms around his neck, squealing with the leftover nervous energy coursing through me. He hesitates for a moment before he gives me a one-armed hug in return, his palm coming to rest at the small of my back. His touch catapults me back into reality, and I jump back, embarrassed that I quite literally threw myself at him.
“Thanks…for that,” I say, tucking the wisps of hair that escaped my braids behind my ear. He scowls at me, his expression a mix of confusion and concern, and I don’t know what to make of it. Even his scowl does nothing to take away from his pretty face. Pretty might not be the best way to describe him. His clothes are dingy and faded, his skin streaked with sweat and dirt…but his face. He’s like one of those 1950s heartthrobs from the movies my dad loves. Like a young Marlon Brando.
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