“There he is, ladies and gentleman! 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 the leather jacket man prowling in my direction. The leather jacket is gone, leaving only a black tank top with open sides, allowing 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 the cage, revealing a trap door. They file inside, Sebastian being the last one to enter, and then the door is closed, locking 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. I hear 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 go horizontal.
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 over.
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 backwards 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. “Nice try. Let’s go.” He shoves his meaty palm between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.
“She’s with me.” I’ve never heard the voice before, but somehow, I know it’s Sebastian speaking. It’s authoritative and intimidating without having to yell.
Silence fills the tent, and everyone’s eyes are on the 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 I shake off the guard’s 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 and then enters the cage behind me. He jerks his chin to one of the other stuntmen, and he follows suit.
Pride wounded and resentment written all over his 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 an
d 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.
“Evan,” I say, giving him the nickname my parents refuse to use. My full name sounds 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 the guy, “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 that all I can make out are 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.
Rewrite the Stars is coming this fall! Add it to your TBR here
Charleigh Rose lives in Narnia with her husband and two young children. She’s hopelessly devoted to unconventional love and pizza. When she isn’t reading or mom-ing, she’s writing moody, broody, swoony romance.
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