Page 30 of Carnival Mayhem

“There’s a quiet place on the edge of town,” I say, taking the long way around to avoid the main streets of Easthollow. “Best burgers you’ll ever taste.”

Flora’s eyes dart between buildings and passing cars. “That sounds perfect.”

I pull into Marie’s Diner, a weathered building with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign. Only two other cars occupy the lot. Inside, the smell of coffee and grilled onions fills the air. An elderly waitress leads us to a corner booth far from the windows.

“This okay?” I ask as Flora slides into the vinyl seat.

She nods, but her eyes keep tracking the door. I sit opposite her, positioning myself to watch the entrance.

“You know,” I say in a low and gentle voice. “If anyone tries to bother you, they’ll have to get through me first.”

Her hands shake slightly. “I just... I grew up here. There are people I’d rather not run into.”

The fear in her voice makes my blood boil. I reach across the table, covering her trembling hands with mine. “Angel, look at me.”

She meets my eyes, vulnerability written across her face.

“You’re safe now. With me. With Nash. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.”

The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, but her fingers remain curled tight around the menu. I understand her fear—this town holds her demons. But I’ll be damned if I let them touch her again.

The waitress returns with our menus, and Flora orders a cheeseburger with fries. At the same time, I go for the double stack with extra bacon. After the waitress leaves, Flora leans forward, her hazel eyes searching mine.

“You know, despite spending every moment together this past week, I realize I don’t know much about you,” she says, fidgeting with her straw wrapper. “Where did you come from? How did you end up at the carnival?”

I lean back against the vinyl booth, my shoulder twinging slightly. “Not much to tell, really. Rich dad, absent mom. She...” I pause, the memory still raw after all these years. “She overdosed when I was twelve. Dad shipped me off to military school right after.”

Flora’s hand reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. The simple gesture catches me off guard.

“I got kicked out at sixteen,” I continue, trying to keep my voice steady. “Couldn’t handle the authority, the rigid structure. Ran away before Dad could find out. Found the carnival a few months later, and Tyson gave me a shot.”

Flora’s fingers trace patterns on my hand, her touch gentle and understanding. “And Nash? Was he already there when you joined?”

“Yeah.” I can’t help the small smile that forms. “He’d been with the carnival about two months already. Tyson paired us up almost immediately—said our heights matched perfectly for the aerial act.”

Flora nods, still absently drawing circles on my skin. “You two just... clicked?”

“Not exactly.” I chuckle at the memory. “Nash was this perfectionist who couldn’t stand my military-style counting during routines. We butted heads for weeks until Tyson threatened to separate us. After that, we figured out how to work together.”

The waitress arrives with our food, and Flora withdraws her hand. Steam rises from the perfectly grilled burgers, and the fries smell divine. But my mind is stuck on Nash, on how that initial friction transformed into something deeper.

“He saved my life once,” I say quietly, picking up a fry. “About a year after I joined. I was being reckless on the trapeze, showing off without a net. The rope frayed, and I would’ve fallen if Nash hadn’t caught me. He didn’t speak to me for three days after that—just kept drilling safety protocols into my head during practice.”

“That sounds like him.” Flora smiles, taking a bite of her burger. “Always protective.”

“Yeah.” I roll my shoulder, remembering how he’s fussed over my injury. “That’s Nash.”

I clear my throat, pushing my half-eaten burger aside. “How did you end up in foster care, angel?”

Flora’s hand freezes mid-reach for a fry. Her eyes dart to the exit before settling back on her plate. The question hangs heavy between us.

“My parents...” She takes a shaky breath. “They dropped me off at a care center when I was four. I hardly remember them.”

Her voice cracks. I reach across the table, covering her trembling hand with mine. She pulls her hand away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I spent years bouncing between homes before the Lowleys took me in on a more permanent basis when I was eleven.”

The way she says their name—like it tastes bitter on her tongue—makes my jaw clench. There’s more to that story, but I won’t push. Not here, not now.

“Seven years with them,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. “Seven years until I turned eighteen last week.”

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