Page 86 of Unholy Union
I laugh again, the sound high-pitched and uncontrolled as it bubbles up from inside.
“Hope you like them,” he says. “Rollercoasters. Because we’re riding them all. I figured this kind of thing was needed. Take advantage of it while it lasts—this is a one-time, let loose and enjoy yourself day, principessa.”
As we fly down the FDR, sunlight glinting off the East River beside us and the warm wind in our hair, I lean back in my seat and do what he says. My smile spreads so wide, my cheeks ache, and I stop asking questions.
I choose to start enjoying myself.
Cato was serious about riding every last rollercoaster Luna Park at Coney Island has to offer.
The second we step out of the car, he's got my hand in his, weaving us past wide-eyed tourists and rosy-cheeked kids licking melting ice cream cones, straight into the nearest souvenir shop.
The air inside smells like sunscreen and money, and the walls are crammed with novelty shirts and beach towels.
He snatches a pair of rhinestone-bedazzled sandals off a rotating rack and waves them at me like they’re some kind of peace treaty.
“Trade me,” he says, already crouching like he’s going to swap them out himself.
I lift a brow but kick off my heels anyway, slipping into the sandals that fit surprisingly well. He grabs my hand again, tugging me past the front counter where he tosses a hundred dollar bill at the clerk.
I’ve barely registered what’s happening when we’re headed toward a giant red-and-white sign marked the Cyclone. The thing looks ancient with its rails pale in the sunlight and the cars rattling as they jet across the track.
Yet Cato grins at it like it’s a childhood friend. A devilish gleam lights up his dark eyes as he nods toward the queue.
“Ladies first,” he says, stepping aside to allow me through the walkway.
Five minutes later, I’m screaming bloody murder as we hurtle down a steep drop, my stomach bottoming out. The plunge is so violent it makes my spine feel like it’s about to leave my body.
Cato’s roar of laughter rises above my shrieking. He throws one arm up like a damn teenager, his other slung around my shoulders as if in comfort.
When the ride finally jerks to a stop and we stagger out, I’m still trembling.
“Oh my god,” I pant. “That was inhumane.”
“That wasamazing,” he says.
Before I can protest, we’re in another line. This time it’s for the Luna 360. It’s one of those modern monstrosities that looks like a giant pendulum, a circle of seats that swings back and forth until you’re fully upside down.
Cato can’t even pretend he isn’t amused by how mortified I am.
I glare at him. “I swear to god, if I throw up…”
He just winks.
The ride starts with a false sense of security. We swing while enjoying panoramic views of Coney Island. The beach stretches out many feet below like spilled sugar, the ocean sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.
It’s beautiful… for all of thirty seconds.
Then we start flipping.
One moment we’re upright, the next we’re skybound and suspended upside down, staring straight down at the park below us.
My heart lurches into my throat.
“CATOOO!” I screech.
He answers with a howl of laughter.
Actuallaughter, full-bellied and thunderous, like this is the greatest thrill of his life and he can’t imagine anything better than hearing me scream and curse his name.
