Page 131 of Pack Me Up
We step out, and Saint does a slow sweep of the lot. Hunter loops an arm through mine, like we’re a couple of old friends just out for a night on the town. Brittney follows, head down, but I can see the smile tugging at her mouth.
Inside the grounds, it’s chaos with vendors offering glow sticks and fried things on sticks, kids darting between the legs of bored teenagers, music, laughter, and the sweet smell of caramel corn. I keep Brittney close, weaving through the crowd until we hit the first cluster of tents.
“Wanna see the goats?” I ask.
She makes a face. “At a circus?”
“Yeah, it’s specific to this one,” I say.
Brittney rolls her eyes, but follows me into the corral. I watch as she hovers near the fence, hand out, and one of the goats comes right up, nose wiggling. She strokes its forehead, gently, and the goat leans into her like it’s starved for affection.
“See?” I say. “You’re already the animal whisperer.”
She glances back at me, eyes soft. “I like them,” she says. “They’re just so snuggly.”
We spend the next hour wandering the grounds, trying candy apples and getting balloon animals. Every chance I get, I’m nuzzling her, pressing kisses to her crown, and scent marking her.
I catch Brittney eyeballing the ring toss, and I know instantly we should play it.
“Want to try?” I ask.
She shakes her head, a little too fast. “I’ve got no hand-eye coordination,” she says, which is a lie; I’ve seen her play guitar, and her hands are magic.
“Come on,” I urge, “it’s rigged anyway. We can bond over our mutual humiliation.”
She relents and lets me buy three rings for a buck. The carny gives us the standard demo—stands inches from the peg and drops it straight on, then slides the bottle an inch to the left as soon as my back is turned. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but I don’t care about winning. I care about the way Brittney bites her lip when she lines up her shot, the way she mutters, “shit” when the ring bounces off and clatters to the tarp.
My first try, I miss by a mile. My second, I aim just a hair past the post. Then, on the last, I make a big show of sizing it up, wink at Brittney, and chuck it so hard the ring whips off the bottles and into the next booth.
Brittney’s doubled over, cackling. “Smooth,” she says. “Very manly.”
I feign heartbreak, clutch at my chest. “You wound me.”
The carny shrugs, but he’s got a soft spot for girls who laugh at my expense. He slides a plush tiger down the rail and gives it to Brittney with a wink. “A prize for the lady,” he says, and she actually blushes.
I bow, flourishing an imaginary cape. “For you, m’lady. May it guard your dreams from all evil ring tosses.”
She hugs the tiger to her chest, squeezing so tight its glassy eyes bulge. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I can tell she means it, not for the toy, but for this whole, dumb, perfect night.
We wander the rest of the area, sharing a bucket of kettle corn. I make her try the world’s brightest pink lemonade, then spend the next ten minutes trying to save her from brain freeze by holding her cheeks in both hands.
Hunter is stationed near the main tent, pretending to be fascinated by a program, but every so often, his eyes flick over us, making sure we’re safe. I know Saint is somewhere close, but he’s better at disappearing in plain sight. I respect the craft.
We grab two sodas and a paper tray of deep-fried something. “Try this,” she says, shoving a battered stick at me.
“What is it?”
She grins. “Does it matter?”
I bite. It’s hot, salty, and oddly satisfying. Brittney dares a nibble, and her face lights up. “That’s actually good,” she says.
The sun drops, and the fairgrounds come alive. Lights flick on, the crowd doubles, and somewhere a fire juggler is doing his best not to light his own pants on fire. I steer Brittney toward the big top, where the line is already thick with people.
Saint materializes next to us, checking his phone. “We’re clear,” he says. “You two go ahead. We’ll post up by the exits.”
Hunter nods, then drops his voice so only I can hear. “You got this, man.”
“Thanks,” I say.
