Page 28 of The Holiday Games

The Sultan of Scooping!

The Empress of Excrement!

“Victory is mine!” I shout, spinning to thrust my handful of full bags into the air.

I lock eyes with Leo, now standing beside Ainsley at the monitor station, just as one of my bags breaks.

I have a split second to realize what the warmth splatting down on top of my head is. The next second, I’m racing for the trash can where I tossed my coffee, praying I’ll make it in time.

twelve

. . .

Leo

Hovering outside the ladies’ locker room, I feel like a creep, but the clown college is mostly deserted at this early hour on a Sunday, and Caroline has been in there a very long time.

I sent the rest of the cast home half an hour ago and the crew is nearly finished packing up the equipment van.

“Caroline?” I ask, after a good five minutes have passed with no sound from inside. “Hello?” I wait another beat before adding, “Are you all right?”

“Define…all right,” she finally responds, her voice halting and thin as it echoes off the tiles.

I wince. “Is there anything I can get you? There’s a convenience store a few blocks away. Maybe some soap? Shampoo? A blow torch?”

“Yes. Blow torch. I’ll burn my hair down to the scalp and start fresh. Clean slate.”

I huff out a soft laugh, grateful to hear that she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. “I hear you. I’m so sorry. That was gross.”

“It waswaymore than gross. I’ve washed my hair five times.Five, Leo, and I still don’t feel clean.” She sighs. “But it’s nicethat the clowns have shampoo and conditioner in their locker room showers. It’s good quality, too. Smells like bubblegum.”

“Bubblegum is a very clown-friendly scent,” I observe, feeling like an idiot. But nothing in my background has prepared me to comfort a woman I’ve injured in this particular manner. And no, I didn’t toss the turd myself or buy the cheap doodie bags, but I put her in the path of disaster.

I can’t help feeling responsible.

And awful. And desperate to turn her day around.

“But on the bright side,” I add, “you won immunity, and a private performance of Bingo the Clown’s Downhome Doggie Jamboree this evening. It’s supposed to be a fun show. Lots of jokes and dogs and…jamboreeing. Whatever that is. I think it’s a southern thing.”

“If you make me watch a man in a clown suit jamboree with dogs right now, I may have an aneurism,” she shoots back, her voice wobbling again. “I know being afraid of clowns is cliché and ridiculous, but I’m afraid of them. I really am. Now, I think I’m afraid of chihuahuas, too. And plastic bags. And astroturf. And anything else that reminds me of this morning.”

“Understood,” I say, my producer wheels spinning. “Then, with your permission, I’ll pass the ticket to the private show on to Eduardo. He has a background in theater. He’ll probably enjoy it, and we’ll be able to get some B reel to pad the episode. It might turn out to be interesting. He said he’d met Bingo once before, back in the nineties, when he did a performance at Eduardo’s acting school in Miami.”

“Really?” she asks. “That’s strange. He acted like he hated clowns, too.”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. I thought he seemed interested when Ainsley said Bingo was involved, but I could be wrong. I was a little distracted,” I admit. “My challenge winner had just tossed her cookies and made a run for the bathroom.”

She groans. “Don’t remind me. Thank God I always carry toothpaste and a toothbrush in my purse. I’ve brushed my teeth five times, too. And used their mouthwash. It also tastes like bubblegum.”

I smile, charmed by her even when we’re talking about mundane things like toothbrushes and mouthwash. “Then I’m clear to set Eduardo up with the ticket? If he wants it?”

“Yes, please,” she says with a relieved sigh. “That’s part of why I was hiding in the bathroom. I wasn’t sure when the show started and wanted to make sure I missed the opening curtain.”

“And the other part?” I ask, pushing on when she hesitates. “Tell me what you need to make this better, Caroline, and I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen. I promise. I feel awful.”

“You don’t have to feel awful,” she says, moving closer. She sounds like she’s right on the other side of the door, as she adds, “But if you’re in the mood to grant special favors, Icanthink of something that would make me feel a whole lot better.”

“Name it,” I say, without hesitation.

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