Page 1 of Carnival Mayhem

1

COLT

Ipull the rope taut, testing the tension of the main support line. Nash moves along the opposite beam, his movements fluid even when not performing.

"You're favoring your left side again." Nash doesn't look at me as he speaks, focused on securing his rigging.

"I am not." But I roll my shoulder, knowing he's right. The bastard notices everything.

“Ten years of spotting you, Colt. I know your tells." He swings down from his perch, landing silent as a cat beside me. "Let me see."

I grunt but turn to face him. His fingers find the knot in my muscles with practiced ease.

"You're going to injure yourself if you don't sort this out."

"Since when are you my mother?" I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

"Since you became a stubborn ass who won't admit when he's hurt." Nash's other hand braces against my back as he works out the tension. "There. Better?"

I rotate my arm, and the movement is smoother. "Lucky guess."

"Skill." He flashes that rare smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Though you're welcome to test it in practice later."

"Only if you promise not to show off with that new sequence you've been working on."

"Me? Show off?" Nash places a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I would never."

"Right, and I'm the King of England."

He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty tent. "Your Majesty." With a flourishing bow, he backs toward the rigging. "Now, stop stalling and help me with these lines. Tyson will have our asses if we're not ready for tonight."

I watch Nash climb back up the rigging, his muscles flexing with graceful precision. The way he moves has always fascinated me—it feels like gravity is optional, like physics bends to his will.

"You're staring." His voice carries down, tinged with amusement.

"Making sure you don't fall and crack that pretty skull of yours." I busy myself with coiling excess rope, ignoring the flutter in my chest.

"Pretty, am I?" He hangs upside down, face level with mine. "Careful there, Colt. People might get ideas."

My breath catches. We've danced this line for years, throwing comments that blur the boundary between joking and something else entirely. Something we never name.

"Let them." The words slip out before I can stop them, rougher than intended.

Nash's eyes darken, and the air between us crackles with tension. Then he swings away, graceful as ever, breaking the spell.

"Speaking of practice..." He rights himself on the platform. "That new sequence needs a spotter. You up for it?"

"Depends. Are you planning to listen if I tell you to slow down?"

"When have I ever not listened to you?"

I bark out a laugh. "You want the full list or just this week's highlights?"

"I resent that implication." He starts removing his shirt, muscles rippling beneath intricate tattoos. "I'm a perfect angel."

"Angel of chaos, maybe." My eyes trace the familiar patterns on his skin. I've memorized every line, every shadow. Not that I'd admit it.

"Takes one to know one." He chalks his hands. "Coming up, or am I practicing solo?"

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