Page 56 of Carnival Mayhem

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COLT

Iguide Nash into the living area of our trailer, my blood still boiling from earlier. The memory of those bastards touching Flora makes my fists clench. Through the bedroom door, I can hear her soft breathing—finally peaceful after crying herself to sleep.

“We need to handle this now,” I whisper to Nash, keeping my voice low. “Those pieces of shit don’t deserve to keep breathing.”

Nash’s eyes meet mine, that familiar darkness I’ve always recognized in him rising to the surface. He gives a slight nod, his jaw clenched tight.

“Before we leave this town,” I continue, “Tommy and Jake need to disappear. Permanently.” My hands are shaking with barely contained rage. “You heard what they did to her. For years.”

Nash moves closer, his presence steadying me like it always has. “We protect what’s ours,” he says. “And she’s ours now.”

I glance toward the bedroom where Flora sleeps. “No one will ever hurt her again.” The promise comes out like a prayer, but I mean it as a threat. “We do this clean. No traces.”

“Will Ty let us use the lockup?” Nash suggests.

I rub a hand across the back of my neck. “Possibly. I’ll speak to him.”

“That would sort out the where; the real question is when?” Nash asks.

“I’ll ask Phoenix to check if they’re planning a retaliation, really comb through their communications.” I crack my knuckles. “When we do this, we will make them suffer. Make them feel everything they put her through.”

Nash’s hand finds my shoulder. “Together,” he says simply.

“Together,” I agree. “For Flora.”

Nash’s hand on my shoulder sends electricity through my body, and I fight to control my reaction. His touch has always affected me, but since that night—since we crossed that line—everything feels different. More intense. My dick starts to stiffen in my jeans, and I shift uncomfortably, trying to hide my body’s response.

“What’s up?” His hand hasn’t moved from my shoulder, and the warmth of his palm seems to burn through my shirt. “You’re tense.”

I swallow hard, hyperaware of how close he’s standing. We haven’t talked about what happened—about how his mouth felt on me twice now.

It was supposed to be about Flora, showing her we could all be together. But now, with just the two of us in this dim light, those memories flood back.

“Nothing,” I manage to say, but my voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just worried about Flora.”

Nash’s fingers tighten slightly on my shoulder. “That’s not it,” he says, reading me like a book. “Something else is bothering you.”

My dick throbs, straining against my zipper, and I know there’s no way Nash hasn’t noticed. He’s too observant, too attuned to my body after years of performing together.

“Colt,” he says my name like a question, like a challenge. His thumb moves slightly, stroking my shoulder through my shirt, and this time, I can’t hold back the small sound that escapes my throat.

I step back from Nash, my body immediately missing his touch. The air feels too thick, too charged. I need space to think clearly.

“Want a beer?” I move toward our small kitchen, grateful for the excuse to put distance between us. My hands shake slightly as I open the fridge.

“Sure,” Nash replies, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I recognize all too well. “But we need to talk about the elephant in the room.”

The beer can feels ice cold against my palm as I grab two. My throat tightens, and I have to force myself to swallow. “What elephant?” I keep my back to him, pretending to search for something else in the fridge.

“Cut the bullshit, Colt.” Nash’s words hit me like a physical blow. “Stop messing about.”

I close my eyes, gripping the beer cans tighter. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I can feel sweat beading at the back of my neck.

I take a slow breath and turn around, handing Nash his beer. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut. I crack open my can, taking a long drink to steady my nerves.

“Fine,” I say, leaning against the counter. “What do you want to talk about?”

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