Page 17 of House of Clowns

She laughed, her eyes rolling as she got up and went to clear the bloodied shards of glass. When she came back, she lay on the bed, stretching out beside me with a faint smile.

"Maybe."

"Just maybe?" I said, lying down beside her, no more than a few inches of mattress between us.

"Or maybe neither of us can be fixed," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

We lay there, side by side, our hands brushing, connected by that single touch. The silence that had built around us grew, the most unlikely peace, the kind of peace that digs into your bones and makes you want to linger, to grasp every second. I could have stayed this way forever, and in that silence, I knew I did not want it to end.

TWELVE

JOKER

The bell tower struck noon, its sound circling the room as I turned over and opened my eyes. She wasn't there. The beds around me were unused, but the door was still locked. I chuckled, thinking Bart and Chico were probably cursing my name from somewhere since they had to crash outside. Then, the sound of water caught my ear—a faint rhythm coming from the shower.

I rose quietly, moving toward the bathroom, half-convinced it had all been some dream. The shower stall was open to the room, screened only by a half-wall. We were used to it, but something about her, standing there in that quiet vulnerability, stirred something deep in my bones. She was in there, standing under the water, her back to me. Droplets traced down her skin, accentuating the bruises scattered across her body, like dark shades of green, blue, and purple marking her shoulders, her ribs, and her arms. My heart clenched as I watched her glide the soap gently over her skin, skipping over the bruises—maybe because they hurt too much to touch.

As she reached for the faucet, I retreated into the closet, standing back and feigning absorption in picking out clothes for her.

"Good morning," she said, stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, droplets of water still glistening on her skin.

I kept my eyes on the closet or tried to. "Good morning," I replied casually, though I knew my face betrayed more than I'd admit.

She stepped closer and took my hand, her finger tracing over the cuts that were bandaged. "How's your hand?"

"Better," I said, meeting her eyes. Her eyes were warm but uncertain.

She cleared her throat, looking away. "About… the kiss. I…"

"It's alright," I said, offering a small smile. "It was just one of those things that we both needed at that time."

She looked down at the floor, her shoulders sagging somewhat. "Yeah," she murmured, nodding to herself as if trying to make her mind agree. "Exactly."

I watched as she turned toward the bed, letting herself fall onto it with a sigh. I took another step forward. "I talked to my boss. He said you can stay with the aerialists in the west wing."

Her gaze rose, a flash of surprise mingled with something that almost looked like disappointment. "Oh," she said softly.

I pulled a shirt out of the closet and slipped it on. "I'll get dressed and take you around. Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she said, rubbing a towel through her damp hair, though there was a faraway expression in her eyes. "How far is it?"

I chuckled, coming closer. "Just a floor below. If you hit the ceiling with a broom, I'd hear you."

That etched a small smile on her lips, a little spark chasing away the sadness that had lurked there.

"OK," she said softly.

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before I could think better of it. "I'll let you get dressed," I said, giving her a moment of space.

I turned, unlocked the door, and stepped out, easing it shut behind me. The wooden frame creaked, and I exhaled, my forehead leaning into the frame. Opposite, down the hall, Bart and Chico were lying on the floor, sleeping, their jackets wrapped around them. They'd have some choice things to say to me in the morning, and I'd owe them a favor. At that moment though, it felt like it would've been worth every ounce of trouble.

A soft knock came from the door, and I straightened, knowing she was ready. I opened it, and she was standing there, her eyes still etched with that quiet sadness. Her hair was still damp, and she wore only my shirt, which fell like a dress around her, her bare feet brushing the dusty floor.

"Let me," I said, reaching down to lift her into my arms. She smiled softly, laying her head against my shoulder as I held her close, an instant in which the rest of the world melted silently away.

The further down we went, she nestled closer in, her heartbeat matching mine, her warmth seeping into my skin. When we reached the bottom floor, I set her down gently on the red-carpeted floor. She looked up at me with soft eyes and whispered, "Thanks."

We walked towards room number234, where Ruby leaned against the doorframe, her red hair tied into a tight bun. Her striking figure was accentuated by a corset and lace skirt that barely grazed her thighs. Her makeup was bold and bright—the face every man who came to this house knew well. But her voice had the kind of sharp edge that grated on anyone's nerves. "Please don't tell me you have yourself a girlfriend, honey?"

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