Page 99 of Carnival
The call ends shortly after. He presses the end button, tossing the phone to the passenger’s seat, and then loosens his tie. His fingers drum against the steering wheel before he grips it to the point of his knuckles turning white.
“Change of plans, I’m assuming?”
“Vivian wants to end all of this.’’
“End what?”
“Her own game. And it ends tonight.’’
Fear starts tugging on my heart, my hands clenching next to my body. He’s being vague on purpose, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. But if he doesn’t like it, being Vivian’s most trusted man, that means that the crazy bitch must’ve thought of doing something batshit insane.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“Stop asking questions,’’ he snaps. “You’ll see soon enough. Though, I can’t guarantee you’ll live enough to tell the story to anybody. When Vivian gets angry, she doesn’t see reason. She’ll risk losing you before she loses the game she’s playing.’’
“What game is this?”
“A game of power,’’ he says, and the way he’s confident about his words, as if Vivian’s victory has already been decided, makes my throat tighten. “And Vivian doesn’t lose.’’
The drive lasts for another forty minutes, and it’s eerily silent. All I can hear is my own heartbeat reaching my ears, and any questions I voice out are met with silence. He’s no longerwilling to entertain my curiosity, and I’m scared of what that means.
He parks the car and quickly exits the vehicle. The door next to me opens, and he yanks me out by the wrist. I stumble forward, my feet beginning to ache all over again. But that’s when I hear it, and I freeze in shock.
Loud music, people laughing and talking, and, of course, the flashing, bright lights all around. My head snaps forward, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the fucking Carnival ahead, with a line of at least fifty people in front of us.
“We’re not in New Orleans, are we?”
Maverick rolls his eyes. “Unless I teleported us, then no.’’
He starts dragging me forward and walks straight past the security. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that they all know who he is, and that they’re all working for Vivian.
The Carnival is the exact replica of the one in New Orleans. From the rides and food stands to the masked people wreaking havoc wherever they go. Loud screams of terrified yet excited people fill my ears. Maverick’s grip on my wrist tightens to the point of bruising, but he doesn’t care.
He continues to guide me through the crowd, my footing sloppy and clumsy, the high heels making the pain intensify by a hundred. My toes are warm, a fresh round of blood from my old wounds filling the inside of the shoes. I suppress the pain, tears prickling my eyes at the intensity, following Maverick as much as I can.
Suddenly, an idea pops into my head.
Quickly, I glance around us, only to see that the crowd of people has gotten thicker, and that might just work to myadvantage. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what I’m about to do, internally saying a quick prayer.
I lift one of my legs, hitting the back of his knee with my heel as hard as I possibly can. For once, I’m grateful that the heel is pointy, and I aim for the most sensitive spot on the back of his knee.
The action takes him by surprise, and for a split second, he releases the grip on my wrist. I yank my hand back, quickly toss off the heels, and run into the crowd. His loud voice follows, but I don’t stop.
I push past the mass of people, apologizing, knowing that my short height is something that is currently being used to my advantage — he can’t spot me over the crowded spot. I duck, keeping up the pace, unsure of where I’m going.
It takes me over fifteen minutes to find a secluded spot behind a tent. The sign says it’s a circus, and there are not many people around. I take a seat behind a dumpster, peeking out, looking for Maverick.
Luckily, I don’t see him anywhere, my heavy breathing slowly starting to come back to normal.
However, I notice something far more sinister.
Clowns and characters from horror movies and comic books are roaming around, playing the roles they’re being paid for. But every single one of them is acting weird. They’re all stiff, their movements slow, their hands in their pockets.
And tied to their stomachs are bombs.
38
Rose
