King collects himself and chuckles. “I didn’t say I cared. I’d just rather not wipe your blood off my bike.” He leans in, his lips brushing over my ear. “I won’t hurt you in there, but that’s not because I care. It’s because I have a colorful imagination of other ways I’d rather do it.”
The curtains open again, and I’m, once again, blinded by a spotlight. Kingston is still glaring at me as he walks back toward his bike. He jumps back on and starts it up, just as Delila’s voice booms through the speakers. “As some of you may have heard, our Sons of Kiznitch have a few tricks that they keep up their sleeve. Their infamous act is the tricks they play with you, their clownage and stunts…” She pauses, and I realize that that pause is obviously in regard to my play in this whole act. “And, of course, our next one, The Triple Wheel of Death. Tonight, we have Little Bird stepping inside the wheel with our favorite, King. The pleasure is all hers, because our King doesn’t share his spaces with anyone.” My fists clench together tightly, enough for sweat to spill from my flesh. The loud roar of his bike drowns out the crowds gasping, and I watch as he revs it a few times, tossing on a cap and flipping it backwards before driving the bike up a metal ramp and into the wheel.
Oh God.
My stomach swims in nerves as all of the women in the audience lose their minds. He’s wearing destroyed jeans with his shirt tucked into the back of them. I notice the actual wheel isn’t moving with him inside. I have roughly three seconds to back out. I bring my palm to my stomach as King glares at me, his feet on either side of the rings. I see the platform I’m supposed to sit on, floating in the middle of the ring, as if it’s attached to nothing.
“Get on, Little Bird,” Killian yells from behind me. “Ride on the fucking merry-go-round.” He’s delusional—this is no merry-go-round. That is exactly what the name says. The Triple Wheel of Death.
I’m stuck momentarily battling with myself on whether or not I want to get into it with him. King revs his engine loudly, and I find myself walking toward the wheel beyond my better judgment.
Before I place my foot onto the metal, I hear Keaton holler, “Good girl!”
Instantly, I turn to face Killian, who I know is watching me on the opposite side, sitting on his bike. He nods his head, as if I should trust Kingston, though I don’t want to. I don’t want to trust him, and I don’t trust him, but I step inside anyway. The scent of gasoline hovers around me with the underlying scent of his cologne. King’s hands come to my waist, as he lifts me onto the metal platform, that I now see is attached to two metal poles that dangle down each side of the wheel, which are also attached to the small platform. It’s a goddamn swing! Only one that doesn’t move.
As soon as I’m on the platform, I take a seat, my eyes dropping to his hands. He curls his finger, urging me to come closer, so I do, wanting his approval, needing his embrace. I couldn’t tell you why, and just as quickly as those feelings rose, they disappeared before I could analyze them.
The ring starts swinging back and forth as his fingers lock against mine. He pulls me in closer, hauling me into his body as I swing back and forth slightly. “I won’t ask this anytime outside of our scenes, but I need you to trust me.”
I pause, not wanting to give him anything. Trust is earned; it’s not given just because someone has a pretty smile. Pretty smiles are the way trust is broken. Pretty smiles are the pavements that crack.
“Trust you?” I shout into his face because “Closer” by Kings of Leon is playing loudly in the background, and his bike is pulsing just as loudly. I’ve come to realize that the music is played to distract the audience from hearing us talk. “How can I trust you, King, when I barely know you?”
He seems to ponder over my words as we rock back and forth, the wheels moving faster, harder, and higher. He rocks his bike up and down at the same rhythm as we begin to swing higher and higher. Great. Each wheel