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  My mother’s voice cuts through the summer breeze as she comes out from her tent, her dark eyes already on us. She’s always been able to intimidate with few words or a hard back hand, but under the outer crust is a layer of loyalty and duty to her family that makes it hard to hate her.

  Besides, the women in our group, older and younger alike, are not at the top of the food chain and they are as likely to take the brunt of a stick or a back hand as any of the children.

  “Get her ready. We’re on in fifteen minutes,” she grumbles, eyeing me up and down. “I want her shirt off her shoulders. Tighten the corset and push her tits up.” She snaps her tongue over the front of her teeth, leaving it for a moment in the space where one of the incisors is missing before grunting and walking toward some of our other group members who are getting their musical instruments tuned and ready for the first performance of the day.

  The layers of my skirts make my hips look full. One of my male father figures, the one who is nominally in charge of me and Genevieve, always said I’d make more money if my tits matched my hips, like it was some sort of fault of my genetics that made his life harder somehow.

  Which is ironic, because one of the things he always says hypnotizes men, is my eyes, which are a genetic anomaly. Something called heterochromia or something like that. My right iris is nearly three-quarters this odd, reddish brown while the other small part is a shocking blue which matches the entirety of my left eye. People stare, point and it makes me feel like some sort of alien but for my so-called father, it’s been a boon.

  His name is Thadius, but even when I was traded to this family when I thought I might be around twelve, I knew the rules. And from that first day, I referred to him as Papa, as I did the other elder men lest I take twelve lashes for disrespect.

  All I’ve ever wanted to do is dance. Even in my most distant memories with my other ‘adoptive’ families, I was twirling and pointing my toes.

  Little did I know that what felt joyful and natural to me, would be viewed simply as a skill used for filling the pockets of the group and nothing more.

  Still, when I lie on my blankets covering the ground at night, my head on a rolled-up pile of clothes that second as my pillow, I dream of pointed ballet slippers and white tulle. I know I’m far too old to ever pursue the dream of being a real ballet dancer, but I would settle for simply allowing it to be something I do for my own pleasure instead of the pursuit of misdemeanor petty theft.

  Or felony theft, depending on how much is in a wallet or the value of a watch.

  Despite the hollow feeling that takes me over just before the performance begins, the day is a wonder. One of those days that’s hard to describe. The air is the perfect temperature to keep you warm while the breeze cools you at the same time.

  The white fluff of the clouds drift around on a sky that seems an impossible blue, making you feel like maybe dreams really do come true.

  Genevieve adjusts the string that tightens or loosens the neckline of my blouse, the trim the same color as the sky. She moves the fabric off my shoulders and tightens it into place.

  “Being the pretty one is fun isn’t it?” she teases, both of us knowing in our life, whatever you have to offer will be exploited for the greater good.

  “Every day is a Mardi Gras,” I answer as I inhale, pulling in my stomach as her fingers move down the lacing of my corset, driving the flesh of my bosom overflowing out of the now lower neckline of my gauzy top.

  When she’s finished, I take a long moment to draw a breath. I’ve learned to breathe shallow and often, but I know later in the day, when the sun is high and the temperatures rise, I will be close to passing out.

  As I catch my breath, I look at the ground. Then when my eyes drift back up, Marco, a newer member of one of the families in our group, comes near, towering over me. Tension builds in my stomach. He’s been paying far too much attention to me since he arrived and there’s a dark edge to his eyes that makes me uneasy.

  “Ladies.” He addresses us both but keeps his nearly-black eyes on my chest. All the other younger, single girls in our clan have been falling all over themselves since he joined us. Snickering and saying dirty things about what they’d like to do with him.

  I nod as he licks his lips. Most of the time around him I just wish I was invisible.

  “Nothing to say?” he asks.

  I’m not much of a talker outside of my family, and he’s taken to trying to force the issue. But I’m not playing whatever this game is, so I just shake my head.

  Genevieve pipes up. “We have nothing to say. Unless of course you have something interesting to talk about…” She’s not considered the one of the prettiest girls in our clan, but she’s got a confidence I wish I had.

  Marco gives her a sidelong, indifferent glance, and opens his mouth as if he has some witty comeback prepared, but my father’s voice comes over, calling us to the entry of the fair where we perform and with a bite into his bottom lip, Marco moves away with his guitar slung over his shoulder.

  “What’s the name of this town again?” I ask, and Genevieve draws her brow tight. Her dark eyebrows pull together, and the hint of dark girl-stache under her nose twists with her lips as she thinks.

  She’s nearly my opposite. Taller, thicker, dark everywhere, with hands that are used to doing the same work as some of the biggest men in the families, and although we should be rivals, we both understand no one has it much easier than another in our life.

  “Millington. Why do you care?”

  I shrug. “One place blends into another. It’s nice to know which is which.”

  I don’t tell her the real reason. One of these towns close by must be where I was born. Perhaps someone, someday, will recognize my eyes and claim me as their own.

  A girl has to have dreams.

  A loud clap next to my head shocks me back into the moment.

  “Five minutes.” My father’s voice booms around the makeshift camp we’ve set up on an empty scrap of wooded land, behind where the fair will be going on for another day after today, then we’ll be gone. “If you want lunch, I suggest you put a bit more effort into today than you did yesterday.”

  “Yes, Papa,” I answer, setting my hands on my hips just below where the corset is cutting into my flesh, the gnawing in my belly making me feel nauseous.

  The last thing I do before following the trail of others out into the crowd, their violins, guitars and flutes ready for the show, is look up at the sky, asking as I do each and every day for answers.

  Who am I?

  Someday, I hope I will know.

  Chapter 3

  Merrick

  The scent of smoked turkey legs and Guinness beer drifts to my nostrils, my ears filled with the chatter of the crowd. There’s a long line of adventurers—or victims—waiting in line to experience what looks like a death trap of a wooden-style boat, being swung between two trellises by two pirate characters shouting insults.

  I work my way down the dirt path, past booths selling kilts, incense, leather vests and replica swords. Two girls sit next to each other on pillows, getting henna tattoos in a tent.

  This is the first year the Medieval Fair has stopped in Millington, but I’m familiar with the whole deal. These groups move around the country, stopping in different towns, setting up their shows and wares like modern-day nomads.

  There’s lots of dreadlocks and codpieces. Corsets that threaten a nipple to spring forth at any moment.

  I’m a red-blooded American male. I should be thrilled at the prospect of an errant nipple sighting.

  But, I’m not. It’s just another call. Another job. And I look at the guidepost sign when I get to a junction in the dirt paths where hand-painted wooden arrows toward the gallows, the dunking booth, the pub…the stage.

  I work my way in the direction of the stage as, the music coming from that direction begins to drift on the warming summer wind.

  I recognize a few faces in the crowds, but for the most part, I’m getti
ng sidelong glances and a few dirty looks from the more anarchist attendees, but I feel no danger.

  As I come around a corner between a juggler and two actors acting all hoity dressed as a King and Queen, my stomach drops. I see the smile first—toothy, with lips that look like they’ve been plumped with a tire pump—then I hear the voice.

  “Merrick! OH. MY. GOD. What the ever-loving good luck are you doing here?” Patsy Leeland speeds her steps away from a few other ladies that are watching the royal production and toward me, my nerves already on edge.

  “Hi, Patsy.” I nod, keeping my voice as disinterested as possible without being rude.

  She’s chomping purple gum holding a tall paper cup of dark beer.

  We went to school together and she’s been making herself available to me for the better part of twenty years. I give her an A for effort but an E in understanding, because I’ve never returned her interest.

  The music is closer now, and I’m assuming it’s from the stage, but I can’t see anything yet except for Patsy’s black tank top with ‘I like power between my legs’ emblazoned over a Harley logo.

  “You here alone?” She asks barely hiding her glance at my crotch.

  I clear my throat looking over her head in the direction of the music, I answer, “Yes. Alone. I’m working.”

  “Oh.” She snaps her gum, looking me up and down and reaching out to run a finger over my badge. “You have time for a drink?”

  Of course I don’t have time for a drink. I’m working, I said. And you shouldn’t be drinking either if you’re going to get on your motorcycle and drive home…God, people are stupid.

  “No,” I answer, flat and cold. “Just checking on some petty thefts that have been reported.”

  She nods, tilting her head and running her tongue over her teeth, which have obscenely bright pink lipstick stuck to the front of them.

  “Ahh. Yeah, I heard someone got their wallet lifted yesterday. I come every day.”

  I look at my watch, then back toward the music.

  “Be careful. Get a ride home if you’re drinking.”

  I sidestep and move forward as she runs a hand through her burgundy hair, watching me go.

  “See you around,” she calls, and I raise a hand over my head to wave, never breaking my stride.

  These sort of fairs have never been my thing.

  I’m not much for any sort of fun, it seems. Not for a long time. I always had an odd discomfort with human touch, outside of hugging my parents.

  My dad once told me I was too old for my age, and I didn’t bother to remind him it was a man-to-man talk from him that started that for me. I don’t resent it, God knows they had their own issues to deal with when my mom lost the baby a few weeks later, but it was that talk that had me growing up fast.

  You’re going to have a little brother or sister, son. Exciting, huh? But you know, older brothers have a lot more responsibility. You think you can handle that?

  Grown up responsibilities have become a thick wall I’ve built around myself, and I don’t ever see that changing. Relationships just feel exhausting to me, and besides my parents, I get all the companionship I think I’ll ever need from Rosy and Eleanor, my two pit-mix mutts I adopted five years ago after a call on a dog fight where over fifteen animals were seized.

  As I move toward the music, I shake my head at the irony that one second I can be turning ass-over-impossible to save a bunch of abused dogs, but in my personal life I barely let anyone in.

  The pondering doesn’t last long. As I come to where the crowd is gathered and I see her, the world changes right before my eyes.

  There’s a fucking radiance glowing around her. My heart drops to my toes then shoots up and practically out of the top of my head.

  I reach up and touch the brim of my hat to be sure it’s still there.

  I’m not sure what she’s doing here. She doesn’t look like she belongs on the dirt patch where she’s spinning and twirling. She belongs in heaven.

  Or in my bed.

  Her warm, caramel and vanilla hair is hanging loose, besides a couple strands pulled back from the front and secured in a green ribbon at the back of her head. I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in my life.

  Her blouse is fucking far too low on her chest though. Her tits nearly billowing out from the fabric. It makes me instantly hard and instantly enraged.

  Because there’s a crowd of men looking at her, practically drooling like she’s the next turkey leg they are going to eat.

  Over my dead body.

  I wind through the crowd. I need to be closer to her. A growl catches in my throat as I pass by male onlookers, and the civilized part of me knows I can’t remove all of their eyes or render them unconscious, but the beast part of me disagrees.

  Her neck is long and graceful as she pivots and sways to the music, smiling at the crowd with wide, shocking eyes like I’ve never seen, lips ruby red and full against her white teeth.

  There’s a rush of heat through me, my pulse speeding into a pounding in my temples, and for some reason my hand goes straight to the leather snap where my gun is holstered at my hip.

  Ready.

  Because if anyone touches her, I think I’ll kill them.

  Besides her way too low-cut top, she’s wearing a long, natural linen-colored skirt with flowers and some other lace or some shit decorating down the slit and around the hem. As she moves, her bare leg slips from the high-cut opening in the fabric.

  Creamy, flawless skin shows through and I want to lick her from her toes all the way up until my mouth finds the sweet, wet heat of her cunt. My dick is pounding in time with the beat of my pulse.

  I’ve never felt this sort of pleasure from looking at a woman. I’m ready to spill my cum in my pants and there’s no way I can hide my erection at this point. Let everyone look.

  Let them talk.

  And for whatever reason, I don’t give a shit.

  She’s given me more pleasure in the last five seconds than I’ve ever experienced with any other woman. That missing something feels like it’s here. With her. Something besides my errant dick is growing huge and manic, ready to claim her for my own and drag her back to my cave.

  What is going on, I’m not sure, but the tug in my gut is stronger than any logic my brain is trying to force feed me at the moment. Barely able to control my own movements, I keep moving toward her.

  Three steps more and I’m at the front edge of the crowd as they toss coins into hats and boxes surrounding the performance area.

  Other dancers are there but they are clearly not the main show. Costumed men and women stand behind the dancers, playing instruments, but from what I can tell, all eyes are on her.

  She spins again, her leg flashing out for a glimpse of perfect feet, dirty from the ground, and all I want is to cut her clothes off, take her home and sink her down in the the most lush bubble bath to bathe her for hours.

  Her blue-brown eyes catch mine, glowing, lit light candles in the darkness and as she spins closer her light floral scent catches the last of my restraint and drags it from me, my balls drawing tight, and I’m on the edge of losing it standing right here in front of a hundred or more people.

  As she smiles, I imagine her beneath me. I almost feel her skin against mine. A groan rumbles from my chest and I nearly double over, wondering if she can see the lust in my eyes.

  Of course she can. She sees lust in men’s eyes all day every day.

  The tempo of the music speeds and she is spinning again, her arms above her head, hair flying out along with her skirt, and I see the beads and colored, braided threads around her ankles.

  As she moves away, my gaze follows and I see a few older men and women standing at the edge of the stage, assessing the crowd. They look more like overseers than entertainers, and something inside of me turns cold.

  Two of them glance my way, then lean in and whisper to one another, nodding in some sort of agreement before the woman next to them turns and disapp
ears behind the heavy curtains that arch around the back of the ground-level performance area.

  The music crescendos and my twirling angel spins so fast she’s a blur. As the pace hits its height, then crashes, she drops to the dirt, skirt splaying out around her, head down and arms stretched out in front in a puff of dust as the other dancers end in the same position and the music stops.

  The crowd explodes in applause, whistles and catcalls. I turn to stab dirty looks to a few of the men, and they must see the rage in my eyes because they stop and turn away.

  Smart.

  Many of the onlookers throw coins and bills into the basket there to accept the cash. As for me, my fingers twitch, my throat is dry and tight. A spring is coiled inside of me ready to release.

  I want to give her more than money.

  I want to give her everything.

  Chapter 4

  Kezia

  I heave a few deep breaths. The scent of the dirt just below my nose is familiar, yet this time the world feels different.

  It’s as though the earth is new and the spinning in my head isn’t just from the manic twirling that ends my dance.

  It’s because something in the eyes of the sheriff that stood in the crowd sent some odd electrical buzz through me when our gaze connected.

  I silently count to fifty, then in perfect sync, I raise my head along with the other dancers and we line up, taking a bow as applause and whistles fill the open air. I glance back into the crowd and see his eyes, still trained on me, and my stomach flips.

  Close-cropped deep-sandy-colored hair, perfectly pressed brown-and-beige uniform with a silver badge glinting in the sunlight on a chest thick and wide pulling at the fabric it covers. He’s holding an extra-large coffee in one hand, sipping it as I pretend not to look, but how I wish I knew what his lips felt like sipping on me…