10. Byrd

10

Byrd

" W e missed you last year." Shilo hands me a beer from the fridge in the airstream before cracking her own and leaning against the built-in table.

"I know. I'm sorry." I spent most of the past eighteen months scrambling to salvage my marriage, and trips to the cabin weren't part of the agenda.

"You and Lara are done?" There's sympathy there but no sorrow. Like everyone else in my life, Shilo was never a fan of my ex. "It's too small in here to watch you pace," she adds, eyeing me. "Let's take a walk."

"I think we'd been done for a while," I sigh, following her down the steps and back toward the tent. "I was just the last one to know."

"Well, ‘cheers' to finally knowing." She knocks her can against mine and falls in step beside me. "Tell me about the kid."

I try not to flinch at the word. She has a son only a year younger than Echo, and hell, I think of him that way half the time myself.

Except when my tongue is in his mouth .

"He's one of Reggie's. He was supposed to start last year, but he took a bad fall and had to defer."

"So, you're his rehab coach? How's that going?"

One of the things I like about Shilo is her ability to cut through the bullshit, a little like an older, harder version of Reggie. Unlike Reggie, however, she doesn't pull her punches just because she loves me.

"I think I'm in over my head," I admit. In more ways than one . "He's been self-isolating, and the cabin isn't helping. I'm hoping that bringing him around you and the crew might help him remember what he loves about circus."

"The barely controlled chaos?" She chuckles.

"You sound like Cheyenne."

Shilo is a total control freak. For her, chaos has always been something to conquer, not celebrate, and she's damn good at making magic out of her victories.

"I guess she's finally rubbing off on me." She smiles fondly. "And I'm also guessing that you want me to talk to Echo? Share my inspirational tale of wreckage and recovery?"

"One of these days, yes. I think it'd be good for him to hear." Shilo busted her hip in a fall that could have ended her career a few years ago. "But not today. I don't want him to think I ambushed him or spilled his secrets."

"You gonna fix me now?"

"In fact," I add, "probably don't spread that around at all until he's ready."

She gives me a look. "You're protective of him."

"Yes." No point in denying it. We've reached the tent, and she gestures to the canopied entrance.

"Want to go inside?"

Do I want to see what Echo is up to, she means. I can't deny that either, so I follow her into the high shadows with a nod. She parks herself on one of the wrought-iron audience benches. On a show day, the tent would be packed with them, but currently, only a handful are scattered around the space.

The stage is set up opposite the door, in front of the heavy blackout curtains that section off the "backstage" area. Stage lights hang from the king poles and the rigging truss, a few more waiting their turn at the edge of the stage. There are crash mats stacked against the sidewalls, a sawhorse to one side next to a folding table piled with tools, and her son Gem's Chinese pole anchored in the alcove where the concessions wagon usually sits. Controlled chaos.

Milla and Echo are taking turns at star drops on the shimmering gold silks hanging center stage. Josha stands at another folding table set up off stage left, messing with the light board and occasionally calling out for one of them to climb or drop or hold a certain position as he bathes the stage in sunset hues.

"Milla's looking good," I venture after a few minutes.

"So is your boy."

He's not mine.

But she's right. The star drops are flashy but not dangerous, and Echo's movements are sure and almost languid, taunting Milla to match his easy grace with her coltish limbs. After the final drop—a backward shooting quad that Echo wisely declines and has Milla's blond ponytail brushing the mat and Shilo shaking her head beside me—Josha pulls up the girl's music so she can run her routine. Echo gives her a fist bump before vaulting off the stage and moving over to lean against the table.

Shilo watches the act in silence, her critical gaze softened by affection. I know I should pay attention, that she'll want my professional feedback on her daughter's burgeoning skills, but my eyes keep straying to Echo and Josha in the shadows—measuring the inches between them and caught by the way Josha ducks his head and laughs when Echo leans over to whisper in his ear. Something ugly curls in my gut, and I shove at the ungracious impulse.

Luckily, Shilo is too engrossed in her daughter's performance to notice my distraction. Until I blow it by opening my mouth.

"How come Josha's still around? I'm surprised you didn't lose him to the big city once he graduated."

"Thank god we didn't," she replies, glancing over. "Hals would throw a fit if we had to replace him. Josha's the only thing holding half this shit together." She gestures vaguely to the surrounding scene. "And the only one I trust to drive the flatbed."

I grunt, trying to smooth my features. I know a gig like Big Top takes a lot more than artistry and out-of-town star power to stay afloat, and Josha is the carpenter, mechanic, and engineer in one dedicated package. More than that, after growing up as close to next door as exists around here, he's part of Shilo's family.

He doesn't deserve my scowls, and I know better than most the electric lure of Echo's charm.

"How's Milla's big crush these days?" I ask, softening slightly and tearing my eyes away from the blue glow of Echo's hair. Shilo laughs.

"Dead and buried. Or at least buried," she amends. "Josha came out to his family last year, and she had to stop pretending he was going to change his mind someday."

"How'd that go? The coming out part?" Like Shilo, I've known Josha was gay for years. I should be proud of him, not wondering if this makes him more of a threat.

"About as expected." She shrugs. "His parents hardly noticed. His brother gave him shit for a couple of days—Jeremy is fourteen and still learning how to be a decent human being—but his sisters rallied around him and put the little punk in his place." She follows my gaze back to where both guys are now fussing over Milla while she preens. "Think Echo might teach him a thing or two before we head out for the season?" There's no threat to the curious question, but I almost choke on the growl that rumbles in my chest.

"Maybe." Too stiff . I can feel her eyes on me, and I take a swig of my forgotten beer.

"Or maybe not," she muses.

I shift my shoulders, awkward and edging toward miserable. Echo is leading Josha through the heavy backstage curtains, leaving Milla cross-legged on the mat, playing with her phone.

"You know Cheyenne was only twenty-five when I met her," Shilo says, freeing me from her gaze to spear me with words instead. I guess I'm not fooling anyone today.

"But no one was paying you to evaluate her."

"No. Hals and I were paying her to perform. And still married to each other with two kids."

"So, what?" I ask, sharper than she deserves and trying not to picture someone else's mouth on Echo's skin. "You win the inappropriate relationship trophy?"

I'm immediately ashamed. "I'm sorry. That was a shit thing to say."

"It was, but I'll forgive you. And I won't tell Cheyenne you said it."

I absorb the gentle rebuke, but before I can apologize again, she continues. "My point is, no one here will judge you, Byrd."

"Except myself."

And maybe Josha. Fuck.

"Always your own worst critic." She squeezes my arm. "And that's saying something, considering your marriage."

"Now who's being a dick? "

"Hey, like I said—no judgment. But you deserve to be happy, Byrd, no matter what that looks like." She gives me a nudge with her elbow and collects my half-empty beer, and for the second time today, I go in search of what I'm not allowed to want.

I find him with Josha, of course, leaning against the box truck by the 4-Runner. Echo is smoking one of his damn cigarettes, and their heads are tilted together, shoulders brushing. Too fucking close.

"Time to go," I say, climbing into the driver's seat and fishing the keys out of the cupholder. Josha blinks at me, no doubt surprised by my uncharacteristic rudeness, and pushes off the truck.

"Nice to meet you, Echo," he says, all country manners and shy smile, impossible to hate. "See you later, Byrd."

Echo waves him off with a wink and takes another drag before dropping the butt and stubbing it out with his shoe.

"Pick that up and get in the car." Jesus, I sound like an angry father. Or a jealous boyfriend. He walks over and rests his elbows on my window, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his regrettable, delectable mouth.

"What happened to you?" he asks .

"Nothing. Get in the fucking car." I can't look at him when he's this close without remembering his taste on my tongue.

"Not until you tell me why you're so pissy all of a sudden."

"I'm not pissy ." It's such an obvious lie I could laugh at myself. If I wasn't so pissed.

"You're gripping that steering wheel so tight, my cock is getting jealous, and I can hear your jaw grinding from here."

"Jesus. Can you stop talking about your dick for five minutes? Save it for someone your own age." I put all the derision I can into the words and let myself meet his eyes. Instead of backing off, he tilts his head, studying me.

"Someone like Josha?" he asks after a beat.

"You two seemed to be getting along." It's meant to sound casual, but it comes out through gritted teeth. I can't keep sitting here, exposed, while his eyes dig through my defenses like our ages are reversed. "Please just get in the car?"

He laughs then and opens my door, reaching between my legs for the lever that slides the seat back.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting in the car." And then he climbs up to straddle me while I'm still reeling from his hand on my thigh and the sight of his midnight neon hair in my lap.

My hands fly to his hips, locking him in place before he can shift forward and feel my rapidly growing erection. Undaunted, his fingers slip beneath the hem of my T-shirt to skim over my abs and trace the line of hair running down from my navel.

"This is not what I meant," I choke out, anger evaporating like oxygen as my brain scrambles to adjust to the turn of events.

"You think I want a blushing virgin?" he asks, his lips against my ear. "That's never been my style." He leans back with that arched left brow, daring me to ask the obvious question. For once, Gabriel's specter is no more than a far-off flicker.

"Then what is?" Apparently, on top of losing the ability to formulate a coherent thought, I am also now a slave to his wicked mouth.

"I like to take guys who think they're in charge and show them that they're not." There's a hint of confession beneath the smolder, perfectly tailored to slink past my rapidly crumbling barriers. "Breaking them is almost as much fun as fucking them."

I can almost see it—the banter and the battle of wills and the inevitable triumph— That Echo . Cocky and reckless and chasing the same.

"Sounds more Narcissus than Echo," I observe, "and it doesn't sound like I'm your type either. No one's ever accused me of thinking I'm in charge." Not accommodating, considerate, careful Byrd.

"I think my tastes are changing." He slides his hands up my chest and laces them at the base of my skull before running his thumbs through the scruff of beard along my jaw. "The only part of you I want to break is your self-control."

On the last word, he rolls his hips, bringing the hard ridge of his cock against mine, and the groan that escapes me sounds like surrender.

"Echo." It's a warning. A desperate plea. My hands are clenched around the firm slope of his ass, and my hips rock helplessly under him. His lips are on my throat, blazing along my rocketing pulse.

"Break for me," he breathes, and I feel the last of my sanity siphoning into his storm.

"So you can fuck me?" The words are thrown out like fingernails scrabbling for purchase, heedless of the cost.

It works. He rears back, eyes wide with shocked heat, and his body goes still .

"Would you let me?" he asks.

No. Yes. Not in the car. Nothing comes out but a shuddering breath. Understanding ripples across his features.

"How many guys have you been with?"

"Three." Don't ask me about them. Especially not him.

"Have you ever bottomed?" This time, he punctuates the question with another rock of his hips, as if testing my resolve.

"No." I have to tell him. I can't touch him like this with Gabriel's shade between us.

If you tell him, he'll never let you touch him again.

That's the whole point.

Is it ? I shake my head a fraction, and something flashes in his eyes.

He answers my denial with a kiss, twining his arms around my neck and pressing all the lethal lines of his body against mine. I forfeit the internal battle on a groan—my hands are under his shirt, sliding over his sleekly muscled back to grip his shoulders, and his mouth is melting, I'm melting, the world is melting.

"It doesn't matter," he whispers, close enough to drown in. "You can have me any way you want."