9. Echo

9

Echo

D riving with Byrd has become one of my new favorite things. Even if it still takes forty minutes to get anywhere, it's not like driving in LA. There are no eight-lane highways up here. No strip malls or stop lights or bumper-to-bumper traffic. Only trees and fog trying to reclaim the blacktop, and on the coast, the vast expanse of the Pacific falling away from the edge of the world.

I like the nearness of him, where I can study the play of muscles in his shoulder and the flex of his long fingers on the wheel unobserved. And the way the charged energy between us bounces around the trapped space until he has to look over at me, the deep green shadows of his hazel eyes reflecting the sylvan scenery.

"Will you tell me what happened when you fell?" he asks, taking the right onto Flynn Creek that will eventually bring us to Mendo. All the roads here are named after the landscape: Flynn Creek, Albion Ridge, Little River.

"I broke five bones in my hand and wrist." You kissed me.

"You know what I mean. "

"Are you asking how my brain got fucked up too? Maybe I landed on my head." I kissed you back.

"You didn't." He gives me a sideways look. "Reggie would have told me."

"So, one kiss, and you think I'll spill all my secrets?" I will . That was the hottest fucking kiss of my entire life. I'll give him my whole life story for another taste.

"I want to know what really happened . How you fell."

"And I want to know how your mouth feels swallowing my cock." I take a second to admire his reaction: the way his head falls back against the headrest and the sound he makes low in his throat. "I'm pretty sure it's a bad idea to drive these roads with your eyes closed," I tease. He opens them and aims a glare through the windshield.

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Trying to distract me."

"Am I distracting? I thought we were discussing the price of my secrets. That was just my opening offer." First rule of negotiating—start high. I'd definitely settle for a hand job.

"No blow jobs. And no more kisses." He flashes me a stern look. "You know this thing can't go any further, Echo. I'm evaluating you for Reggie."

"But you admit there's a thing." Giddy triumph creeps over my limbs, culminating in a rush of saliva at the lingering taste of his tongue exploring mine.

"There's no—That's not the point."

"Whatever you say." I know you want me now. I know you were as hard as I was. He glances at me again, clearly suspicious, but lets it lie. We drive in silence while he pretends to concentrate on the road and I stare at his perfect profile.

"It was the video," I say eventually .

"What video?"

"The four pirouette switches on IG. ‘ That Echo. '" There's no accusation in my voice, the bitter taste of his earlier words burned away by his molten tongue, but he flinches slightly anyway.

"You tried it on the home point?" he asks, skeptical.

"I'm not a complete idiot," I scoff. "I've only got eighteen feet at home. No way I'd pull four without dragging my feet on the last two beats." Before he can voice his confusion, I continue. "Gabe was at the house that weekend. My parents had thrown a big send-off party to celebrate me heading to Tilburg." I look out the window and remember the last time I felt like my old self, drunk on champagne, with Caleb Fortner bent over the counter in my parents' master bath. And the next afternoon, sweating out my hangover with Gabe in the studio.

" Gabe was there when you got hurt?" There's something menacing in Byrd's voice that I don't recognize, and my barely recovered cock twitches. I spend half my time around him trying to keep it in line and failing. Or not trying at all.

Is he feeling protective ? And why the hell is that so hot?

"He'd seen the video and was bugging me to demo the switches. He's got this thing where he makes it sound like he's complimenting you when he's really being an ass, and…" I hesitate, not sure how to explain. Or maybe I just don't want Byrd seeing any more of my scars.

I worshipped Gabe for half my childhood, always wishing he was around more, and I felt like an idiot when I realized he didn't feel the same. By the time I was old enough to understand him, I was already my own brand of asshole and very, very good at pretending not to care.

"Most of the time with Gabe, I let it slide," I say. "He's a dick, but it can't have been easy, watching his dad replace his mom with a younger, hotter version, and then do the same thing to him."

"Is that what you think you are? A younger, hotter version of your brother?" He throws me a glance I can't decipher, some shadow flickering beneath his carefully cultivated calm.

"Well, younger and hotter, obviously. And then I was better at circus too." I shrug and toss him a cheeky grin. "Sucks to be Gabe."

"So he tried to talk you into the switches, and you said no," Byrd says, fighting an answering smile and refusing to be distracted. "Then what happened?"

"I didn't say no. I did the two I had room for, but that wasn't impressive enough. He started talking up my double pirouette. It was my newest trick, and I worked on that fucker for months. I always liked showing it off. I had it tight at that point, too—I was barely losing any height."

If I close my eyes, I can still feel it in my body—the float of the release and the compact blur of the rotations, the rope back under my hands like magic, and my shoulders stretching to absorb the catch.

Muscle memory can be a cruel, ironic bitch. I suck in a breath and push the next words out past the hurt.

"Gabe was filming me on his phone, acting all excited and, I don't know, sort of proud? Like an actual big brother." I laugh, hating the way it sounds, young and needy. Jesus, Echo. Get it together. My head falls back, and I stare out the window again, suddenly ready to be done with the story. "So when he suggested I try it into the switch, I agreed. One double on the right, one single on the left. Should have been plenty of height."

"But it wasn't?"

"I was pushing for maximum clearance, and I started the beats too close to the rigging point. "

"It threw off the swing."

"Yep. Stupid rookie shit, right? Maybe it was the hangover. But I threw the double anyway, and of course, because of the extra swing, the rope wasn't where it was supposed to be when I came around." Even then, I wasn't scared, my brain refusing to believe the betrayal until I actually hit the ground. "I almost got my left hand on the tail. It wouldn't have saved the pirouette, but it might have slowed me down enough to get my feet under me. And I still should've been okay—it was barely fifteen feet to the mat, and I know how to fall. I've taken a hundred of them."

"Aerials 101," Byrd says, almost nostalgic. I can feel the weight of his attention, even as he navigates the twisting two-lane road, like his ability to make me important is as natural to him as breathing.

Who cares if he thinks I'm important? I'm just trying to get my dick sucked, right ? But something warm blooms in my chest, and I breathe a little easier.

"Yeah. But those techniques don't work as well on wood floors."

"You missed the mat? How the hell did that happen?"

"About ten inches of me did. And I don't know how. It was a big crash-style mat. Four by eight and six inches thick. My parents wouldn't let me train at home without it. I shouldn't have been that far off-center, even with the bad swing." I shake my head as if I can still deny it after all this time.

"I heard the crack before I felt it, and then everything's kind of a blur. Gabe freaking out and calling my dad, the ambulance, and the ER. I remember the sirens and how they magnified the pain, turning it into these long, wailing waves of agony. I remember thinking I was gonna miss my flight to Amsterdam and I hadn't even started packing, and how my dad would be pissed. "

"You were in shock."

"That's what they told me. My head CTs were clear." I laugh again, but even I can tell it sounds forced. Nothing to see. Nothing to save. Nothing to blame but myself. "I woke up in the hospital room after the second surgery and realized I'd finally done it."

"Done what?" He's frowning at me again, and his mouth is still beautiful.

"Suicide by ego. Like every other fallen god."

"I guess that explains the tattoo." He glances at my wrist, and I run my fingers over the word carved into the scar.

"It works on so many levels."

"Thank you for telling me." The words are oddly formal, but another layer peels away between us, exposing something vulnerable I'm not ready to examine.

"Did it help?" I want him back to flustered and charmed. I want him craving, not concerned, but the questions fall out anyway. "You gonna fix me now?"

Fix me. Fuck me. Find my soul.

"I want to." His voice is rough and sorry, and I wait for the rest: But there's nothing left to fix.

It doesn't come.

We crest the final hill, and the sea devours the horizon.

The last thing I expect to see when we finally pull up another one of those long-ass Mendocino driveways is a real live circus tent. It rises like a personal mirage from the sandy soil of what they call the pygmy forest—meaning stunted pine trees and manzanitas, rather than redwoods. We're only a mile or two inland, and it's flatter here, too. The space around the tent is cleared and scattered with trailers, from a tiny hand-painted ticket wagon to a sleek airstream. Two big box trucks parked at the end of the driveway declare "Big River Big Top" on the sides in a looping script.

"Mendocino has its own circus?" I ask as Byrd parks the 4-Runner next to one of the trucks.

"It's actually a European-style traveling company." A chuckle rumbles from his chest at my amazement. "My friends Shilo and Cheyenne run it with Shilo's ex, Halston. They hire acts from all over the world and tour the Pacific Northwest from June to October every year."

"Is that how you met them? Back when you were performing?" Although the lot has a lived-in feel, with camping chairs and milk-crate tables tucked beneath awnings on a few of the trailers, no one seems to be around.

"No," Byrd replies, starting toward the airstream. "I met them after a show on one of my first trips up here with Lara. But they let me play in the tent sometimes, and it's always fun to connect with the performers they bring out for rehearsals in the spring."

"The ‘beautiful freaks'?" Remembering the first night in his kitchen, I flash a grin at him, and his answering smile makes my heart leap.

"We're the best kind," he says, and I don't miss how he includes himself, and me, in the statement .

"Byrd! I thought I heard voices." A tall, totally ripped woman with short graying hair exits the airstream and throws her arms around Byrd.

"Hi, Shilo." He returns the hug with genuine affection before releasing her and gesturing to me. "This is Echo Wash. He's here for the summer, and I thought he'd enjoy checking out your scene."

"Welcome to Big River Big Top," Shilo says, shaking my hand. She has the calloused palms of an aerialist and asks the universal question. "What's your poison?"

"Rope. Some silks. Tumbling too, but I always preferred to be in the air." My standard answer, so practiced I don't have to wonder if it's still true.

"One of us, then." She winks at Byrd. "Maybe you can talk this guy into getting back where he belongs so I can hire him one of these days."

"I'm too old to start over with performing, Shilo," he protests, shaking his head.

"Bullshit." She smacks him, not particularly gently. "I'm forty-five, and you don't see me rolling over." Turning back to me, she asks, "What do you think? Seen him on the rope yet?"

Fuck yes. But I pretend I'm not swooning like a total fanboy. "Only conditioning at the cabin. I think I intimidate him."

Byrd coughs and Shilo laughs, and when I catch his eye, the heated warning there sends sparks along my spine.

"Where's everyone else today?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Cheyenne drove to SFO to pick up our first contract—duo hoop act from Hungary. They won't be back until late. Hals is on a grocery run. You probably passed him on your way up Little Lake. Josha and Milla are around somewhere. They're supposed to be running a light check this afternoon." She backs up a step before shouting "Milla" in a voice used to being obeyed.

A teenage girl in sparkly leggings and a long blond ponytail skips out of the tent, followed by a guy around my age with close-cropped auburn hair in jeans and work boots. He's pulling on a button-down shirt with the sleeves already rolled up, and even with Byrd's aura drenching my skin, I check him out by reflex.

"Almost done hanging the lights," he tells Shilo as they approach. "Hi, Byrd."

Byrd is currently wrapped in the exuberant teenage girl but manages to extract a hand to shake.

"You brought a friend," the girl, Milla, says, giving me a once-over from her spot under Byrd's arm. "He's kinda cute. Very anime. I like your tattoos."

" Milla ." Shilo shakes her head. "Sorry about my daughter. We're still working on her manners." But she sounds more exasperated than embarrassed.

"Echo." I offer my hand first to Milla— "Ooh, cool name!" —and then to the guy, Josha. "Welcome to Big Top," he says, echoing Shilo's earlier greeting, and he blushes when his hand touches mine. It's kind of adorable, but I can't help glancing over at Byrd to see if he noticed or cares.

Is he trying to set me up? Does he really think throwing me at some small-town virgin will change the insistent chemistry that fizzes between us? He doesn't protest when Milla and Josha decide to drag me back to the tent to help with their light check.

"Go have some fun."

No way I'm letting him get away with that when he had his tongue down my throat less than an hour ago.

"Sending me off to sit at the kid's table?" I tease, low so no one else can hear. His lips twitch, and for one brief, lunatic second, I consider stealing another kiss just to see his reaction. As if sensing my wild intent, he shoves me gently away, but his eyes fall to my mouth like he's tempted.

"Try to stay out of trouble."

"No promises."