“I did,” he says, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d give that much of a fuck, but fuck, Kill, the whole fucking compound could hear the two of you arguing.”
I suck in another gulp of poison before blowing it back out. “That wasn’t arguing.”
King and Kyrin share a stare before they both look back to me.
“Are you forgetting the plan?” King murmurs. “Because if you’re not equipped to do it, I can send someone else in.”
I freeze, the cigarette just short of my lips. “You can’t actually, because Saskia isn’t someone who lets anyone in. She has walls so high that no motherfucker can climb.”
“You did.” King glares at me.
I grin. “I didn’t actually, I just tore the fuckers down.” There’s not one fucking person walking this earth that is as close to her as me—and that’s including Kenan.
King seems to ponder over my words before he snatches the smoke back from me. “Maybe, but that, brother, wasn’t supposed to happen.”
A smirk crawls onto my lips, my eyes hooded. “Or was it?”
Killian’s back and forth reminds me of being on a pirate ship. It rocks constantly, but you know that you better hang on for your life because he’d have no problem throwing you overboard.
I’ve missed this. The anticipation to a show, not knowing what could or couldn’t happen. I haven’t spoken to Killian since the morning he stormed in and out of my bus. I’m worried about how my act is going to go tomorrow night because of it.
My phone vibrates in my hands as I’m making my way over to the tent to train. Clicking it unlocked, I open a message from Hope.
Hope: I’m sorry for worrying you, Saskia. I am ok now.
Pausing my footing to shuffle my bags into my other hand, I send off another message to her. R u home now?
She replies almost instantly. I am. Where are you? Still in Kiznitch?
I quickly reply, No, in San Antonio.
She doesn’t respond, so I carry on back to the tent, pushing my thoughts about Hope to the back of my brain. I want to ask her why she was coming to Kiznitch to begin with, but I keep forgetting every time we talk. I’ll ask her tonight.
Dropping my bags at the front of the stage, Rose, Val, and a few others are flipping around the aerials when I enter, music pouring out of the seams of the tent. I start warming up, popping my AirPods into my ears to remain focused. “Devil” by Nikyee Heaton plays as I move around the stage until my body is hot and sweaty. Someone taps on my shoulder after my third round and I quickly tear out the pods, turning to face Perse.
“You can have the speakers now!”
“Thanks.” I smile at her.
“You’ve got the floor now until six, then The Brothers are coming in.”
I nod, tearing off my shirt until I’m standing in nothing but my sports bra and Nike spandex shorts. “That’s cool. It’s all the time I need.”
Perse hands me the remote, so I can control the music, and I sync it to my phone. I flick through the songs again. The thing that I love about having my own act is that I’m allowed to choose when I change my songs or how I change them. I have complete control over my fire scenes—both of them. The rope and dragon staff. I try to keep with two different genres of music to keep it fresh but realistically, I don’t need to. It’s not like the same people are watching our show more than once in each city. Pushing play on Halsey’s “You Should Be Sad,” I light up both ends of my dragon staff and start warming up. Rolling it against my back until it falls into the palm of my hand. The music pounds through the speakers loudly. I flip the staff up as the hook exits and the chorus kicks back in. The song is powerful without being loud. The lyrics float on top of the tune, creating a perfect balance of synchronized harmony. It’s too much. Too close. Too much.
I snatch up the remote and change the song. After practicing for the final two hours that I have, I pack up my things and head backstage to put everything near my compartment and mirror. I know the songs that I’m using for my solo acts tomorrow, and I’m almost certain that we’re doing the same routine for the group and Kenan and I tomorrow since Perse hasn’t said anything, and also, the bikes have started up, so I just want to get the fuck out of here.
The smell of gasoline and burning rubber fills up the tent almost instantly, as if the vast space of it means nothing. As if the sheer opulence that constructs all of Midnight Mayhem’s tents means nothing as soon as these boys ride their Harleys up in the arena.