Page 70 of Trigger Happy

“Can we have the orange cart, please?” Sabrina says.

“Why the orange?” I say.

“It has the least scratches and looks the most stable.”

“Sorry, dear,” the woman says as she adjusts the candy-corn pin on her vest. “We can’t do that. It’s policy.”

“Whose policy?” Sabrina says, smiling so hard I bet her enamel’s cracking.

“The festival’s policy,” she says. “We need to make sure the weight’s evenly distributed. Did you hear about the ’07 Twirl-A-Whirl disaster? My friend Johnny broke his foot, and I had to push him around in a wheelchair for two months. Now we’re married. Next!” she calls out.

I rest my elbows on the counter, breaking out the smile that’s gotten me through more security lines than any fake ID. The pre-Walker smile. “Now, ma’am, are you sure there isn’t any wiggle room?”

The lady’s cheeks go pink. “I’m sorry, dear, it’s policy.”

I can see I’ve got her, so I add, “We’d sure be grateful. My wife here’s got a fear of heights, and sitting on that particular cart would make her feel a whole lot better. Orange is her favorite color.”

I throw in a wink.

“I suppose if you’re polite enough to call me ‘ma’am,’ I can bend the rules just a smidge,” she tsks. “Go on, take the orange cart.”

I dip my hat. “You’re an angel, ma’am.”

“Oh, hush, and you’re a right devil,” she says, turning to Sabrina. “You watch out for that one.”

She loops her arm through mine. “I’ve got him on a tight leash, don’t you worry.” Once the woman’s out of earshot, she grabs my forearm and her eyes light up with excitement. “We need to find that workshop on their property.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I whisper back.

Sabrina bumps my shoulder as we inch closer to the Ferris wheel. “You know, I’m not used to you being that charming. I think the last time I saw you smile like that was when I caught you stuffing my pistol with gum.”

“What can I say? You make me feel like I just got out of prison.”

She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches at the corners. I steer her toward the open-air cart, and we take a seat in the dangling metal cage. It lurches forward and begins the slow climb up. As we rise, I scan the festival, searching the tent logos for D&Co., but then I notice her white-knuckling the metal bar harder than she’s ever held a weapon.

This has to be hell for a control-addict like her. “You actually hate this, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she says, still clutching the bar. “I want to die in something epic, like a shoot-out, not on a Ferris wheel. I don’t trust this thing. It’s going to break, or stop at the top, and then we’ll be stuck, and we’ll die, and— Do you think that guy over there is hiding a revolver or turkey leg in his jacket?”

She never lets me see her spiral, so I gently pry one of her hands off the bar, weaving my fingers through hers. She sucks in a surprised grasp and looks down. “What’re you doing? No one’s around.”

And because I know she’ll pull away if she thinks it means something, I lift a corner of my mouth and say, “This is all for me, Chastain.”

She scoffs, but her fingers clench around mine. I look at the scar on her cheek, that small mole by her mouth, those lips.

Goddamn, those lips.

Her eyes drop to my mouth too, and I think about how easy it would be to lean in, so I do.

Right as my phone buzzes.

Sabrina jerks back like the noise slapped her across the face. I fish it out of my pocket with a frustrated huff. Onyx Priority Alert: New Client Message.

“The client messaged us,” I say.

She instantly pulls out her own phone, scanning the message portal, ending whatever was happening there. I read my own screen. “They want to know if we found anything new.”

“Should we tell them about the workshop?”