Page 16 of Knife Thrower

I pull my shoulders back.

Anne Marie steps away, winding the yellow tape around her knuckles. She gives me one final, assessing nod.

“I’ll design you an outfit that turns every head in that Big Top,” she promises, sliding the pins back between her teeth. “Even the ones that are supposed to be looking at him.”

The wounded sound Cole makes actually makes me smile. There’s something disarming about these people, and I’m not sure I was ready for it.

5

COLE

Eight inches of steel leaves my hand, carving a silver arc through the air of the Big Top. It spins twice under the rigging lights, then Sloane’s hand snaps up. The catch is silent, nothing but the soft friction of her palm against the hilt, stopping the blade a mere two inches from her nose.

Her icy blue eyes remain fixed on my face. She doesn’t blink. Her chest rises and falls in a steady, unbroken rhythm.

I swallow hard. I can’t keep my eyes off her.

“Blindfolds are a parlor trick,” I announce, pacing the edge of the sawdust ring. I pluck another blade from the leather bandolier strapped across my chest. “Spinning wheels are cheap. Every two-bit carnival from here to Vegas puts a girl on a wheel and throws knives at her. We need spectacle. We need something that makes the crowd forget how to breathe.”

Sloane lowers her arm and turns the blade in her fingers.

“Trust requires stakes,” she answers, her voice flat, echoing across the empty bleachers. “You want them to stop breathing, you put me in a position where a mistake costs a limb. A blind throw. No auditory cues.”

I pause, letting the knife rest against my thigh. I study her face. The severe line of her jaw. The absolute lack of flirtation or game-playing in her expression. I’ve spent a decade and a half traveling the country, and women leave room keys in my pockets when I’m standing in line for coffee. A grin, a flip of the hair, a decent spread of tattoos, and the rest does itself.

But Sloane? I could strip naked in the center of this ring and she’d critique my throwing stance. She is completely, genuinely immune to whatever it is I sell. Pushing her, throwing out my usual sleazy charm, will only make her lock the deadbolt tighter. If I want a way in, the front door is barricaded. I need to slip through a window.

I reholster the knife, then walk over and sit on the wooden barrier circling the ring, letting my legs dangle.

“Take a break, Archer,” I order, leaning back on my palms. “Before we figure out how to maim each other, humor me. What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done for a crowd?”

She hesitates. Her grip tightens on the hilt of the knife she holds, eyes narrowing in suspicion. I keep my face open, innocent, offering nothing but casual curiosity. A friend asking a friend.

“Walt wanted a fire element,” she finally says. The words come out stiff, but she doesn’t retreat. “He bought a trick apple. Hollowed out, filled with a magnesium powder mix. I stood with it on my head. He was supposed to graze the top, spark the powder, and create a flash bang.”

I wince, already seeing the trajectory. “Let me guess. He threw low.”

“He hit dead center. The apple split. The powder dumped directly into my hair, ignited, and I spent ten seconds as a human candle.” She sets the knife down on a nearby crate, perfectly calm. “Walt beat the flames out with a damp towel. I smelled like burnt hair for a month.”

I stare at her. “You let a man light your head on fire and you didn’t quit?”

“He bought me dinner afterward.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The tension in her shoulders shifts, loosening a fraction of an inch. “Your turn. Stupidest stunt.”

A grin spreads across my mouth. I rub the back of my neck, letting a memory bubble up from the depths of my own bad decisions.

“Lubbock, Texas. I was nineteen,” I start, kicking my heels against the wood. “I had this idea that a solo act wasn’t enough. I needed a prop. An animal companion to add an element of untamed danger. So, I bought a goat off a guy behind a gas station.”

Sloane’s right eyebrow creeps upward. “A goat.”

“His name was Barnaby. He had horns, a ragged beard, and a chaotic glint in his eye. Pure menace. My plan was to put him on a stool in the center of the ring and throw a halo of blades around him. Prove my precision.” I shake my head, letting the absurdity of it wash over me. “The guy at the gas station forgot to mention one tiny genetic flaw. Barnaby was a fainting goat.”

Sloane stares at me. A tiny, nearly invisible crack forms in her composure.

“Opening night,” I continue, projecting my voice to fill the tent. “Packed house. I walk out in this ridiculous sequined vest. Barnaby is on his stool, chewing a piece of cardboard. I cock my arm back, build the tension, and let the first knife fly. It hits the wood a foot above his head with a loud thwack.” I slap my hands together for effect. “Barnaby’s knees lock. He turns stiff as a board and tips backward off the stool like a furry table.”

Sloane bites her bottom lip. Hard.

“The crowd goes dead silent,” I say, leaning forward. “I panic. I can’t stop the show. So I pretend it’s part of the act. I start throwing blades around this paralyzed goat lying on his side in the sawdust. I’m striking heroic poses. The goat looks stuffed.”