The money man blinked at me. “What?”
“The other clown. He had a yellow strip in his hair. Baggy hat. It was a few hours ago.”
Realization flashed through his expression. “Oh, right.” He shouted over his shoulder, “Hey, Eddie! Eddie!”
“What?” a voice shouted back from somewhere beyond the open door of a small trailer.
“Orion still here?”
“No,” the voice called back. “Just left, had to work a party tonight.”
Money man turned back to me. “He left. Has to work a party.”
I frowned. What kind of party needed a clown at after eight on a Saturday? “A kid’s party?”
The man scowled at me. “No, an adult party.”
Adult party? “You mean like some…clown kink thing or something?”
He glanced at the dunk tank, rubbed dust out of his eyes with a rag, then did a doubletake at me. “What? No! What the hell is wrong with you? I mean he’s doing his psychic readings at a party. Do you even know Orion?”
That was my cue to leave. There was alarm and suspicion in the man’s eyes now. “Thanks for your help.”
I made my way swiftly back toward the parking lot. It took a few seconds to realize someone was following right on my heels.
“Hey, wait the fuck up!”
I froze, turning to see the money man glaring at me, one fist clenching and unclenching. I attempted to appear casual, even as I straightened to my full height and inflated my chest like a threatened puffer fish. “What?”
“You know this is all just fun and games, right?” He pointed to the dunk tank. “If Orion insulted you, it was just part of the gig. You’re not looking to get all retaliatory, are you?”
Oh. He thought I was off to punch a clown who’d threatened my masculinity. And he’d probably just realized he’d given me said clown’s name, which he shouldn’t have. “No, no.” I held my hands up, palms out. “I just wanted to ask him a question. Nothing to do with the game.”
“A question about what?”
I thought fast. “Psychic readings.”
“You didn’t know he did psychic readings a minute ago.”
“Look, he said something to me earlier today, and I just wanna ask him about it. I’m not looking to cause trouble, okay? I’m a father.”
I wasn’t sure why I pulled out the Dad Card, but I was desperate to be seen as benign and nonthreatening. To my surprise, it seemed to work. Slowly, he nodded, and stepped back. “All right then.”
“Great,” I said, and turned back to the parking lot. It was a struggle to stroll slowly off and not break into a sprint.
I’d been in very few fights in my life, but was sure I could hold my own if the need arose. But I didn’t want to fight. Plus, it would be pretty humiliating to have to call my father because I got arrested fighting with a carnie at the park. And I would have to call my dad, because I’d never allow one of my so-called friends in town to witness such a fall from grace. They already pitied me because of the divorce; I wouldn’t give them any more ammo. Which came as a bit of a surprise that I still had any pride left.
I approached my vehicle and had just hit the unlock button when I saw him. My clown. He stood over the open trunk of a car diagonally ahead of me, one row over. I’d noticed the car first, or my eye might not have been drawn that way. It was a vintage convertible Mustang with a black top, gold and shining under the dingy lights of the parking lot. Maybe I was embracing an impending midlife crisis, if flashy cars were starting to draw my eye. But it was cool, sleek and interesting, the antitheses to my safe, practical pickup. I couldn’t imagine he drove that Mustang in the winter; it would turn into a damn sled on the icy Hillock roads. Maybe he didn’t live here year-round.
He was taller than he’d appeared seated in the dunk tank, lean but more solid than I’d thought, with broad shoulders and a long waist. Though I clearly outweighed him and probably had an inch on him in height, there was something mildly intimidating about the guy. Even just standing there, shoving things around in his trunk, his stance screamed confidence—someone who knew exactly who he was and where he was going.
He must have cleaned up and changed somewhere because there was no trace of makeup, and he was no longer dressed as a clown. I just recognized the bright yellow strip of hair at the front, which ran from his center part to just past his chin. No baggy hat now, the rest of his locks were silky brown, ringlets at the bottom tossing around in the night wind.
Slamming the trunk closed, he strolled toward the front of his car, and I got a full view of him, that bone structure recognizable even scrubbed clean. And shit, far more handsome than I’d initially thought, so I forgave myself for the strange, jealous fascination he provoked in me. I was doubting my earlier decision to approach this total stranger, but I had only seconds to decide, as he was opening the driver’s side door.
“Hey!” I shouted.
He paused, and I winced, regretting this even as a flutter of excitement made my breath catch. One hand gripping the car door, he turned and looked my way. Orion. That’s what the sweaty carnie had called him. Orion. Like the constellation. It suited him, though who knew if it was even his real name. It sounded a little too much like a name someone claiming to be a psychic would choose.
“Who is that?” he called over. “You talking to me?”
It was a deeper, yet still raspy version of the amplified voice I’d heard from the dunk tank, and he had a slight accent. Definitely American, but he didn’t sound like he was from Hillock Beach, at least not originally. Hillock locals had a soft-spoken, polite tone even when they were telling you off or calling you an asshole. But this guy’s words came out a little rough and clipped, like a tough guy in a gangster movie, his ‘Who is that?’ more like ‘Who zat?’
I forced my legs to move, taking slow, non-threatening strides toward him, hands stuffed in my pockets so he knew I didn’t want to hit him. “Hi, yeah, sorry to ambush you. I just want to ask you a question.”
His body stiffened, and if not for the breeze making his hair and clothing flutter, I’d have thought he’d turned to stone. And speaking of clothing, lord, what an outfit. No longer a clown, but he still looked ready for a performance. A brown silk vest open over a beige blousy shirt, black jeans tucked into knee-high boots. Red and black beads draped over a tanned chest partially visible where the top of his shirt was left open. Silver and turquoise bracelets jingling on his wrists. I noted now that the yellow strip of hair had been braided and adorned with black and red beads that matched the ones around his neck.
Talk about over the top. It should have been too weird to look as damn flattering as it did, but my eyes couldn’t stop studying the details of him, from his black boots to the subtle eye makeup—nothing as extravagant as the clown makeup, just a thin black line along his lower lid. The rest of his face was bare now, skin golden brown, perfect heart-shaped lips, though they tightened to a straight line as I closed the distance between us. “Hey,” I said again. “Do you remember me? From this afternoon? You said something to me right before you got dunked.”
He watched me with cautious, reflective dark brown eyes. I’d first thought he was spooked by my approach, but closer, I saw something cold in those eyes, and I felt like a chipmunk being studied by an owl. I still guessed his age at somewhere in his twenties, but he appeared more mature without the clown makeup. No facial hair, but his jawline was stubble-shadowed.