Lead Him Not Into Temptation (Redemption Book 2) (7 page)

“Actually, I’m doing a photo shoot for the CDC in the next few weeks for their new VD posters. I think you would be a perfect model for it,” Jen says as politely and sweetly as possible. The true meaning of what she’s implying flies entirely over Stacy’s head and her demeanor changes immediately.

“Really, a model? You think so?” she asks, her tone full of hope, her eyes brightening up with the possibility of a modeling career. Royce doubles over with laughter and I know as soon as he catches his breath, he will crush her hopes.

“All right, Jen, it’s time to go, we have that reservation to get to.” I grab her by the arm and pull her out of the room before she can resist.

“Casen has my number,” Stacy shouts after us as we exit. “Call me!”

I quickly close the door, averting the crisis.

“Is that the dramatics you were after?” Jen asks as we walk down the hallway toward the parking lot.

“Not exactly.” I pin her with my eyes. “Come on, it’s still early, I’m taking you out.”

“I’m good, thanks,” she shoots back, pulling out of my grip.

“Get over yourself, sparkplug. It’s not a date; we’re going to go blow off some steam.” I hold open the backdoor to the venue for Jen and the warm spring air slams into us. There was a storm the evening before, so the humidity is high. A perfect night for what I have in mind for us.

Jen

“You have got to be shittin’ me,” I say as we pull into the gravel parking lot. “You realize we aren’t thirteen, right? We’re adults.”

Casen puts the pickup in park; a truck I think he has the strangest, almost unhealthy, relationship with, and he looks to me with a shit-eating grin. “Just because we’re almost thirty, doesn’t mean we need to act like it all the time. I know you’re not the boring type, sparky. Get out of the truck, we’re having some fun tonight.”

I’m always a girl up for a good time, but I haven’t been to a carnival since I was a freshman in high school. The lights of the death traps for rides brighten the night sky as waves of teenagers fill the fairgrounds, racing from one electronic adventure to the next. None of it makes me want to hop out and run to the Tilt-a-Whirl. Standing in a crowded line with a bunch of horny, zit-faced teenagers is not my idea of a rip-roaring good time

Casen runs around the front of the truck and opens my door. What a gentleman, too bad I’d have just as much chance of needing a tetanus shot whether I went near a carnival ride or his man parts. He swings open the passenger door, and the smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and roasted peanuts fill my nostrils, tickling me with temptation.

“Get your ass out of the truck, sparkplug,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take. “We’re going to have us some fun.”

Smacking his hand away, I jump down out of the truck. “No twisty, spinning rides which may end my life and you’re buying me as much junk food as I can hold down.” I turn to him, looking for agreement.

“You got it, but you owe me one round on the bumper cars,” he says, shutting the truck door behind me.

The bumper cars sound like the perfect way to let out some of the pent-up frustration I have for this man. Instead of admitting my friends are right and I like Casen, I find it easier to pretend he brings out my homicidal tendencies. The bumper cars sound ideal; where else can I act out my road rage fantasies and legally rear-end someone?

Walking side by side, we slowly approach the chaos. I giggle at Casen as the jittery excitement I’m containing spills out. The sirens and screams from the rides mix with the buzzers of the games area and the overwhelming noise begins to crowd my senses. My eyes widen at the sight, which includes carnies ready to swindle me out of a dollar, funnel cakes, and ring toss for a gold fish prize. All I need now is a margarita stand and I would squeal.

“I thought you were too old for such childish things?” Casen asks, when he notices my enthusiasm.

I rein in a grin before answering, which probably makes me look even worse. “Well, I figure if I’m going to spend the evening with you and a bunch of hormonal teenagers, I might as well drink the Kool-Aid and enjoy myself. Besides, I could never pass up the opportunity to beat your ass at ring toss.”

“Sure, sure,” he laughs. “Whoever gets the biggest stuffed animal wins. Loser buys the winner a funnel cake. Sound like a fair wager?”

I let my eyes scan over the rows of games, sizing up my best options. “Biggest stuffed animal or the most prizes?” I ask for clarification.

“Biggest.” He folds his arms across his chest waiting for my answer. I stare at the intricate designs of his tattoos splayed across his tanned, toned arms. They are beautiful to look at and for a split second, I think about what it would feel like to have them wrapped around me. Unfortunately, I know his mouth would probably ruin my warm, fuzzy moment.

“And you can’t buy the prize, it must be won,” he adds when he notices my devious grin, albeit for a different reason than he thinks.

“Of course. No cheating. Game’s on, sucker,” I agree, lightly pushing on his stone hard chest. I wonder if those tattoos merge onto his chiseled chest.
Fuck, Jen, get your lady parts under control,
I tell myself, quickly pulling my hand back and letting it hang at my side.

We both buy a bundle of tickets and rush to the bumper cars. We figure it’s better to get the assault and battery out of the way before we begin hauling around the massive amount of prizes we both plan to win. I’m sure we’re both overestimating our ability to out-play the carnie-folk who learn from birth how to rig a game so no one ever wins, but nonetheless, we are confident.

Handing the operator my ticket, I rush through the gate and select my vehicle of mayhem. “I want the green one!” I shout, jumping into the driver’s seat and buckling the seat belt. It seems like an oxymoron to have safety restraints on a ride in which the purpose is to knock the shit out of the other participants using an electric car the size of a Power wheel. “Prepare for a week of whiplash, Thompson,” I tease as he climbs into a blue car with yellow racing stripes. I can’t help but smile at this man who seems so carefree. He’s not like me. He isn’t hiding; he’s not afraid to truly be with someone. He hasn’t restrained his heart to protect it from the whiplash of love. No, Casen is nothing like me.

The cars are filled with people, but there is only one particular car I zero in on when the operator flips the switch to bring the cars to life. The poles connecting the cars to the ceiling spark and buzz as the cars move around the roller-skating rink arena. I press on the accelerator and turn the wheel in the direction of Casen. Moving behind a group of other riders, I’m hoping for an initial surprise attack; it may be the only good shot I get at him. I swing around the cluster of people, only to realize I’ve lost him in the crowd. I search the cars looking for the blue car with recognizable yellow stripes and I come up empty.

Then out of nowhere, my body lurches forward, my face nearly hitting the foam steering wheel. I now have an appreciation for the harness I mocked not more than five minutes ago. I rub my neck and look behind me to verbally bash the culprit, only to see Casen there. He took a play from my bumper-car playbook and used it against me…asshole.

“Looks like you may need a refresher course on the purpose of bumper-cars, sparkplug,” he says as cocky as ever. “I think you confused it with go-carts.”

“Very funny,” I snap. “You just watch your ass, speed-racer.” I narrow my eyes at him and rocket around him. Turning in a circle, I race toward him and slam into the side of his car, sending him crashing into the side of his vehicle. He frowns at me, almost stunned that I took a shot at him. I pretend to be innocent of any wrongdoing, but I immediately smile on the inside.

We spend the remainder of the five-minute ride evading each other while occasionally bumping into others around us unintentionally. That is, until we notice a teenage boy purposely knocking into all of the younger kids on the ride. He knows none of them and is intentionally broadsiding any kid smaller than him; some have even started to cry. Casen and I look to one another and without speaking, we both know what to do with this little shit. We circle in opposite directions in order to outflank deputy dipshit. Timing it perfectly, we accelerate and slam into either side of the teen’s car, bouncing from Casen’s then to mine like a ping-pong ball. I wanted to yell, ‘Score! Man down,’ but I instead I try to act my age. It’s difficult, but I do my best.

“Young man, are you okay? That was a hard hit,” I ask him, acting as concerned as possible considering my limited acting skills.

He looks pissed at first, rubbing his neck. “Jeeeez, it’s like you tried to hit me on purpose.”

“Dude, you know you’re on the bumper-cars, right? If you were looking for non-contact, there’s a go-cart place just down the road,” Casen interjects. His eyes slide to mine and I try to hide my smile at the same words he used on me.

“Whatever, you guys suck. Aren’t you a little old to be at a carnival without kids?” dingle berry says as he walks away. As soon as he’s out of sight, I finally let out the laugh I’d been holding in.

“I told you we were too old to be here,” I tell Casen through laughter.

“Why, because the teenage bully we just gave a lesson to said so? Yeah, I’m gonna go with bullshit on that one,” he jokes.

Casen places his hand on my back and leads me through the exit of the arena. His hand feels like fire; however, his touch is not a burn I would shy away from. It’s a warmth which makes me want to snuggle into him and seek more of. I fight through the feeling and move away from him. I know better than to get into a relationship, especially with a guy like Casen. I’m great at flings, give me a week or maybe two and it’s a magical time filled with awesome sex. I don’t venture into anything more than that. More would require honesty; it would require sharing the real me with someone. I can’t risk the emotional crippling of rejection; so instead, I sacrifice relationships for casual encounters. They are safer, easier. For the last decade safe and easy is all I’ve wanted.

Casen and I hit game stand after game stand, cashing in our tickets. I say cashing in because that’s exactly what it’s like. We paid for the tickets just to hand said tickets right back to the person running the game, without ever getting anything in return. My luck sucked, but at least Casen hasn’t been much better. He’s toting around a tiny stuffed rabbit he won at the baseball throw.

It’s not until we walk up on the ball toss when I feel my luck turn around. The objective is to toss a ball into wooden baskets. The catch? The baskets are propped up in a way, which favors finesse and not strength. Most of the time the ball will bounce right out.

It’s do or die time. Pulling the hair tie off my wrist, I throw my hair into a messy bun. I need to make this last ticket count. “You want to go first?” I ask, trying not to show my frustration.

“No, you go right on ahead,” he says, handing his ticket over to me. “Here’s my ticket, too. I think you may need all the help you can get.”

I take his ticket and tear it up. “You’re an ass, and now neither of us can use it. You better hope Peter Cottontail can hold up a little longer.”

Giving the carnie behind the booth counter a thorough once over, I hand the little red stub over to him. His grimy clothes, oily hair, and yellowing teeth fit the name plastered across his faded nametag. Bart, like the pirate. A pirate that wants to steal my last chance at victory. The only prizes available are humungous teddy bears. Why? You get three balls and all three have to make it into the baskets to win. A person is lucky to get one in, thus the lure of the big prize. Bart slides the bucket filled with three whiffle balls to me and instructs me to take my time. Yeah, time is what I need to win; thanks for the tip, Bart.

Picking up the first whiffle ball, my fingers twisting into the holes of the ball, I concentrate on the baskets. Taking aim, I delicately toss the ball toward the center and it settles at the bottom of the basket. “Fuck ya!” I shout when I see the ball isn’t going to bounce out. “One down, Mr. Thompson,” I brag.

I swipe ball number two from the bucket and repeat my previous technique. I’m met with the same positive results. Only one ball sits between victory and me. I eagerly pick up the final ball and take my aim. Just as I’m about to release it, Casen leans in and whispers, “Don’t choke.” The jerk even blows in my ear.

“You cheated!” I yell, as the ball bounces out of the basket and rolls across the dirt.

“You weren’t concentrating. If you really wanted to win, you would have,” he explains, turning and walking in the direction of the food carts.

I’m left stunned with anger beginning to roll off me. Realizing I’m being left behind, I race to catch up to him at the funnel cake stand. “That’s a load of shit and you know it.”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “But I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t get beat by a girl.”

I roll my eyes; I know damn well Casen doesn’t care if he loses to a girl. He just wanted to piss on my parade.

Casen takes a look around and finds a little girl nearby and offers her his rabbit. He even asks the girl’s parents first. I’m sure if Carly or Vivian were here, their hearts would have melted and their ovaries would have had a heart attack, but not me. My first thought is,
you’re not supposed to take gifts from strangers, little girl.
What kind of parents are these to let some random, thirty-something guy give their kid a stuffed animal at a carnival, when said guy doesn’t even have kids with him? It screams Dateline special on how to catch a predator.