11. ELEVEN
ELEVEN
JOKER
T he knock at Rocco's office door came out with too much force against the silence, and I felt the tension ripple through my fingers. I'd never asked for anything before, not like this. I'd just kept my head down and worked harder than anyone else, ignoring every muttered insult and sidelong glance that painted me as a freak .
"Come in," Rocco's voice boomed from the other side, all rough and impatient.
I eased the door open and stepped inside. His office was darker than the hall, illuminated only by a few dim, amber lights that barely cut through the gloom. Rocco slouched over his desk, one arm wrapped around the bottle of rum like it was his only lifeline. Papers lay strewn across the table; a few glass ornaments lay shattered on the floor, shards glinting in the faint light.
Without raising his head, he mumbled back, "What do you want?"
"I… remember when you said we needed more people?" I ventured, choosing every word with caution.
He didn't even look at him. "I said we needed more clowns, " he replied, each letter cold, deliberate. "C-L-O-W-N-S."
I swallowed, fighting off the dry knot in my throat. "Well, I found one. A female… clown."
Finally, he lifted his head, eyes sharpening as his gaze latched onto mine. "You're joking."
My hands twisted behind my back as I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "She doesn't have to necessarily be a clown. She dances, does magic… she's versatile."
Rocco raised an eyebrow. "You like her, don't you?"
I shook my head. My voice was low, "It’s not that. She… she needs our help."
Sighing, he struggled to his feet, liquor tilting his steps. "Do we even know who this girl is?"
I looked down, my voice barely above a whisper. "She's Carlo's sister. The boy you asked I bring to the town."
In a split second, he fell upon me, his hand closing in on my throat as he hissed, "You brought her here? What the hell were you thinking?"
I pushed him back, bristling. "I wasn't thinking, alright?"
Rocco turned me loose, staggering back with a wince. "She can't stay here."
"I already told her she could," I said, my voice steely. "And I told her we'd bring her brother too."
The next thing I knew, his voice thundered, " YOU IDIOT! " He slapped a hand over his face, groaning. "Lock that damn door."
I turned, crossed to the door, and twisted the lock, feeling his gaze boring into my back. When I faced him again, I dropped the words I knew would press him: "I'm not an idiot. And if you don't tell me what's going on, I'll make sure everyone knows how clowns around here are just disappearing. "
Rocco's eyes darkened as he reached for the bottle and took a long drink before setting it down finally with a dull thud. "Fine. Those clowns?" His voice was low, this strange calm beneath the words. "They're people nobody cares about, nobody's looking for. I made a deal. They get traded, out of sight, so they don't have to take innocents."
The admission landed between us. "You struck a deal with the Family?" I spat, the bitter bile rising in my throat. "What the hell, Rocco? I was bluffing."
"I know," he said, settling back into his chair—older, it seemed to me, than he had any right to look. "But I needed someone to know."
I moved closer, leaning my hands on the edge of his desk. "So what does that mean for us?"
He looked at me with sunken eyes. "It means that they could also come for us."
I collapsed onto the chair beside Rocco's desk, finally feeling the weight of it all settle onto me. Instantly, my mind wandered to her—the girl I had promised safety, and swore to protect. I had made that promise out of nowhere, but now, as I sat here, I wondered if I was even capable of protecting myself. My life itself had always been a gamble, something that I had so gladly taken under my wing and cared nothing for. But for her? For her, I would kill if it ever came to that. Disturbingly, how fast she'd seemed to slip into my heart—a stranger who'd managed to poison the veins with an appealing pull I couldn't shake off. She was under my skin, seeping into thought, infecting every corner of my brain until I barely felt like myself.
I was snapped out of that long-ago scene by the sound of Rocco's voice. "They used to gather here, in the basement, and if they come asking for it again, no one will be safe."
"I heard rumors, but is it that bad?" I asked, dread creeping up my spine.
He merely shook his head. "Tell the girl she can stay with the Aerialists. They're down a performer, so she'll need to learn how to dance and perform if she wants to stay here."
"And her brother?" I pressed on, knowing I couldn't leave without some kind of assurance for him too.
Rocco was chuckling, a dark throaty sound that raised the fine hairs along my neck. "He's small enough to work with the cannonballs," he said with a cruel grin, tipping back another sip of rum.
I couldn't help the glare that shot his way. "Your heart is stone cold, you know that?"
"Fine, fine," he laughed louder, the bitterness cutting in his voice. "He can be a clown. It's fitting, isn't it?"
I stood, rolling my eyes as I headed for the door.
"Goodbye, Rocco," I muttered, not waiting for a response as I slipped out, closing the door firmly behind me.
As I walked down the hallway, my mind was able to race. Rocco had told me things, but it was just as obvious he was withholding. He spoke in half-lies, circling the meat of what mattered. Whispers of secrets lay soft in the air around him, razor-sharp and deadly enough to slice through the lives of everyone here. And now—Lord knew somehow—I was connected with them too.
If I wanted answers, I'd have to get him to trust me. Trust enough to open up the vault of truths he was hiding behind all his drunken stories. We all had secrets—some darker, some deeper—but I knew one thing: eventually, they would all claw their way out. And when they did, the truth wouldn't just come out quietly. It would tear through our lives, piece by brutal piece.
I slipped into the room, shutting the door softly behind me, the click of the lock loud in the quiet. With Bart and Chico still out, I had the space to myself, and for one brief moment, the silence was a weight I wasn't sure how to carry. I took a step forward toward the bed where she lay, her breathing steady and deep. I couldn't help it—my gaze followed curves outlined half-hidden beneath the blanket that had shifted just enough to reveal the line of her hip, the smooth stretch of her thigh. My shirt was draped over her, hiked just above her waist, and she held one arm over her chest, the other tucked beneath her head, her face peaceful.
My hand drifted to my side, my fingers twitching as I wrestled the urge to reach out. She looked like she belonged here, like I'd always known her this way, wrapped in my shirt, breathing my air. And the need simmering under my skin was almost painful, sharp in its intensity.
She's teasing me, even in her sleep.
The concentrated low of heat stirred every nerve, and I gritted my teeth, looking aside for a moment to gather myself. I turned back to the door, rechecking the lock, knowing it was just another excuse to stall what was wanted upstairs. Coming back to her side, I let my shirt slide from my shoulders; cool air grazed my skin.
I dabbled my fingers over her skin, wondering what she'd feel like, wondering if she liked soft touches or something rougher, something that'd leave a memory in her bones.
Do you like being touched? I thought, almost said to her as my hand hovered over the curve of her hip.
I let my fingers glide gently down her thigh, only skimming enough to feel the soft warmth of her skin. I stopped myself, lifting my hand away as I shook my head.
No, I told myself, but it was hard not to want more. The blanket fell further and revealed her back and shoulder, a vulnerable exposure of her body, and my fists knotted in the restraint I had to call.
Then she stirred; a soft murmur escaped her lips, and I turned, catching my breath.
"Hi," she said with a low, very sleepy voice as she sat up and rubbed her eyes.
"Hi," I replied, my back still to her as I tried to drag every thought back that had run across my mind. I could feel her shift closer, and the warmth seeped into the space between us, it took every ounce of control not to turn and close that distance between us.
"Sorry, I must have fallen asleep," she whispered, her breath against the back of my neck. I could feel the tension coil tighter, the pull to reach out and claim her overwhelming. But I knew better. If I moved now—if I let the hunger take over—she'd think this was all I wanted, that this was why I'd saved her. I clenched my fists tighter, the faint sting of glass buried in my palm drawing me back to reality, a quick, grounding pain.
Her eyes dropped to my hand, her brow furrowing, and she reached out. "You're bleeding," she said softly, grasping my hand in hers. Her touch was soft and warm, but the second her fingers made contact with mine, something inside me urged me to pull away.
"It's okay," I muttered, trying not to let the favorable urge inside me to keep her hand there, to cling onto her touch just a little longer.
"It's not fine," she insisted, stepping closer, her expression softening as she caught my gaze. "Let me take care of it."
Her eyes locked with mine, those large, expressive orbs filling with warmth—a softness that cloaked a fierce side, one I knew could be merciless towards anyone who crossed her. But somehow, I was the lucky one to whom she seemed to care. Something inside me stirred at her look, a small spark, curiously even comforting. I leaned my head sideways, nodding toward the closet. "First aid kit's in the bottom drawer."
She walked across the room, and my eyes followed her. The way my shirt shifted over her frame as she moved made a hot pulse run through me. I turned away, trying to regain myself as she snatched up the kit and sat beside me on the bed, placing the box on the sheets.
"Can I?" she asked softly, her fingers already reaching for my hand.
I nodded, and she took my hand delicately, but at the same time firmly. I swallowed, feeling the warmth of her fingers as she started to pour alcohol over my cuts, sending this brief sting through my skin. Her face was inches from mine while she focused intently on leaning in with the tweezers to remove a shard of glass.
"This might hurt a bit," she said, her face close enough that I could make out flecks of gold in her eyes looking up at me. I didn't flinch, just felt my pulse thudding evenly. Then she drew out the first shard, and her fingers touched mine as she readied to reach for another shard.
One stray strand had kept working its way out from behind her ear to tickle her face as she worked, and she kept pushing it back with just this little sigh of annoyance. And the second time, when it fell again, and the third, and the fourth—but the fifth time, I couldn't help it. She was just… so adorable.
I didn't think, just lifted my free hand, my thumb brushing against her chin to angle her face up toward me.
I gently tucked the rogue strand behind her ear, my fingers lingering near her cheek. Her eyes locked onto mine, and at that exact moment, the world faded into the silence between us. All instincts yelled in my head to pull away, to keep the boundary I'd set between them and me. But my heart had other plans, and I found myself thinking, screw it.
I leaned in and closed the space between us, my lips finding hers in a soft, tentative kiss. She met me there, and all at once, that light, tiny spark roared into being, something all-consuming. Her lips parted, and our tongues danced together, exploring, tasting, moving as if we’d done this a thousand times before.
I tugged her closer, deepening the kiss, savoring each second of it until a smile tugged at the corner of her lips and broke us apart for a breath.
"I'm not sorry I did that," I muttered, clenching my jaw as I looked at her, anchoring into the now. "Just so you know."
She gave a soft, quiet chuckle. Her voice was still soft as her teeth bit into her lip. "I'm not sorry either."
She turned back to my hand then, her touch light as she cleaned the remaining wounds, dabbing the blood away with care. Finally, she wrapped my hand, the warmth of her touch lingering, even through the bandage.
"Am I all fixed up?" I asked, raising my hand playfully.
She laughed, her eyes rolling as she got up and went to clear the bloodied shards of glass. When she came back, she lay on the bed, stretching out beside me with a faint smile.
"Maybe."
"Just maybe?" I said, lying down beside her, no more than a few inches of mattress between us.
"Or maybe neither of us can be fixed," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
We lay there, side by side, our hands brushing, connected by that single touch. The silence that had built around us grew, the most unlikely peace, the kind of peace that digs into your bones and makes you want to linger, to grasp every second. I could have stayed this way forever, and in that silence, I knew I did not want it to end.