The Incident (Rowan)

Book 1 Story 3 – An introduction to Rowan

The final of the 3 main characters is introduced in this longer tale

Rowan lifted his hands, revelling in the applause, once again forgetting that at least some of it was for his partner, the one who’d taken all the risk. 

Everything about the knife throwing show-off drew the eye. He was tall, and extraordinarily thin, with the long slender legs of a runway model. His burgundy swallowtail jacket hugged every line of his lean muscled frame, concealing two knife holsters up his sleeves. His torn black shorts did the same, leaving four knives in total for him to magic out of thin air. Below he wore bold, black and white striped nylons accompanied by knee-high Doc Martens to complete his signature look. 

         His most striking feature, though, was a wide-open smile that transformed his unconventional good looks to that of a man that could have just about anyone. Many an onlooker had fallen to its charm, leading him to become an expert at using it to his advantage. 

He mentally counted off the pairs of infatuated eyes, ticks on his nightly scoresheet. The ones not yet entranced he could turn soon enough.

Unable to resist one more bid for attention, he tossed a knife high into the air, catching it with ease. He then launched it hard into the audience, relishing in their alarm as it buried itself in a wooden column with a resounding THUNK. The nearest jumped, the hit a little too close for comfort. 

The carefully choreographed act, as amply rehearsed, was once again finished. Fat squealing Gideon in his pink ballerina costume escaped mutilation… Barely.

Now, it was time for the real fun to start.

Scanning the crowd, Rowan prowled the front of the stage like a fox at a henhouse. He only needed the throat of one but couldn’t resist tormenting the others while he was at it.

“It’s my favorite part!” he screamed. “Your favorite part too, I see,” addressing a woman at the back with an overexuberant screech of glee.

“TIME FOR A VOLUNTEEEERR!!!!” he roared, pumping his fists in the air to the roar of the ravenous crowd. 

He then snapped his heels together and pretended to clear his throat. “A warning though!” he grinned, pointing at a few in the fifth row. “You could be killed or molested. One is a possibility, the other is a certainty!”

It was evident from the crazed reaction they wholeheartedly welcomed either.

He dropped his chin to eye a woman in front, then hopped off the stage with effortless grace. She perfectly represented his fanbase. An overly excited grin, bright pink hair and black platform heels. Her grasping hands were typical too. Snatching one out of the air, Rowan brought it close to his lips, letting his hot breath moisten her skin but denying her the kiss she craved. When her high-pitched shrieking signalled her imminent loss of control, he finished her off by running his tongue all the way to her wrist. Then, with torturous disinterest he let it drop and moved on to the next. 

“Touch me you scrawny Adonis!” one screamed from the back. 

“Scrawny?” he replied with amusement, flexing a lean muscled bicep.

Another in the third row stood up, lifting her shirt. He beamed in appreciation, shouting, “I’ll see you later!” As he went to move on, he stopped and reconsidered in a dramatic manner. “Bring those! And her!” he added, pointing to her friend.

He then stepped past another, a bearded man looking equally as eager. “Not unless you shave,” he chided.

His partner in the next seat, however, was a rare specimen. An ebony-skinned, muscular beauty in an alluring mesh shirt and spiked collar. To him, he showed the keenest interest, straddling his lap. Lifting a finger to his dark luscious lips, Rowan leaned in, with a lust-filled growl, “Top or bottom?”

“What do you think?” the man replied with a voice deep enough to send shivers through Rowan’s core.

He nearly chose him as his ‘victim’. What he wouldn’t give to drag him up on stage, slide his hand under those thick fishnet strands. Feel every dip and swell of his perfect abs. Let himself be pulled in by this perfect ten out of a ten, held fast by his powerful arms. To surrender completely, heart racing as that low, resonant voice tickled his ear, whispering, “Let’s see what that pretty mouth can do”.

Rowan stifled a whimper, trying to force the images from his mind. Regrettably, the man wasn’t the right type. With luck, he’d find him later in some club but for now, he needed someone more malleable, someone from the back, less likely to know his stage secrets. 

He needed a sucker.

He stood up with regret, mouthing ‘call me’, desperately trying to will away the sudden tightness in his groin.

Quickly regaining focus, he found the perfect mark at the end of the fourth row. A bookish woman, late twenties/early thirties who couldn’t have looked more out of place. His audience was populated with goths, punks, and other so-called societal rejects. People attracted to the sick, twisted acts his group offered. There were always some others, college kids and looky-loos mostly, but never ones in tasteful pantsuits with sensible heels.

He almost discounted her. She seemed far too repressed to be of much use, but the woman was oddly captivated by him. No matter where or how he moved, her eyes tracked him, with parted lips and a hand idly toying with her necklace.

A wicked grin crept across his face. She was perfect.

He bounded up the stairs to her side and bid her to stand with a beckoning gesture. Startled by his sudden proximity, she froze, finger still hooked around her gold teardrop pendant. 

Rowan’s smile dripped with hunger. His black-lined eyes held hers fast as he asked, “What’s your name?”

Trapped by the depths of his brilliant blue irises she replied, “Uhhh”.

He leaned in closer, twisting his finger around one of her rich brown locks. “That’s a beautiful name,” he cooed, his microphone picking up a few snickers from the stands. “You don’t have any heart conditions, do you?” he asked, removing her fidgeting hand and drawing her upwards with insistence.

Her eyes remained firmly locked with his. “No,” she shakily whispered. 

As he pulled her to her feet, she let out a startled gasp. He was taller than she first realized. At least 4-5 inches more than her five foot eight, heels included. Gazing upwards, she felt herself enveloped by his wild, intensely sexual presence. A vague, intoxicating scent, one she couldn’t place, wound itself around her, luring her closer to sample more. It was raw, virile, evoking images of his jacket cast off to the floor. His tight, black undershirt riding up to reveal his sweat-soaked skin; dexterous fingers drawing hers to his hip bones.

Rowan chuckled with a roguish grin at her stunned expression. It was almost too easy. She was utterly mesmerized. “Say it nice and loud for the lawyers,” Rowan playfully growled, dipping his head to bring the microphone closer.

The reaction to his proximity was notable. A startled squeak drew laughs as she jolted backwards, her body trembling. “No! No heart conditions!” she blurted out, then looked back to her sister who was frantically egging her on. A longtime fan, she was seething with jealousy, but at least one of them would get close. She’d squeeze every last detail out of her later. 

Feeling a hand slide around her waist and a gentle tug, Rowan’s thoroughly charmed choice of target found herself being led down to the stage, struggling to process what just happened. She shouldn’t be the one in his grasp, shouldn’t even find him so alluring. He wasn’t her type. Too thin. Too strangely dressed. If they had passed on the street she would have laughed, writing him off as some drug-addled eccentric. 

Her sister had gone on and on about the guy. She’d seen him three times already and followed some fan group of his online. When she heard he’d be in town again, she pestered her sibling endlessly about coming with her. She just HAD to see him! 

Charlotte didn’t really share the same enthusiasm during the first part of the act. It was hardly unique. It started with a cute little juggling routine, but despite the sharpness of the blades (he’d made that clear with a demonstration) it wasn’t particularly impressive. He clearly knew what he was doing. Even blindfolded and drunk, those hands would carry on, executing an internal program that could not fail, ceaselessly perfect.

After his unnecessarily smug and showy bows, Rowan snatched his prancing assistant, tying him to a large X-shaped prop Gideon had just rolled out to center stage. The dashing performer threw his knives and that was that. She wanted to write it off as another unoriginal cliche, but admittedly, it was a little bit exciting. Some of those knives came pretty close.

It was when Gideon got a hand loose that everything changed. 

Next thing she knew, he was tearing across the stage, screaming in what looked like genuine fear as the skinny performer threw blade after blade hard and fast in pursuit, each thudding into a particle board backdrop, buried to the hilt. No matter how the bald man in pink tried to zigzag out of the way the knives were never far behind. She could swear at least once, a finely sharpened edge cut through his costume, possibly even the guy’s skin. 

It was utterly reckless, outrageously dangerous and completely insane in her opinion. How the hell was he even allowed to attempt this?

She couldn’t deny the knife thrower had skill. That, and an appeal she hadn’t expected. He was overflowing with a well-deserved egotistical self-assuredness. Every step, every swing of his arm was one continuous motion, like the physical manifestation of an exciting, sweeping symphony. He twisted and turned like a dancer, laughing his way throughout, like it was nothing but child’s play, wearing his cocky grin the whole time. He knew damned well he was good. To her own surprise, he was starting to rub off on her.

As soon as he turned to take his bow, she knew she was hooked. When he hopped off the stage to begin his shameless seductions she was hopelessly entranced.

Now she understood what her sister had seen in him. This man was pure sex appeal, from the fire in his eyes to the thrusts of his hips. Strong arms to wrap around her, nimble fingers to roam her skin, finding every sensitivity as easily as he found a target with his knives. A sexuality so overt and confident it knew no gender boundaries, only raging, relentless want.

Charlotte blinked as he pulled her onto the stage, leading her into a twirling, sensual dance. His eyes held her fast, his hands moving around her waist, seeking the bare skin beneath her light blazer. She gasped at the featherlight touch of a single fingertip that had found its goal.

With every turn he moved closer. The lights, the music disappeared from her attention, the crowd just a dull blur in her ears. All that remained was his vibrant blue eyes, his smile, and the feel of his sex pressed up against hers. 

“How would you like to be part of the show?” he asked with a sultry purr, the heat of his breathy utterance feeling moist on her cheek. She was vaguely aware of an approving roar from the stands before nodding slightly.

And then, he was gone, her body beginning a slow descent as it trembled, her knees buckling. Side-stepping around her, he reappeared from behind, gently lifting her swooning form back onto shaky feet. A devilish giggle and a wink to the audience made it clear he’d expected her to drop. Laughter told him they’d expected the same.

Once back on semi-stable feet, and somewhat stunned, Rowan held out a hand behind him, which was promptly filled with a stiff document, courtesy of the assistant with the pantomime ‘uh-oh’ expression. 

Confident in the woman’s newly found footing, Rowan then stepped away, reappearing before her, rapidly spouting words he’d recited hundreds of times before.

“I – insert your name here – of questionably sound mind, understand that participation in this grossly unsafe mockery of an act may lead to serious harm, injury, possible dismemberment and without a doubt, potential death! I willingly and happily give myself over to this maniac and encourage others to do the same!”

He then spun around, holding the paper before her, handing her a pen. 

“Sign here please!” he grinned, making sure her eyes were once again focused on his, reeling her in with his mesmerizing smile.

She took the black ballpoint with a stupidly charmed expression and scribbled her name. He then promptly crumpled it into a ball and threw it somewhere behind him.

“Let’s get started,” he growled hungrily, pulling her back against him.

The rest just seemed to meld into one endless movement, a hypnotic dance for two, lost in his eyes. A ballroom turn, and then another before all came to a sudden end, as his hands shifted, shoving her against a hard, wooden surface. Startled out of her reverie, she recognized it as the same structure his assistant had previously been tied to. One that now stood off to the side, holding lashings to tie her.

Her eyes flew open wide as horror quickly replaced her yearning.

He was going to throw knives at HER!?

“No, WAIT!!” she shouted, but the beast that lie below Rowan’s surface merely fed on her fear. His eyes, once seductive and alluring were now hungry and cruel. A jutting hipbone drove into her own, holding her fast. Rigid, bony fingers painfully wrapped around hers. The smile that had captivated her was eager and mean.

“You’re going to love this,” he promised, but his words were dripping with sadistic cruelty.

The whole thing was a sham, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. The roughly X-shaped wooden construction she was now backed against was rigged with percussive charges, designed to make the person think it had been hit by knives. Knives he had no intention of throwing. He couldn’t actually put the audience at risk, no matter how much he wanted to. Daryl had been quite clear on that. A few health and safety regulations made that pretty clear as well. 

The real fun was that she didn’t know that. Others in the audience did, if they’d seen the show before. This was the part that they came for. They were more than happy to play along, contributing their shrieks and terrified screams. A cruel lot, perhaps, but this wasn’t a family friendly show. Now and then, someone would try to give away the game, but as of yet, no one had ever believed them.

Charlotte’s sister hadn’t said a word. She was one of the baying dogs before them, howling for the impending kill.

Charlotte screamed as loud as she could, struggling against Rowan’s firm grip. His mirth didn’t last long. She was stronger than she looked. Much to his surprise, his efforts to pin her wrists weren’t getting him far. 

He lifted one hand to cover the microphone and hissed, “Quit it! Just put your fucking hands up!”

Her panic turned quickly to absolute terror as her breath came shallow and fast. Her screams dulled to whimpering sobs, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Rowan, I think you should stop!” Gideon squeaked, hoping the microphone wouldn’t pick up his words. This girl was genuinely terrified. He didn’t think Rowan was the exclusive cause. This went well beyond the sweaty nervousness they usually saw. She seemed traumatized.

Rowan shot him a warning glare then readjusted his grip, aiming to force her into position. She was fighting it, but it didn’t matter. He was stronger than her and getting tired of the delays. Her petrified weeping was starting to lose its charm.

Their eyes met as he gritted his teeth, abandoning her left hand to put all of his effort into the right. “Play ALONG!” 

She’d heard those words before. Months ago, she’d been in a similar position, his brutish eyes boring into hers. She’d lost the fight that night, slinking home battered and bruised – but she wasn’t going to lose this one. 

The last thing Rowan saw was the woman’s tightly clenched fist heading straight for his face.

“Izshii?”

Sounds, meshed together like a sonic blob, swam into Rowan’s ear. Individual letters, forming a word or two were there, but elusive.

“I think he’s waking up!”

Rowan moaned, trying to block it out. It felt so intrusive.

“Rowan? Rowan, are you OK?”

That voice he knew. It was melodic, soothing.

“Gid?” he groaned, straining to open his far too heavy eyelids. He tried to sit up, but the world took a turn, moving in ways it shouldn’t have, pulling him back down. 

“Whoa! Whoa! Sit the fuck down! You are not going anywhere until you’ve been looked over!”

The irritating bark of his pint-sized boss’ voice was enough to dispel the lingering fog in Rowan’s head. He opened his eyes fully this time, to locate the purple-headed thorn in his side. He needn’t look far. The little bastard had moved right in, trying to push him back down on the sofa. Alongside his usual cantankerous nature, Rowan could swear the man looked concerned. 

Sitting up again, Rowan winced, suddenly aware of the pain in his jaw. A light caress confirmed his suspicions. He’d been hit pretty hard. 

Eyeing the bespectacled dwarf, he spat, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“About you?!” Daryl shouted, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Not a chance! I care about tomorrow’s show! What the fuck am I going to do without my headliner!?”

“CANCEL!!” Rowan shouted, his fingers forming into the claws he so desperately wanted to wrap around the little prick’s neck. 

“Hey, man! It’s all over YouTV!” came the obnoxious voice of the gross-out ‘artist’ Jeff as he elbowed Daryl aside. Thrusting a battered Motorola two inches from Rowan’s face he howled “It’s a real hit, get it?” then proceeded to laugh hysterically at his own stupid joke.

The stench of recently devoured rotting roadkill slapped Rowan fully conscious as forcefully as a knee to the groin would have felled him. He slapped the phone away, leaping up to his feet. “Get a FUCKING breath mint, Jeff! FUCK!”

He then turned back to Daryl with acid bitterness in his voice, “YouTV? Good! The more people see that, the bigger the audience tomorrow. More money for you!”

Loathe to waste one more moment on the little man, he stormed towards the green room’s exit and his two other colleagues waiting just beyond. The dour-faced illusionist, Rasputin, he paid no heed. The other, the aptly named Perky he stifled with an upraised hand, long before she could get her high-pitched words of concern out. He could apologize for his rudeness later. Right now, he wanted out of here.

He nearly made it to the backstage door when Gideon caught up to him, preceded by the sound of his little pink heels.

“Rowan!”

Flushed with sudden guilt, Rowan turned to meet his dearest friend’s frightened eyes. For all the times the man had been there for him, he deserved more than a cold shoulder. 

“You’re going to get checked out, right? You were out for a while.”

A pained smile seemed his only answer until Rowan quietly assured “I’m fine, Gid. Really, I am.” In truth he had a splitting headache, but if Gideon knew, fretful panic and a sleepless wait in emergency would surely ensue. “I just want to be alone, all right?”

As Rowan turned to grasp the door handle, Gideon’s next words pierced him deeply. 

“My life is on the line if you’re wrong.”

What color remained in Rowan’s cheeks faded when he realized how self-centered he’d just been. “Oh God, Gid, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think- Tomorrow’s show-” 

Clasping his hands around one of Rowan’s own, Gideon gave him a gentle smile. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

 “Just give me one night, all right? I promise, if I feel off at all, you’ll be the first to know.” It wasn’t the answer Gideon wanted, but one he’d have to live with for now. 

“How are you really feeling?”

“It hurts.”

“And?”

Rowan shifted in discomfort. “Gid, you know there’s more. I just don’t want to get into it right now.”

Those eyes. Those massive orbs of his, waiting, seeing through the slim man’s own to the agony he knew lie inside.

“I should’ve seen how scared she was,” Rowan sighed. “I shouldn’t have kept pushing her. I got full of myself. Again. This time I paid the price.”

“You can always talk to me.”

“I think I just did,” Rowan said, looking back up with a half-smile which they both knew was forced. 

The silence that followed signaled the end to Rowan’s willingness to talk. Taking a moment to fuss over some dust on Rowan’s sleeve, Gideon then wrapped his arms around his friend in a not entirely unwanted hug. “I’ll check on you in the morning, OK?”

“I know you will,” Rowan said warmly. “If anything at all is off, I’ll let you know.” 

Gideon watched him walk out the door, troubled.

Rowan counted his blessings; he only had a few yards to walk. 

The inner city rarely offered them parking so close to the venue. Others could sometimes find space on the street for their campers, but with both the jeep and his trailer, more often than not, he ended up miles from where he needed to be. Admittedly he preferred it that way. There weren’t any fans or fellow performers to bother him.

After the events of the night though, he was grateful for the proximity of his refuge. He just wanted to be alone to think. 

His jaw ached more than he’d let on. He welcomed the pain. It seemed a fitting punishment for his hubris. He’d get his chosen ‘victims’ riled up by exploiting their vulnerabilities then twisted their infatuation into absolute terror. It was bound to go wrong one of these nights. He was just surprised it had taken this long.

Wrapped up in reflection, he nearly walked right past her, focused on the door handle before him. She was only partially hidden, standing in a shadow where the security light didn’t reach. 

Stepping out of the dark, she lifted her hands with great apprehension. The satchel Rowan carried was the one he’d had on stage. Any one of those knives could end up at her throat if she startled him. 

Words, in the end, were not needed to get his attention. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and recognized her immediately. Her fears of frightening him into drastic action were thankfully unfounded. He merely looked at her slightly puzzled, trying to recall if he ever did learn her name.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, but there was no anger, no shock in his voice. He was oddly quiet, dejected.

She stepped into the light, hands cautiously lowered to the height of her shoulder. “I just wanted to say – I’m sorry.”

Rowan closed his eyes for a moment. The apology was neither necessary nor fitting in his eyes. He was the one that had driven her to it. Gathering himself, he opened his eyes once more.

“If you’re looking for absolution, you’re absolved” he stated, then reached out for the door.

“Wait!”

Rowan turned, with mild frustration. What was done was done. He’d lost control of his ego, like so many times before and it bit him back hard. He had no ill feelings towards her. She’d reacted as she felt was necessary.

“Look, if Daryl catches you out here, he’ll call the police.”

“You mean that dwarf? I mean, little…. Uh, the guy with the purple hair,” she said, stumbling over her words with reddening cheeks.

“We just usually call him asshole,” Rowan replied with a hint of a smile. 

She felt she should laugh at his comment, but the mirth was elusive. She was finding this about as funny as he was. 

“I just wanted to explain….”

He stopped her before she could continue with a gentle, but firm hand in the air. “It’s really not necessary. That guy back there had it coming.”

“That guy?”

Why did I say that? Rowan winced. “Nothing. Sorry, it’s been a long night.”

“Please, can I just explain…?”

She seemed so distressed, so needing, desperate to make peace. After manipulating, then humiliating her on stage, how could he just toss her aside now?

“Look, I don’t normally do this, but do you mind if we go inside? I really need some ice” he sighed.

She regarded the old, converted cargo trailer. It wasn’t the prettiest thing, but it seemed harmless enough. It looked like one of those U-hauls you could rent for the day, painted over in black. It would have seemed unfriendly if not for the colourful awning down the side. Beneath were two lawn chairs, with a small table between them. A cheery bouquet of wildflowers was thriving in a glass. 

He unlocked the door and went inside, flicking on a light switch. He wasn’t overtly welcoming her in but wasn’t closing the door behind him either. It was her choice as to what to do next.

She followed him with a bit of hesitation. The cruel and manipulative thing he had been was clearly gone now. What stood before her didn’t seem to have much in common with the man she’d knocked out. Having made the decision to trust him, she stepped onto the folding metal stairs to peer inside. 

As much as she hoped the inside was roomier than it looked, it wasn’t. It was a cramped but cosy space clearly designed for one. There were two windows to let in some light and air, but they were covered at the moment with thick blackout curtains. To her left along the back of the trailer was a booth just big enough for two, like the ones you’d see at a roadside diner. A well-equipped kitchenette, a small dressing table, and a cot down the side made up most of the rest. At the other end was a door, which she suspected led to a privy. 

What it lacked in furnishing, it made up for in décor. There were photos and posters everywhere, affixed to any surface he could find, depicting what seemed to be people and places in his life, past and present. A picture just over her shoulder, curled up at the edges, showed him maybe ten years younger, standing on a trapeze mid-swing. He was making a ridiculous face with his tongue lolling out, like a dog out a car window. He looked so happy. So full of fun and carefree. 

She looked over to him now, preoccupied with filling a small plastic bag with what ice remained in his tiny freezer. He seemed so much older. So much wearier. He glanced her way and nodded towards the small table. “Please. Take a seat.”

She slowly backed onto a moderately cushioned seat, taking it all in. “You live here?”

Finished with his task, he turned to the small dressing table, flicking on the few lights that surrounded the mirror. “When I’m on the road, yeah. It’s not much, but it’s all I really need.”

He then eyed his reflection to inspect the damage. The bruise hadn’t taken long to develop and would likely be even more obvious tomorrow. Gingerly placing the makeshift ice pack on it, he tried repairing the damage to his hairstyle. It had gotten a bit squashed when he fell. With a little bit of work, he had his beloved thick spikes where he wanted them to be, carefully bent at the tips, how he liked them. Satisfied, he then pulled up a folding stool from nearby and sat down.

“Does it hurt?” she asked nervously.

It did, but he didn’t want her to feel worse about the part she had played in causing it. “I’ve had worse,” he said, trying to be reassuring.

“Outside, you said ‘that guy had it coming’. What did you mean by that?”

Rowan’s face clouded over. He’d forgotten about that slip. “I uh, the character I play on stage. He can be a real ass.”

 Her eyes were drawn to a small collection of images by the kitchenette. Like the others, each showed the same free spirit, with laughing eyes and outrageous expressions. “You don’t seem to have much in common with him.”

“Well, he’s a part of me. Thankfully not the biggest part.”

A delighted laugh escaped her as she spotted another image further up. Vividly colored, he was hamming it up with two others in a rainbow array of showgirl feathers. “I like the version of you in here. You look like you’d be a riot on a night out!”

His pained expression caught her completely off guard, wiped clean after a telling second or two. The vacant eyes that remained, more curious still.

“Do you mind if I ask a personal question?” 

“What is it you want to know?”

“Why did you wince just now?”

Evident unease in his eyes and body language had her wishing she could retract her query. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be prying.”

“No, it’s all right” he reassured, with a quick raise of a hand. “I was just a bit startled by the question, that’s all.” His eyes dropped to the ice pack, considering it for a moment. “It’s just… That’s not me in the pictures either. Not anymore.” 

As his fingers slowly curled under, his complex expression left her prudently silent. 

“That version of me you saw on stage? He’s what I became. Up until about a year ago, that is. He doesn’t rule my life these days, but he’s always there, like some specter that won’t leave me alone.” 

“People love that guy and I mean why not?” he said with a few sarcastic gestures to emphasize the bitterness. “He’s daring, confident-“

“And hornier than a…” she started with a smile, then faltered, trailing off. Waiting for the punchline that never came, Rowan furrowed his eyebrows before she followed up her statement with “You know what? I’ve got nothing.”

He chuckled good naturedly. “That bad, huh.”

“He is so… so so so dirty” she said a nervous laugh and reddened cheeks.

 Her reaction hardly came as a surprise. “Yeah. People aren’t that interested in me. Not when he’s so much more appealing. It gets on my nerves sometimes. I’d drop him today if I could, but he’s the one that fills the seats, not me. He draws the crowds.”

“But you’re not always on stage. Surely people see you as you are.”

“Some people do, but I hardly ever see them. I’m in town for a few days, then on to the next. The rest of the time I keep to myself. I may not be some superstar, but I do get recognized now and then. Or rather, he does.”

It was quiet for some time after his statement before he spoke again.

“I had a good life. A happy life. I grew up in the circus and it was everything to me. Until it wasn’t. I got too full of myself, arrogant. Thought I could do better, that everyone around me was stuck in the past. Bit by bit that new part of me took over. He took what I was and perverted it. By the time I started to see the light, the damage was already done. Now I spend week after week with a constant reminder of that.”

“Why do you keep doing it if it hurts?”

He lifted his head and regarded her with a wide smile that was both genuine, and heartfelt. “I love performing. It’s the greatest feeling in the world.”

She was momentarily stunned by the transformation in him, all at once remembering what had drawn her to him in the first place. He had a stupidly attractive smile!

She mentally shook off the imagery, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of warmth. 

“Besides,” he shrugged with a guilty look. “I’m kind of fond of using him to torment the fanatics!”

Her eyes flew open wide as a huge smile emerged. “Torment? What you were doing to me at the start didn’t feel much like torment!!”

He tilted his head, enjoying the light-hearted turn the conversation had taken. “Have you forgotten what happened AFTER I molested you?!”

Her eyes followed his accusatory finger pointing right at his jaw. “Ah right, scaring the living crap out of me!” she grinned.

“The TERROR!” he responded in an overly dramatic voice and a hand flourish.

She laughed at his micro performance. The guy was good, in a cheesy kind of way. It was difficult not to be drawn in.

“So, you just go from town to town finding suckers to pull in and then terrorise?”

He shrugged again, grinning. “Yeah, pretty much.”

She blew a puff of air in disapproval and leaned back into her seat declaring, “You’re just mean!”

He lifted his hands, unapologetic. He knew why he did it. A little petty revenge for their tunnel vision opinion of who he was.

“And that makes you feel better,” she stated, beginning to look and sound like a therapist. He was beginning to respond to her as if she was one anyway.

He gave a hearty chuckle and replied, “Well I get to sit on people’s laps too.”

She gave him a calculated look then drew an accurate conclusion. “They can hang out at the stage door all they like but they’re not going to get what they want.”

“They do look so disappointed,” Rowan sighed, now actively trying to be comical.

“You know, most people just drink or sleep with random strangers.”

His face turned decidedly red at her last words.

“Oh, you’re kidding!” she gasped, stunned.

“You have all these people dying to have sex with you and you just go off with other women?”

She hadn’t realized there was a shade even redder than red, but there it was across his cheeks, creeping out to his ears.

He coughed into his hand and meekly added, “Men too.”

“Why are you telling me this? ANY of this? From what you’ve told me you don’t seem like the type of person to just open up to a stranger!”

His smile faded as he leaned back on the stool. Only one person knew of his reckless promiscuity and that was Gideon. “I don’t know.”

The two had spent a lot of time together at the clubs, trying to pick up guys. Rowan had been consistently far more successful. It was no wonder, he was pretty well-practiced in being the seducer and he wasn’t exactly shy. His friend’s consistent voice of reason had had to pull him back down to the ground a few times when he’d gotten carried away. No one else knew though. Some were vaguely aware of his preferences, but not the numbers or anonymous nature of his partners. As for his reasons behind it, he wasn’t sure himself if he could articulate it. All he knew is, while he was with them, for a moment at least, he wasn’t thinking about anything else.

“Maybe I’m just tired of keeping it to myself” he replied, lifting his head again. “Or maybe it’s because I know I won’t see you again.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully then stood up. “Do you know the bar on 10th with the lions out front?”

“Not really. I’m not from around here.”

“Well, if you find it, I’ll be down a little later. You can buy me a drink.”

He looked deeply troubled by the offer. “Look, I don’t need another notch on my bedpost.”

Her eyes flew wide, but thankfully with shocked amusement. “I said a drink! That alter ego of yours is not invited!” She then turned and pointed at the picture of him she’d seen earlier. “Bring THIS guy!”

Rowan’s cheeks turned red once again. He’d jumped to a bit of a conclusion. In an attempt to save himself he asked humorously, once again gesturing to his face, “Shouldn’t you be buying me a drink?”

“Does this mean you’ll be there?”

There it was again, that smile. That indication of the person inside she hoped would emerge.

“I’ll be there.”

“Good! Now if you don’t mind, my sister is probably wondering where I am,” she said opening the door.

“Hey, do me a favor?” he asked.

She looked back at him one last time. His face had changed. It was the other one, with his hungry eyes and wicked smile. 

“Tell her I ravaged you!” 

Then just like that it was gone, retreating back to where he kept it chained. The gentler, nicer side of him had returned.

“Sorry, he has a reputation to upload!” he shrugged, looking comically sheepish.

She grinned back. “I was going to tell her that anyway!”

He tilted his head quizzically.

“She’s better than me at everything! I can’t wait to be the one gloating this time!”

He watched her leave, smiling. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad night after all.