The Midnight Carnivale

Chapter Three

          Air rushed past her as she fell the last ten or so feet to the dirt floor below. She hit the floor hard, rolling even without having to guide her body into the motion. When she stopped she was lying flat on her back staring up at the ceiling which was riddled with holes. It was a wonder the whole thing hadn't collapsed around them.

          A soft thud in the dirt beside her had Rosie turning to see Oliver rising to one knee. He looked towards her and smiled impishly. "Easy peasy," he said before rising to both feet and closing the distance between them.

          By the time he reached her, Rosie was already sitting up. Her concern that her shoulder had been dislocated proved unfounded, but it still felt like it was on fire.

          "Are you okay?" he asked.

          "Sure," Rosie lied, forcing a smile to her lips. "I nearly died, why wouldn't I be okay?"

          Oliver quirked a brow. "Was that supposed to be a joke? If it was, you're terrible. You should quit while you're ahead," Oliver teased.

          Rosie rolled her eyes.

          "Where does it hurt?" Oliver asked, his tone patient.

          "I told you, I'm fine," Rosie insisted.

          "And you're lying," Oliver countered, "I don't understand why, but you are."

          Rosie felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "How do you know if I'm lying or not?"

         "Because you're still sitting on the floor for one," he explained, "and I can see it in your eyes. You're in pain, Rosie, and I don't think any less of you for it. Now please, stop fighting me and let me help you."

          Rosie bit hard on her lower lip and averted her eyes.

          Why did he have to be so damn understanding all the time? If he got angry, or shouted at her, or even walked away when she was being unreasonably stubborn, then it would have been so much easier for Rosie to keep him at arm's length.

          When she didn't answer, Oliver took it upon himself to start examining her. He was gentle, and proper, and when his hands came into contact with her injured shoulder, try as she might, Rosie gave herself away with a whimper that refused to stay locked behind gritted teeth.

          "Damn it, Rosie," Oliver muttered as his fingers propped gently at the tender joint. "I'm sorry, this is my fault."

          "Sorry?" Rosie questioned after she had caught her breath. All the turning and twisting had caused the pain to intensify to near unbearable levels. "Why are you," another gasping breath escaped her as his fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot, "sorry? I would have died. You saved me."

          "Yeah, right" Oliver murmured, the statement lacking his usual conviction. Rosie frowned and wanted to ask more but a long, dark shadow fell over them.

          "What in the hell are you two doin' in here?"

          Hayes stood in the doorway of the barn, his broad shoulders and tall stature dwarfing the otherwise wide opening. In one hand he held a rag streaked with oil and grease, in the other a wrench, long and lethal.

          "The loft," Oliver began, motioning back towards their crumbling haven.

          Rosie expected outrage, angry, yelling, but Hayes simply smiled, a wide toothy grin reminiscent of a shark. Rosie shivered and felt Oliver's hand tighten where it rested against her shoulder. It hurt, but she didn't mind the pain, not when it served as a distraction from whatever horrible thoughts lurked unspoken in the dark corners of Mr. Hayes mind.