Chapter 1

1

With a familiar weight in his cheeks and throat, blood flow surged to Josh’s head. The audience flew at him in dimly lit rows of upside-down faces. Bright dancers passed by on the stage. His knee hurt a bit in the crook where it hung by the bar. He welcomed the pain. It connected him to the trapeze forty feet in the air.

Acceleration on the downward swing pulled on thighs and gut, tugged on butt and balls to the bottom of the arc. Then up again momentum slowed. Extending neck and rising shoulders foretold the trajectory. Arms stretched out beside his ears like Superman about to fly. His favorite part of the show.

Muscle memory kept time with music, while ninety degrees from the floor, the upward swing peaked and paused before it fell. He straightened his knees, let lose the bar, and flew. Gasps rose up and soared with him, until he reached his target, grasped the rope above the platform, and landed there, ending the act where it had begun. He bowed.

The audience cheered, while his accompaniment upstaged him. Someone changed the melody, and no one warned him. He climbed down the ladder rope, and all the way to the stage the new music tripped him up, so distracting and out of time and tune. Dan would hear about this, unacceptable, dangerous. They might as well have altered the force of gravity. He hadn’t imagined it.

Quick to the dressing room, he traded the embroidered leotard for something less ornate. Jeans, biker boots, his favorite silk shirt, and the leather jacket, all zipped up and ready to go. Today was Monday, soon to be Tuesday. His night out, and he was up for it, after a long week.

Boisterous clowns scrubbed off their make-up. His act required none. He splashed cold water on his face and tossed the paper towel in the trash before saying goodbye to the guys.

Josh twirled his hair as he walked. The absentminded finger tugged. Dark curls twisted. Past the clanging casino on the way to the garage, he raced to his friend. At the parking spot, the black and gray Ducati Diavel warmed his heart.

He put on the half helmet from the side compartment, mounted the bike, and revved down the ramp. At the brisk street, they turned to heavy traffic on The Strip and a destination on the other side.

Something struck his knee and stung. It must have been a stone a passing tire kicked up. Had he briefly seen it fly, or was it his imagination?

With cold dry winds, a melody, the “Entrance of the Gladiators Thunder and Fury,” that classic circus tune drifted out of nowhere. Maybe from a passing car, or it found its way to the curb from somewhere inside. Casino showrooms along this stretch boasted the finest spectacles, but none with theme music like this. It was his as a boy in Quebec, and now it followed him.

Growing louder on approach, it silenced his bike. Melody drowned out the motor. The tune was familiar but the arrangement jarringly out of place. He scanned the street for the source.

Marquees blazed in the man-made canyon. Shining glass swept up and filled the gap with light. The Eiffel Tower touched the sky, not far from a New York skyline and fairytale castle. A crystal pyramid completed the microcosm. While on giant screens, pictures flashed, a sparkling martini, pad of butter on a steak, and microphone to mouth. Dancing, dining, and entertainment lit the night.

He missed the sea, but this town helped him imagine it. Establishments here gave airs of elsewhere, and nothing was quite as it seemed. Maybe he’d conjured up the music. Before he found its origin, it faded, and in its absence, the motor purred again. A feeling more than sound, it rose from the seat on the way to his ear. The vibration spoke to him, “I’m yours.”

He’d heard it first, that low-pitched rumble, on a street in Naples while on tour in Europe. He must have it. The sleek lines and penetrating sound suited him.

On return to Las Vegas, he’d picked the sport tires for off-road racing. But now instead of speeding through the desert, the Diavel crept on The Strip. They sat in stopped traffic below a row of date palms, whose trunks led his eye to the dark sky, while he waited to cross the street

The light turned green. Off The Strip, he zipped along the blocks to the bar and parked in the spot he liked for security under the camera. The helmet locked in its compartment. Still early, not yet midnight by the clock on the dashboard, maybe he would find his favorite bar stool waiting for him, the one with the nice view.