Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Maybe we don’t want to eat here,” Wes murmurs, scowling at the unusual crowd.
“I think that was a whoopie cushion,” I say, pointing to a group of silently giggling clowns reinflating a giant pink balloon near the outdoor bar.
Wes’s brow smooths. “Thank God. But still…clowns. I’m not a fan. They’re worse than gnomes.”
“I mean, clowns are creepy, yes, but they seem harmless.” I glance back at the clown practically flying down the pole, his ruffled costume billowing in the breeze. “At least to other people. I’m not sure it’s safe to be climbing poles after drinking wine. And it’s going to be dark soon.”
As if summoned by my words, the exterior lights flicker on, illuminating the patio and the front of the cozy-looking little restaurant. The golden bricks blend into the landscape and there isn’t another building in sight, making it very easy to imagine what it must have been like to pull up to the prison in the 1800s.
“And I really want to look inside,” I say, glancing back at Wes, who looks a little pale. But I chalk it up to hunger pains and nod toward the entrance. “Come on, let’s at least take a peek. Maybe things are less crazy in there. I’ll put Freya in her crate, and we can go.”
He nods and swallows hard. “All right.”
By the time Freya’s tucked in with a little treat and we’ve exited the camper, sweat is breaking out on his upper lip.
I hesitate near the door, frowning up at him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re sweating.” I point at his increasingly dewy face.
He swipes at his lip with the back of his hand. “Sorry. Guess I got a little hot in the sun through the windshield.” He reaches for the door, jerking it open before shooting a quick glance toward the patio. “Let’s head inside. It’s probably cooler in there.”
But it isn’t cooler in the restaurant. It’s actually a little warmer than the breezy spring evening, probably because it’s packed to the gills with more clowns.
All kinds of clowns. There are traditional white-faced clowns with their red noses resting beside their plates as they eat. There are edgy clowns with sad makeup and gritty steampunk-inspired outfits. There are cute little clown kids and sullen clown teenagers and terrifying horror clowns with razor-sharp prosthetic teeth I imagine make eating difficult, and everything in between. The small dining area has a surprising number of tables, and every one of them is filled with circus folk.
Well, except for an older couple in the far corner, who are slurping soup as fast as they can and watching their surroundings nervously.
I turn to Wes, intending to ask him what he thinks such a large gathering of clowns might be up to out in the middle of nowhere. But when I see his face, I start to wonder about more important things.
“Are you about to pass out?” I whisper, resting a gentle hand on his back. “Do you need to put your head between your knees? Or we can go if you want.”
He shakes his head, forcing a tight smile for the hostess approaching from across the room. “No. It’s fine. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. And this is the only restaurant for another hundred miles.”
I’m about to suggest that we could drive back to Sioux Falls or make do with the sandwiches and snacks in the camper, when the breathless hostess arrives in front of us.
Thankfully, the petite brunette isn’t in clown gear and her eyes wrinkle warmly as she says, “You must be McGuire, party of two. You’re so lucky! We had a last-minute cancellation right before you booked.” She collects two menus from the stand near the entrance to the dining area and nods for us to follow her. “We have you at a high-top table in the cell room. Right this way.”
As I move forward, Wes reaches out, claiming my hand and holding on tight as we start after the woman. Instantly, I know this has nothing to do with flirting or romance. His palm is cold and clammy, and as we pass by one of the horror clown tables, where a woman with a blood-soaked ruffle is calculating the tip with the aid of her cell phone, he starts to tremble.
I squeeze his hand, giving him what I hope is a reassuring smile as we step through the narrow threshold into what was obviously once the holding area for prisoners detained here. There aren’t any doors on the cells anymore, but the bars still stand, serving as separators for the three large booths on that side of the room.
Booths that are also filled with clowns…
As our hostess sets the menus on a high-top table in the corner, by an open window overlooking the grassland beyond—thank God, in case Wes needs to make an urgent escape—I ask, “So what’s going on here tonight? With the…” I nod over my shoulder with a smile.