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    Night Train
    Night Train
    Night Train
    Ebook92 pages50 minutes

    Night Train

    By Devyn Morgan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Wilbur Claude Lucienne takes the train to a real-job interview after blowing a Cirque du Soleil audition. Esteban “Steve” Ortiz, a retired stunt double, travels by train to get away from his needy employees, hoping to get work done before he hires a desperately-needed assistant.

    Their chemistry sizzles.

    Their backgrounds mesh.

    What happens on the train, stays on the train...

    But their unexpected meeting leaves them torn and yearning – and no heart-warming happy ending blossoms without a sacrifice.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDevyn Morgan
    Release dateFeb 13, 2018
    ISBN9781386549475
    Night Train

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      Book preview

      Night Train - Devyn Morgan

      CHAPTER 1

      With a jerk and a clang of something metallic on the track, the train pulled out a small-town train station two hours east of Chicago. Claude was aware of their time and location only because the rough start irritated the crick in his neck. The pain woke him up.

      He straightened, rolled his sore shoulders, and stretched his arms to the side. Since he wasn't sharing a seat with anyone, and since the walkway down the middle of the train car was generous, he was fortunate to be able to do that.

      His whole body ached – not just his shoulders, which he should’ve expected, but his back, his hands, his arms and abs and... and just about everything. After weeks of heavy rehearsals and tight core training, and after a week of intense audition in which he advanced to the third of five rounds, he was wiped. Right now, Claude needed a hot tub, a massage, and a comfortable bed to sleep in.

      It wasn't even dark outside, but the fatigue that permeated his body made him feel like an old man way past his bedtime. Or, more positively, it reminded him of the time two years ago, when he had landed in the middle of Europe jetlagged, hung over, and not knowing which language to speak.

      He couldn’t stop thinking that his audition with Cirque du Soleil could have gone better. He didn't like his chances of getting in, not after having seen his competition. The Cyr wheel wasn’t as much of a novelty now as it had been five years ago, and full-time circus professionals had developed impressive tricks and amazing routines since he had started messing around with it as a restless undergrad. Back then, he had traded his old and outdated laptop for a piece of circus equipment in a fit of pre-midterms despair. The wheel was his favorite stress relief valve. It had seen him through statistics, macro-economy and systems management. The bruises he got from falling only helped his focus.

      Back then, right after he had bought his new laptop and before he had decided on what to do with his old one, he ran into a street artist right in the middle of St.Petersburg. The man was about his height and may be five years older. He had short cropped, blonde hair and a smile that lit up the overcast sky.

      Few street performances, few drinks, and a hookup before Peter had to move on with his troop to another town – and Claude had a new long-distance friend as well as a new piece of athletic equipment. Peter had been all too happy to trade his scratched-up, spare wheel for a slightly slow, aging laptop with not quite enough memory.

      The Cyr wheel was the best meditation tool around. You lose focus, you fall.

      All he needed was a flat area, preferably indoors, for the wheel to absorb his chronic, restless stress. An empty gym, his wheel, and a bit of music became a favorite way of breaking up the tedium that came with being stuck at his desk, poring over textbooks and writing papers. He had endured the tedium of college willingly while he searched for a field which would suit his temperament. Claude was both adventurous and exacting, adrenaline-driven and careful. The push-me-pull-you personality that made Claude special made him too restless for some careers and too easily bored for others.

      At least he knew what to absolutely avoid.

      FIVE YEARS, TWO new Cyr wheels, and a freshly minted MBA from a good school turned Claude from a lanky geek into a polished acrobat. He was currently living in a cramped apartment in central New Jersey. Cherry Hill was close enough to his campus, as well as to suitable tourist spots where Claude could perform on his wheel for tips.

      Over time, as his skill increased, the tips became generous enough that he was able to quit his food service job. Even though entrepreneurial business was a good fit for him, Claude had second thoughts. The Cyr wheel, his faithful companion, coaxed him with its siren song that spoke of circus tents and the excitement of travel. Before he made a commitment to a serious job, he yearned to try it.

      To be on stage with other performers.

      To hear the instruments play, to listen for the eerie cues of the vocalists.

      To roll his wheel, a huge hoop which was several inches taller than he was, in intricate figures and spins as he filled its inside, hanging off of it and rolling with precise control. He wished to convey a simple story of a man who wanted to fly. Oh, if he could only hear the laughter of children and the applause of his appreciative audience! Claude would have been thrilled to do a short, poorly paid stint with a reputable circus company before he settled into an even more reputable business career.

      This had been his one and only shot at it. He had almost thought it would happen.

      The steel wheels clicked over the expansion joints of the railroad in a hypnotic pattern that led him to daydream, but which was too loud to let him fall back asleep.

      He looked around.

      Few more people have boarded the train while his eyes had been closed, which made his car little more than half full. The scent of somebody’s fried chicken dinner carried to his nostrils, and Claude had realized that he had not eaten since breakfast.

      Eating today was a non-starter. He knew he would’ve lost his lunch from the stress of the audition results, and from the follow-up commentary. No matter how well they phrased their preferences, no kind words would’ve softened the fact that Claude and three other acts were out, and some German glass sphere juggler was in.

      When all was said and done, Claude’s sole focus was getting to the train station, so he could load his suitcase above his seat, and stow away the large ballistic canvas case, which held the five aluminum sections of his disassembled wheel, into the luggage car. 

      If he never saw Chicago again, it would be too soon. Train travel was cheaper than flying, especially with gear. Even though he had an interview lined up in less than two

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