Mastering The Art Of A Three Ring Circus

By A. Wilding Wells

"This book is the most crazy, twistiest, insane, high-flying book I ever read! This is my first read of 2017 and it sets the bar very high!"
~ Goodreads reader Melissa Ann

Perhaps some promises should be broken....

Theophile
The price of freedom was as simple as a promise. Fifteen more years in jail, or a marriage. I agreed and didn’t look back, until the circus came to town.

Wolfgang
Leaving England behind for a small town in Wisconsin meant two more years of freedom for my family, which is my everything. Then I met Theophile, an irresistibly intriguing woman whose heart I will claim, regardless of the fact that she made a promise to one of the greediest and wealthiest men on earth: my father, King Valentine.

A deeply moving—and gripping—modern-day fairytale about a spirited woman whose scruples are tested when her life is turned upside down by a larger-than-life candy heir and his eccentric circus family. A gut-wrenching, sweet, and magical read filled with humor, tragedy, and a cast of endearing characters that will steal your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Wilding Wells
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998665214

A. Wilding Wells

ABOUT A. Wilding Wells is an author, storyteller and creative visionary that writes provocative adult contemporary romance novels. She describes herself as a passionately-obsessive, balance-seeking, oxymoron-living, modern-day dirty-minded woman. She lives on a ranch on the west coast with her husband, four boys and about enough animals to sink an ark. ABOUT MY WRITING I’ve written for years on end. I wrote my first books in the sixth grade, one of which was about finding luck...glass half-full don’t you know! Novel writing is new to me and a delicious addiction. I can be found writing 15 hours a day...easily, happily. All of which ends with a stiff cocktail. I’m addicted to reading when not writing. I can’t flip a pancake without my kindle in hand. I’ve been an avid reader my whole life, so this writing thing (which mind you is only part of what I do for a living) makes sense and is a huge part of my DNA. And the bonus is, it bodes well for one’s marriage (wink, wink). I live with my characters day and night. Most of the time I feel like a voyeur in their lives, which magically seem to unfold right in front of me. They’re in my dreams and on my brain non-stop. I’ll spend weeks editing and revising one book with the next plot swimming through my head and being scribbled onto endless reams of paper. When I write I feel everything - and I do mean EVERYTHING - about them. I’m turned on by them. I laugh at and with them. I get pissed at them. I bitch at them. I cry if something awful is happening to them. My heart speeds up when they fight. I get goose bumps because of them. And holy-smokin’-Jesus-take-the-wheel, I’m wildly thrilled when they have great make up sex. I’ll admit it sometimes feels a little like I’m playing God when I write (either that or a puppeteer). I love writing about strong characters that have flaws and imperfections to deal with, work on or resolve. My characters live well, because they can and it’s way more fun to fantasize about them in this way. Delicious sex is a part of every book, as is wit, zip, and boatloads of sarcasm. I don’t do vanilla, nor do I like to read it. I adore twists, turns and funky plot oddities that make life the crazy thing that it really is. I love putting my characters in awkward situations that allow for interesting, heated and often sexy dialogue to play out. And, while I’ve written several books in other genres under a different name, this is by far the most fun a girl could have without breaking the law (even though orange is my color). FAQ’s Q. How did you start writing? A. I’ve always loved writing. But novels are a different beast. It all comes down to committing to it. I make time and I want to write - I NEED TO WRITE. I crave it terribly, so I do it. It’s really not more complicated than that. Where you begin the process and where you end are worlds apart. Trust me. Q. Are the details of food, décor and fashion pulled from your life? A. Some of it yes. Some of it from childhood memories, etc.... The food part especially is us. We dig good eats. Q. How do you balance four kids, writing, another business, a ranch and all the animals? A. Define balance....ha! Things slip...my garden looks like a wonderland of weeds at the moment. Thank goodness for wildflowers. Laundry gets cumbersome, so I make the kids do it. I balance as well as I’m able and I also learned to ditch any form of guilt 98% of the time. I also happened to be married to a fabulous man that is super supportive of my creative endeavors. This would be impossible without him. It’s a marathon not a sprint, and I’m enjoying every millisecond of it. Q. Why the “Adult Contemporary Romance” genre (a/k/a “smut”)? A. Why ever not? I read many genres but adult contemporary romance is my favorite. I read close to 150 books a year which includes lots of genres and a very wide range of authors. When I decided to write my first novel I knew my genre was romance that very second. The day I made the decision to write was early September 2014. I sat down that night and five weeks later had my first book. Then editing took months. It was a learning curve; still is. But I love the amount of learning I’ve done in the short time since that day I began. I’m working on my fifth book now and have never been happier with how things are progressing. Q. What inspires your characters? A. Music has a huge influence over my characters. So do costumes, art, food...it’s endless, and these characters come in droves. Q. How does Pinterest play a role in your character development? A. Pinterest is where I begin to envision my characters when I create my plot. It helps me as a writer to see the entire story unfold. It can also help the reader see my vision. That said, readers tend to have pretty lively imaginations anyway from what I’ve learned!

Book preview

Prologue

Wolfgang

Only you, Wolfgang, would redesign your jet’s interior to accommodate traveling with your elephant.

My brother, Xavier, smirks as he peers down the aisle at my family, who is settling in on the jet for our move from England to the United States—to a small town in Wisconsin.

You’re paying a vet to babysit her too? He scowls. Christ! I’d’ve thrown her in a cage and tranquilized her. The fuck is wrong with you? He raps his knuckle on my forehead until I capture his wrist. She’s a circus beast.

I’m not a dick like you are. She’s part of our family. I chuckle while he shakes his head. I would never do that to Queenie.

Well, you come by it honestly. Your extravagance knows no bounds. He scratches his jaw.

Not when it comes to my family. Speaking of which, how will I repay you? This is our third move—hopefully the last since she’s almost sixteen. I glance at my daughter, Bubble, who’s braiding her grandmother’s long, silver locks. No more running in two years. Christ, will that be freeing.

Repay me by finding Theophile, and while you’re at it, feel free to cozy up with her. She’s supposed to be quite something, according to Dad.

She must be if he arranged for her to marry you, oh golden child. I bow then punch him in the arm. I have nothing to go on except she’s a fox. You’ve got to give me more than that. What the hell is her business with Dad anyway? The fuck is he playing matchmaker for?

He reaches into his suit jacket and yanks his phone out. No idea. He scrolls through images. Knowing Dad, he has his reasons. He’s never gone into it with me. Mr. My Way or the Highway. I’m hoping he kicks it before he realizes I never married her. Xavier laughs and rolls his eyes. Fucking curmudgeon. He gave me this. She was eighteen here, says she’s twenty-nine now.

Christ. I stare at the raven-haired beauty then snatch his phone to text the image to myself. She’s a goddess. How’d that cock removal go for you? You must be passing her up for someone massive, dude.

He crosses his arms over his chest, taking a wide stance. Something cold flicks across his eyes. She’s not my type.

You mean the hotter-than-hell-stewed-down-to-one-drop type? Fine by me if you want to shake her off. I’ll call dibs.

Stick with chance happening if something comes up. I’m serious—don’t let on that you know anything. I realize being inconspicuous might be more impossible for you than asking Dad not to be a tyrant. If Theophile brings it up, I suppose that’s her choice. I promise I’ll continue to keep Lolly off your trail. She has no idea you’re leaving the country. He laughs and waggles his brow.

Does Dad know anything regarding my situation? I would hate for him to slip up if he sees Lolly.

We had dinner in Hong Kong two nights ago. I filled him in that the castle’s yours. He didn’t flinch. Couldn’t give a shit about that place or your whereabouts. I didn’t know the castle existed until he told me six months ago he was donating it with a handful of other holdings to charity. It’s about number four hundred on his list of worldwide real estate investments. Xav grins and licks his lips, knowing full well the inheritance that’ll be split between us is one of the largest in history. As long as I’m involved, he won’t ask questions. He pats me on the shoulder like I’m ten years old.

Always the little brother in his eyes.

He has a new sugar baby distraction anyway, he says. I think he’s trying to beat his personal best. The chick cannot be eighteen. He might need a nanny to change her between feedings. Oh, and speaking of—I’ve set you up with a proper English housekeeper. Mrs. Mimsy.

You’ve done everything for me. I cup my jaw. Always ten steps ahead. Thanks. But the girl? Does Dad realize anything?

He still thinks I’ll marry her. I play along with the charade. He’s as batshit crazy as the old bag in the back of your bus. Some of her cuckoo must’ve rubbed off on his cockoo way back when. He fucks his forefinger through a hole he’s formed with his other hand.

I clench my jaw in response to his disrespect for Lolly’s mother, Duchess. As for the way he speaks of our father? What can I say? With all his bigness, he has never, not once, offered a smidgen of love or kindness. Not a whisper of worry toward me. He can’t be bothered to consider anyone but himself or his money and power. Why he ever had children to begin with is beyond my comprehension.

Call it a coincidence if you fuck her and Dad calls you out, Xavier says. He won’t like us meddling with an agreement he set up.

No shit. Might disown me. I suppose he can’t wait for me to fuck up again so he can continue looking the other way.

Your sins aren’t original. Xavier chuckles. Our father wrote the book.

Bubble’s piercing finger whistle catches my attention. They’re getting impatient. It’s time.

Xavier and I shake hands.

Xav…I owe you my life, man.

Ringmistress

*Feminine form of ringmaster.

Theophile

Two months later

Heathen rat. The wrinkly old triplets, dressed in their identical church outfits, snarl at me. Screw ‘em. All these years and they still think I did it.

I pass them while holding my breath—along with a hammer and a shovel I ought to high-five their faces with. My cheeks burn as a young woman pushing a baby stroller darts down the paint aisle, avoiding me.

When I come around the corner, I see it: the monstrous, pink beast my girlfriend Matilda warned me about. I growl and shake my head in disbelief. Hey, I poke Rebel, the owner of Rebel Field and Farm, where I’m toeing the ground with my tennis shoe, working myself into a tizzy. Where’s the old machine? I glare at the massive, elephant-shaped gumball machine that looks like it was plucked out of a circus.

Don’t get your undies in a bundle, Pickles. No one but you wants those piece-of-shit, one-cent gumballs. Big balls are in.

Yours are massive. Damn you. You promised!

I have one rule: Keep your promises. It’s one of those unicorn rules most people disregard. You have to stand for something.

I couldn’t resist. Come on. Gumball sales might rival those goofy air plants you talked me into selling.

I glare at the gimmicky creature. How like-my-mother of you.

A garish, larger-than-life, crowd-pleasing witch. She would have loved it—if she was alive.

I’m disgusted. You own a hardware store, not a theme park. I study the elephant’s colossal, plastic belly filled with brilliant-colored, baseball-sized gumballs. Showy bitch, I mutter as I spin, certain I hear her cackling from her pulpit in Hell.

Rebel pats the top of my head and laughs as he steers me back around. It’s a gumball machine. Relax. What’re you afraid of?

That fairytales are as dark as I think they are, and that promises don’t mean jack to anyone. Rebel pets the fawn strapped to my chest in a baby sling that was dropped at the shelter this morning.

That’s a shit-ton of thought over a gumball machine. He reaches into his jeans pocket then plunks a quarter into the slot on the elephant’s ear.

The creature’s mouth moves as it sings the Candy Man song. Rebel smirks and sings along as I stare at him, revolted at the excessiveness. He holds his hand out near the end of the elephant’s trunk. A giant, red gumball rolls into his palm.

Taste it. His voice drips with sarcasm as he holds the ominous, polished gumball to my lips.

I bite through its shell and salivate over the sweet and sour taste and perfect texture provoking my taste buds. Grrr. It’s perfect.

He quirks an animated eyebrow.

I scowl then take another bite. Twenty-five cents. Highway robbery.

Penny gumballs are a reminder of all good and simple things. Well, that and my freedom.

I take it you haven’t met him. The candy man? He scrapes his nails along his scruffy jaw, his grin growing enormously.

The ground tilts under my feet until I grab Rebel’s arm. The candy man is here?

Take a breath, babe. He’s living in the castle. I know you live under a rock, but don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors? Everyone in town has been talking about him.

My stomach drops, and I groan. My arranged husband has come for me, and is living in the castle where I grew up? I press my thumb along my fate line, knowing the only thing I can control now is how I deal with this situation.

So, this is his doing? I narrow my eyes at the elephant. Someone needs to set him straight. Me. His soon-to-be wife. Ugh.

You do that, boss. And, one of these times, you should to do the same to the triplets. He motions over his shoulder.

Leave it. A sting of heat hits my cheeks. I peek at them while they wait at the register, all three giving me the same death glare they’ve been giving me since I was eighteen and set free from juvie, seconds before I was off to the big house.

And, for the record, Rebel says, "I didn’t break my promise. Already loaded the old gumball machine into the back of Wonderland, and it’s still half-full of those shitty, little, crack-your-teeth gumballs. I know you have pennies coming out of your ass.

Why don’t you pay Wolfgang Valentine a visit? He’s a larger-than-life kinda guy, has a bit of an eccentric entourage. Told me his great-grandfather was a candy butcher at the circus, and that’s how his family’s empire got started. I like him. He’s unusual, an original. Not many of his type ’round here.

Wolfgang? The brother. I let out a long, easy breath, a momentary sigh of relief. My brain, however, flips a switch and manufactures all new thoughts. Each one a considerable disruption to my simple life.

Explain.

Offbeat. Confident as a fucking king.

It’s happening. I’m not sure how it’ll go down. But this guy—one of the candy men—wouldn’t be coming to this rinky-dink town if it wasn’t to find me. After all these years, it looks like someone else is keeping their promises too.

The candy men can.

Adagio

*Acrobatic act involving a man and a woman, presented in a slow or romantic mood.

Wolfgang

After Mrs. Mimsy perches a tiered tray of pastries on the tea table in the conservatory, I wilt into a chair.

Three wishes… Ready, set, go! I tap Bubble on the shoulder then snap my fingers three times.

She dips a paintbrush into a bright-pink concoction, which she then slathers onto Queenie’s grey toenails. Um…how ’bout four wishes just this once.

When I nod and roll my hand, she grins.

A driver’s license on my sixteenth. Public school this fall. A mother. A sibling. Pretty please with ‘I love you more than cake’ on top!

I massage my temples, missing the days when her wishes were simpler. A puppy. A new doll. A fairy garden.

Your turn, she says. Three wishes… Ready, set, go! She snaps her fingers.

Your eternal belief in my fathering skills. A soul mate. And for you to stop growing up. And a guarantee your mother will never find us and have me thrown in jail for kidnapping.

Though I might have the law on my side, considering what she did.

That’s pretty pie-in-the-sky stuff, Dad. She laughs, her nose wrinkling when I wink at her.

And now you’re a cynic? You’re growing up, kid. I don’t like it. I tickle her ribs and receive a burst of laughter and a kiss on my cheek. I should have wished for time travel.

No. That would involve reliving parts of my life. Black knots on the string of my timeline.

Duchess straightens her crown then reaches her gem-caked hand toward the pink porcelain teapot at the center of the table. Let your mother know it’s time for tea. Then come sit with me. I’ll tell you all about our last night at the circus.

After Duchess repeats her thoughts twice while pouring tea into every cup, as well as a gold high heel shoe she’s been drinking from lately, Bubble rolls her eyes.

When the doorbell sounds, Duchess stands in Pavlovian response. She twirls in a circle, clouds of blue glitter floating off her costume and dusting the tops of my bare feet.

King! She claps her hands and stares at me with frozen emotion—until a mile-wide smile crosses her lips.

Mrs. Mimsy and I meet gazes in silent conversation when she places a tray of colorful tea sandwiches on the table. All it says is that Duchess didn’t swallow her meds again.

No, darling. It’s probably a delivery for me. I scoot away from the table.

It’s the candy man. She folds her hands in a prayer clap.

Duchess! Bubble drags her grandmother’s name out, a long hiss lingering on her scowl. "Dad is the candy man!"

Duchess laughs. "Oh, silly girl, I know who all the candy men are. Every last one. Good and bad. Sweet and sour."

Mrs. Mimsy, can’t you wrap her pills in anchovies? Or one of those other fishy-smelling treats she eats? Bubble pins her nose closed and sticks her tongue out.

Don’t talk about me as though I’m not here, young lady. Those meds make me gassy and dizzy. I can’t walk the tightrope when I feel that way.

The doorbell sounds again, and knots form in my stomach, my nerves prickling in accord. I’m convinced it’s Lolly every time. Opening the door, I’m delighted by a striking, cake-topper-sized woman standing before me. Theophile? It has to be. She’s hasn’t changed from the photo on my phone.

The one I study in daily appreciation.

She frowns, narrowing her eyes on me. I’m not sure why, but it makes me laugh. A sexy frown? I’ll devour her.

I have a bone to pick with you, she says. Growls. With her hands firmly planted on her hips like a scrappy kid, her bright-red lips twist into a rewarding swirl.

I take a few seconds to ingest her lip-smacking, voluptuous frame dipped in black from head to toe, save for the colorful tattoos that wrap her petite, though muscular, arms and create a landscape for her glossy, black hair and obsidian eyes. Goddess.

A bone? I clear my throat, one eyebrow rising. And did you say pick or lick?

Are you for real? Intrigue sparks in her body language. Might be that sexy smile she’s working hard to bite back.

Just clarifying. I chuckle, adjust myself, then zero in on her color-stung chest.

The wet, black nose of a cloth-covered fawn peeks out of a baby sling she’s wearing while her right breast undulates as if it’s trying to escape her blouse. I could help with that. Queenie beats me to it though, stepping into the doorway and reaching her trunk toward the woman. She feels around on her chest, dipping her trunk into a blousy pocket.

With a gasp and surprise on her brow, the woman shifts her gaze between me and Queenie, who’s holding a hedgehog she took from the woman’s blouse. I study her hand as she scratches her temple. An amputation? I count twice to be sure. A missing sixth finger.

Theophile Charlotte. She nods while pushing a tangle of hair off her neck, rocking to her toes and thrusting her chest out.

I focus in on her absent earlobe. She flips her hair to cover that spot. How bizarre—what else is she missing? Not sex appeal, based on the way my cock keeps twitching.

Wolfgang Valentine. We shake hands, mine holding hers hostage while I draw her one step toward me.

I… Her cheeks flood with bright crimson. I came here to… She snags the hedgehog from Queenie’s trunk and situates him into her breast pocket.

Queenie coos, slapping her trunk against the door in frustration.

You’ve upset her.

Theophile takes two steps back, her mouth forming an O of surprise.

I glance at Queenie, dabbing the wet corner of her eye with my thumb. Made her cry.

That’s ridiculous. Elephants don’t cry. And who do you think you are, having her in this castle?

One, I step toward her, elephants cry. Two, this is Wisconsin. I could have a zoo in my castle if I wanted to. Not that it’s any of your business.

I don’t doubt you do whatever you want. And, on that note, I came here to give you a piece of my mind. She shakes a finger.

Your mind? I clear my throat, my mouth jerking into a smile. I’m sure it’s lovely, though I’d rather have a piece of your ass.

She crashes a hand over her mouth, covering a laugh until she belts out, Shut it already! My god, you’re a cocky piece of work.

Queenie steps backward, following my hand signal. Fine by me. We’ll be seeing each other soon enough—in a matter of seconds. I’d bet on it. I slam the door and await a knock. Or, in this girl’s case, a clobber.

Shut it? I might love her for this. Sassy little thing.

Thud, thud, thud. We’re not done!

Oh, sweetheart. We are far from done. We haven’t even begun.

Doubling over with laughter at her spirited temperament, I open the door. My need to touch her? Essential as air.

Apologize to her. When I crook my finger, Queenie steps one foot over the threshold. Apologize, now.

First of May

* A novice performer in his first season