″Just one more?″ begged Hamilton, the young man′s nephew.
″Wasn′t this ride your last?″ the elder probed, lips curled as cheekily as the little tyke′s. His British accent sounded off in the heart of Los Angeles.
Spotlights stormed the starless sky, bright red neon displays, acid green LEDs and ultraviolet signboards swirling into view as the carousel slowed to a stop. Children and adults alike dismounted their chariots and ponies, some dizzy, others beaming.
Hammy leant back against his uncle′s chest, cheeks flushed as he put all his cards on the table; the blush, the puppy eyes. Even the, ″I love you, Uncle Casey.″
Well, there was no saying ″no″ to that.
″Fine,″ he said, rather resigned. ″One last spin. If I don′t feed you by nine, your mother′ll have my head.″
Hammy chuckled, nodding along. The carousel conductor whistled, beckoning them over. ″We′ll stay on for another one,″ Casey called out to her, to which she shrugged indifferently. ″Guess that′s an OK,″ he whispered to the boy in yellow, tousling his soft, almond brown curls.
His gaze softened, arms secured around the boy′s small waist as the younger′s eyes flitted across the dazzling lights of Santa Monica Pier.
Casey had come a long way to fulfil his promise. A painstaking, eleven and a half hour flight from Heathrow to LAX, on which he′d suffered from mild sleep apnea as a result of the stuffiness and this imbecile who′d gotten the window seat, only to force Casey out of his chair every half-hour to shuffle off to the loo. Sure, he might have been incontinent. For God′s sake, he could have at least booked the damn aisle.
Once more, the carousel whirred to life, breathing life into their caramel, porcelain stallion and the many others like it. ″Remind me again why we′ve only ridden this horse,″ said Casey, blowing a stray strand of hair from his nephew′s forehead. Hammy brushed his cheek against the equine′s ceramic mane, smiling peacefully.
He said, and simply, ″This one′s special.″