The Curse of Flight

by R. G. Hendrickson

  The Curse of Flight

  By R.G. Hendrickson

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 R.G. Hendrickson

  ISBN 9781646564910

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Curse of Flight

  By R.G. Hendrickson

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 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.

  In the mirror behind the bottles, Josh held a cold glass and sipped. Only Coke, rule number one, he didn’t drink too much, especially here at The Pariah. If not for the curse, he’d have a few beers, and anything might happen.

  Not a lot of action, it was Monday after all, slow at the bar. Few on the dance floor and quiet in the booths beyond, thumping music filled the empty space. Early yet for tourists, that time approached. A man appeared at the door. Bottles in the mirror blocked the sight of him. Josh turned around. Eyes met across the floor. He broke the second rule.

  Those eyes came his way. Josh turned back to the bar. Now in full view in the mirror, this guy knew how to move. Tall and built massive yet graceful, he could be a dancer. The way he walked accentuated every muscle in his body. Even through jeans and sweater, the extra effort showed and so excee
ded the simple act of walking that Josh had to laugh and hide it in the mirror’s anonymity.

  The guy sat on a stool beside him and shouted the bartender’s name. He must be local. Yes, that smile, one of the regulars here. Rule number three, no locals, only tourists. Vegas was good for that, finding guys to never see again. Not that he didn’t want more sometimes, but this was all the curse allowed. Besides, Vegas locals could be so sketchy.

  Last sip, Josh pushed the glass forward. Time to move on, feet hit the floor.

  “What’s the rush? I’m Steve. What’s your name?” A hand stuck out, long thick fingers.

  No reason for rudeness, he shook the guy’s hand. His grip was firm, warm, big. “Josh.” Time to let go, too bad.

  Joe, the bartender, picked up the empty glass and held it in the air like a question. Steve winked at him. “Beer, a mug, the usual. What’s our friend here drinking?”

  “Coke,” the barkeep said.

  “Get him a Cuba libre.”

  Josh’s back bristled. He would have none of it, whatever it was. Hopefully, it went well with beer, for this fellow’s sake.

  “Pretzels?” The bartender brought them.

  Steve gave a thumbs up. “Thanks Joe.”

  Josh’s heels spun around toward the exit, and something touched his elbow. It squeezed and held him next to the stool he abandoned. His breath stopped. That hand. He glared at it and followed the big bicep and hefty shoulder on up to the guy’s startled face. Steve let go of him not a second before Josh’s elbow jerked away. It took a moment before a smile returned to Steve’s face. Nice, but short an apology.

  “Sorry about that.” Steve squirmed a little. “I’m not trying to be a jerk.”

  “You don’t need to try. You’re a natural.” Josh’s mother taught him better than that, but he said it anyway. The smirk fell from the guy’s face. Time for Josh to walk away, maybe he’d been too hard on him. The guy’s big shoulders sunk, eyes fell, and the square jaw dropped.

  “That really hurt.” Steve’s eyes lifted. “Why don’t you like me?”

  “How can I dislike you? I don’t even know you.”

  “Well, I’ve tried doing something about that, and you ran away.”

  “I have somewhere to go.” He didn’t, but he never paid much attention to regulars at the bar. They asked too many questions.

  Steve’s eyes drilled. “The bartender tells me you only talk to tourists. Is that true?”

  They knew. They were on to him. One of the bartenders, maybe Joe, must have noticed. On second thought, Josh shouldn’t be surprised. But of course. Joe kept tabs on the customers, talked to them, and sometimes saw ID. Josh was glad he’d never lied about his name. Deception drew attention to itself, defeating the purpose. “I talk to whomever I want. Who are you to question it?”

  Steve shrugged. “Who am I? You don’t ask, you don’t get. I’m that guy.”

  “I’m on my way out, in case you didn’t get that.” The hairs on his arms rose. This guy was getting under his skin.

  “Okay. At least I asked, and we talked. That’s something.” Steve leaned in and smiled. “I live here. We could get together, hang out, have a drink, like we are now. How about a movie?”

  The fact was undeniable. Steve was right. They did speak. Josh didn’t know why he let it happen. Should have known better. Maybe he liked it. It was time to go, but he didn’t.

  Steve patted the stool. “Before you got mad at me, you know, for touching your arm, I was going to say I’ll save this for you.” He circled his palm above the seat. “Still warm.”

  That smile again, one’s eyes could get lost in it. Steve wasn’t his type, too big and pushy. Worse, he was local, but one couldn’t deny it. The heart expressed its own opinion. The echo pulsed in Josh’s ears. It pounded. Breath quickened to agree. “I have to go now.”

  “Why? Got a hot date?” Steve’s eyebrow rose.

  Josh’s chest sunk. He had no date. At this rate, he probably wouldn’t. He might wait another week. If he left the bar, he would look online, which he loathed, so impersonal as well as unreliable. Face to face was better. “No. I don’t.”

  Steve leaned closer unblinking. “Want one?”

  “What makes it so hot?” He already had a pretty good idea, but didn’t like surprises.

  Steve said nothing and dunked a finger in his beer. Then he touched it to the empty seat and made a hissing sound like meat on a grill.

  This was when guys like Steve usually talked about themselves, how wonderful they were. There was none of that to Josh’s surprise. Steve put the focus on him instead, on his ass, but at least on him. Josh’s eyes rolled in their orbits, and he stifled a laugh. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Steve’s smile and wink said it all. He shrugged those broad shoulders and sighed. Wistful eyes glanced sideways at the empty seat.

  Though light on words, Steve’s vague reply was refreshing, compared to other guys who spelled out what went where and how big. So often that talk left nothing to imagination and fell short of reality. It was one thing to tell and another to show.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter what Steve said or didn’t say to Josh, who had no intention of going home with him. Josh never did that with locals. It got too complicated. The rules protected him from guys like Steve.

  Josh’s drink sweated on the bar. Steve gestured to it with a pretzel, which doubled his smile as he ate it.

  The stool had cooled when Josh’s hand rested there. He brushed away a drop of beer before he sat. Something about that smile drew him in. Steve’s front tooth sparkled. Reflections from the dance floor must explain it unless it was Josh’s imagination.

  Steve lifted his mug. “Cheers.”

  It happened again, a glint on the smile. He didn’t imagine it, a reflection maybe. Josh turned around but found nothing, no glass ball nor any other lighting effect to explain it. Finished with the search, his eyes returned to Steve, whose mug hung in the air. To decline a toast would be so rude. “Chin-chin.” He hurried to raise his glass and met Steve’s eyes before he sipped. Like Coke but better. Yes, rum and maybe something else. Whatever it was, he liked it.

  Steve’s smile didn’t quit, and he ate a pretzel as he spoke. “You’re hard to meet. I don’t see you here much.”

  “I go out on Tuesdays, my day off.” Too much information, he always spilled when he drank.

  “Tuesdays?” Steve asked. “What do you do?”

  He didn’t want to lie, so Josh ignored the question and took another drink. They never recognized him. Still, he wouldn’t take a chance.

  Steve put down his beer, struck a match, and lit a cigarette. He inhaled. “That was a short conversation.” Smoke plumed from his mouth. “Want to know what I do?”

  He didn’t. One thing was leading to another. “Why? Should one?”

  Steve’s reliable smile crumbled. “Okay, guess not.” He grabbed a handful of pretzels. “What I do, I happen to be good at. Not from around here, are you?”

  “What makes you say that?” Josh didn’t like to ask too many questions or to answer them, but this hit a nerve.

  Steve smirked. “One wants to know? When you hear the one, one kind of wonders where that came from.”

  People from the States could be so rude. He’d never been mocked for speaking proper English in Canada. “It’s my second language. I learned it at school in Quebec. They say the accent’s excellent, though French idiom does bleed through sometimes.” Too much information, Josh pushed aside his drink.

  “That’s interesting. Thanks for telling me. Sorry if I gave you a hard time.” Steve popped a pretzel in his mouth and stared. “I like your lips.”

  Having no reply for this, Josh turned his eyes to the mirror and lifted the glass to his mouth. Just a sip. The spirits tickled his windpipe. Back down with the glass and up with his hand, he covered a cough.

  Steve’s profile smiled in the mirror. “Don’t hide them. They’re sweet. I want a taste.”

  Rule numbe
r four, no kissing. He cleared his throat and should say something. Nothing came out, not even a cough. So, Josh dropped the hand from his lips, lifted the glass, and took another sip in the mirror behind the bottles.

  “Look here.” Steve’s face neared in the mirror. A warm breath brushed Josh’s neck. He put down his glass and turned for just a quick look.

  Lips met his, nibbled. Steve’s tongue tasted salty, like the pretzels and almost as twisty. Josh broke all the rules. No worries for now. It was Tuesday, free of the curse, but Wednesday would follow.

  Chapter 2

  Steve’s eyelids opened a crack. A sliver of light let in the new day. Not too fast. He didn’t want to leave the night behind. His arm stretched across the mattress and fell flat. He jolted up. By the sliding glass door, a hint of sunlight silhouetted a dark form. “Come back to bed.”

  Without reply, that shape stood on one leg and pulled on pants. Knee up, back curved limber, lean and tight as Steve remembered. There was something else about Josh. Hard to tell in just one night, Steve couldn’t put a finger on it. “What’s the rush?”

  The dark form buttoned his shirt without acknowledgement.

  Steve’s groin sent signals. He needed to pee. First, the morning wood had to fall, so he sat on the edge of the bed and waited to make the trip.

  He reached for a smoke on the nightstand and found the pack empty. Elbows stretched above his head. Muscles flexed. Kinks worked loose. Neck and shoulders mumbled pops and snaps to the inner ear.

  He reached for the ceiling. “I took care of you. Didn’t I?” Chin tucked to chest. He repeated the exercise as eyes rolled up to watch Josh.

  The backlit form leaned against a chair by the balcony and bent to put on boots. “No complaints,” Josh said.

  No complaints? Steve’s outstretched arms dropped from overhead and bounced on the bed, muscles limp. Come on. It was great, for him more romantic than the movies, but real, as raw as porn, but real, better than any of that and anyone before, the real thing. A crooked frame on the wall near Josh’s head caught Steve’s eye, the Skyfall poster from his collection. He’d straighten it later. “I want a replay.”