“Whatever,” I mumbled. “Now will you leave me alone to catch some shut-eye and dream about those blokes in tights?”
Stuart’s soft chuckle was the last thing I heard before he rang off and I snuggled down on the couch for a few minutes’ kip.
Chapter 3
Cary
The warmth of the early January sun shining on the field felt good on my UV-starved skin. The grass beneath my arse was damp; the strands tickled my bare calves as I stretched them.
Around me, the bustle of people getting ready for the show tonight felt familiar and comfortable. Trazellas was moored in a huge field in Aberdeen, Scotland after travelling up country, stopping at various places along the way.
We’d been here longer than typical, six days now, and as far as I knew, we were still here for another few before moving elsewhere in the country. We moved around a lot and I wasn’t complaining about whatever kept us here. I loved touring Scotland. It was far away from the places I felt uncomfortable, and somehow, the place calmed my soul.
Despite still feeling sick at the unwelcome discovery I’d made two months ago, I was coping with the knowledge that Father Price Littlejohn was alive. I pushed it deeper inside me when I felt it seep to the surface like toxic wastewater. So far, I’d handled it with ‘pain management’ and a lot of booze.
I hadn’t used my cilice for four days. There were times that the fierce need to maim was at a minimum, when the razor was all I needed. Those times were few though, and the sick thing was, part of me missed the self-mutilation when the urge wasn’t there. I always felt an itch to break my skin and draw blood. It was the only way to stay close to the family I’d lost. The smell of their blood still stayed with me when I went to sleep at night.
I rotated my shoulders, trying to ease the ache there and in my forearms. I’d been practising some new moves on my silks. The strain of holding myself up while manoeuvring the silks around my body was an occupational hazard. In the business, we called it a forearm pump, and together with back and shoulders, it was where my body bore most of the stress.
Tight, knee-length Lycra shorts were best suited to my body and limbs as I moved—and for hiding the scars on my thighs. My upper legs were my choice of canvas, my cilice and razor my choice of paintbrush.
I stared at a random patch of freckles on my left knee, next to a healing silk burn, and wondered whether I needed to shave my legs again before tonight’s performance. I kept most of my body hairless, as a lot of it was on show, and the stubble was itching.
When I’d go back to my caravan, I’d prepare the old-fashioned gentlemen’s straight-cut razor and lather up milled soap. I found this soap much easier on my skin as chest, legs, balls, and other intimate places were all included in the solace of my shaving sessions. It was a soothing routine.
I lay back on the grass, twitching at the tickling sensation on my bare back. Pulling over the soft, white shirt I’d taken off earlier, I balled it under my head, staring up into the sky.
“That one is a train, steaming on its way to Istanbul.” I focused on the cloud resembling the locomotive. “And that’s a deer. Bambi perhaps.” The clouds broke up and formed new shapes and I smiled. “And that’s a woman. All curves.”
A throat being cleared interrupted my inspection of the skies and I sat up, squinting into the sunlight. The person moved, and the sunlight disappeared.
“Cary, mi amor, I have someone I’d like you to meet. He will be travelling with us for a while from next week.”
I stood up, looking over at Greta, narrowing my eyes against the sunlight. “What do you mean? Why do I need to meet anyone? Wasn’t it enough I was at the dreadful birthday celebrations you concocted for me?”
“Be nice, my friend,” Greta warned. “Rhys is a lovely man, and he will be with us a few months, doing a coffee book feature on the circus and taking photos. I know you don’t do company, but you might make an exception for this one.” She winked.
I stared at her. “Why?” A sudden feeling of panic traversed my spine. I didn’t need or want friends of any sort.
She shrugged. “I think he swings your way, and he is easy on the eyes. You’ll have the devil of a time keeping Stefan and Emil from drooling on him and inviting him to one of their nightly soirees. Rhys is cute—and he’s a redhead,” she said with a smirk and a lascivious lick of her lips.
I scowled, wishing that in one drunken moment many years ago I hadn’t told her about my predilection for men with copper and auburn hair. There was something about the colour that got me going.
I pushed that memory away and glared at Greta. “Not interested. I’m sure he’s a great guy but leave me out of the introductions. I’m sure there are plenty more people in the family he can amuse himself with, Stefan and Emil included, if that’s what he wants.”
Greta shook her head, her large hoop earrings swinging in the sunlight. Her voluminous dress of many shades, like the feathers of a peacock, shifted in the light breeze.
“Cary.” Her voice was tight. “Rhys is interested in you, our top billed aerialist—it’s part of the reason he’s here. He’s paying me to travel with us, a large sum of money I can use to put right all the shitty things going wrong. I need him to fit in here, and all you need to do is make nice with him. I’m not asking you to be his best friend. God knows it would be a lost cause with you.” She gave her patented Greta eye roll, two dark eyes in a sea of white.
I clamped my lips together and crossed my arms over my bare chest. I didn’t like the sound of this. How could I ‘make nice’ with a man who might ask too many questions? I couldn’t risk anyone finding out who I was.
“I have warned him that anything personal is off limits.” Greta always had a sixth sense when it came to my fears, even though she didn’t know the whole truth about my childhood. She reached out and ran a pudgy hand down my tense arm. “He’s interested only in the circus people from a performance perspective. You know no one talks out of turn here, mi querido corazón. You have nothing to fear from him.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re not the one hiding in a fucking circus.”
Greta’s face darkened. “You are not the only one hiding out here,” she spat at me. “You don’t know everyone’s stories, Cary, because you hide from them. Do not presume to imagine you are the only sad soul here with a past.” Her dark eyes flashed in anger, and I felt the first stirrings of self-loathing at having upset the one person who’d always been there for me.
I guess I can do this for her. She deserves it.
But I wouldn't make it easy. That was the nature of my beast. “Fine then,” I huffed. “Introduce me to this paragon of virtue who will make my heart flutter. Let me see what he’s made of.”
Greta looked relieved, and I was ashamed I’d made her work so hard for my agreement. “Cock and balls, mi amor.” She cackled. “Cock and balls. All the things you like.”
It was my turn to roll the eyes. I followed her, not bothering to put my shirt on. If this Rhys wanted to travel with us, he’d need to get used to men walking about in a state of half-undress.
Julien stood on the rickety wooden steps of the ticket cabin next to a tall, well-built man with a camera bag slung over his shoulder. They were talking, and Julien’s pale hands fluttered in the air like doves. He was overly Gallic with his gestures, and with his small sinewy build, and narrow face and pointed chin, he always reminded me of a sly fox.
The photographer with Julien made me nervous. He dwarfed Julien, so at my five-eight, I’d look even smaller beside him. The man’s broad shoulders were pronounced against his tight tee-shirt, his shock of dark hair streaked with copper glinted in the sunlight, reflecting like light off a bronze sculpture. His casual ensemble of tight-fitting brown jeans and a pale pink shirt made him a study in rose and scarlet. And while he was beefier in stature, he resembled the friend I’d loved and lost.
Cameron had loved wearing pink too.
Something needy unfurled in my
belly and I wasn’t prepared for it. Seeing this photographer sparked something inside me I thought was dead and rotting.
And when the man turned and levelled his gaze toward me, his bright green eyes greeted me with equal appreciation. The sudden flit down my bare chest to my tight, fabric-encased groin suggested the man was of my persuasion or bi. Greta’s unerring instinct was spot on, as usual. Her gaydar was accurate from ten miles away.
I willed the thing in my belly to curl up tight and hide away. Such thoughts and feelings led to despair, hurt, and nothing good.
Greta reached Julien and the photographer then turned to me with a beaming smile. “Cary, this is the man I was telling you about. Rhys McIntyre, meet Cary Stilwell.”
Rhys stepped forward with a grin, showing crooked white teeth beneath his clipped beard streaked with russet. He had a slight gap between his incisors. Shit. I didn’t want to find it endearing but I did. As was the fact that up close he didn’t have a buff gym body but was more the picture of lean and strong natural masculinity and strength. He appeared comfortable in his own tanned skin and I envied him that. I wondered what his arse looked like.
I found my hand clasped in one rougher and larger than mine. He looked to be a few years younger than me as he looked down at me. “Cary. It’s good to meet you. When I got interested in the whole circus idea, I researched on the artistes here and let me say—wow. The YouTube videos I saw of you were riveting. I don’t know how you do what you do.” The Scottish burr in his voice was enticing. Warm and comforting. Not too strong, but enough to reveal his heritage.
“Practice,” I said through clenched teeth even though I was half smiling. “And lots of broken bones and silk burns.” Give him nothing. Don’t encourage him. You’re not here to make friends.
Rhys cocked his head. “You’ve got quite a following on Trazellas’s video channel. You’ve never considered competing in any of the formal championships out there—winning a title, maybe?”
I shrugged. “No, I don’t like the competition scene.” I doubted anyone would recognise the ten-year-old boy from all those years ago, but I wasn’t willing to put it to the test with national and international competing.
It was bad enough the circus acts got filmed and broadcast by people with smart phones and cameras, as well as the occasional professional. But it was unlikely I’d be exposed through those outlets. I figured there was no way anyone could recognise me as a missing boy on a milk carton from twenty-three years ago, but I didn’t want to take the chance by putting myself more in the public eye than I was already.
Rhys nodded, his face pensive, as he tugged at his beard. The damned beard with a trimmed moustache that made him look like someone’s fantasy of an adventurer: tough, outdoorsy, and sexy.
“I had a good friend once who loved watching aerialists. He knew one. He used to say they were amongst the most beautiful artists he’d ever seen. That they encompassed everything that was graceful and elegant about the human form.” He laughed self-consciously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away.”
“Sounds like he appreciated the art.” I hadn’t missed the use of the past tense. It sounded as if Rhys and his friend were no longer in touch.
Look at me interacting with actual human beings. I hope you’re proud of me, Greta. She looked rather pleased with herself, casting me wicked glances now and then. I ignored her.
“Yes, he did.” Rhys’s face blanked out for a minute, but I saw sadness in his eyes. “Has Greta told you what I’m doing here?”
I cleared my throat. That intense green gaze was disturbing. “You’re doing a coffee table picture book of us. Novel idea.”
Julien waved his arms. “Non, non, ma belle Cary. Rhys here is not doing a fancy picture book. It will be a work of art. I have seen his pictures. We are blessed with a man du talent exceptionnel. Rhys is a god in the photography world.”
Said god blushed beneath his faint tan, a colour somewhere between his shirt and the auburn streaks running though his hair. “Oh fuck, don’t say that. I’m lucky to be doing something I love, and I guess it shows.” He fidgeted, and I had the overwhelming urge to brush back a stray strand of hair from where it had fallen across his face. I resisted the impulse because—fuck no.
What the hell was wrong with me? I hadn’t shown a real interest in any man for many years. It had to be because he reminded me of Cam.
Cameron had had the same hue of hair but pale skin. Cam’s eyes had been brown where Rhys’s were peridot green. Yet there was something in their bone structure, and the way Rhys held himself, with quiet strength, taut muscle, and a steady demeanour, that prompted the memory of Cam—a true friend, one of the few people I’d loved, and one I’d once again lost too soon. Like everyone else in my life.
“So how long are you going to be with us?” I asked.
Rhys shrugged, a gesture much like Julien. “I don’t know. As much time as it takes to get the good shots and get a feel for what you guys are all about.” His gestures became animated. “I have no deadline per se, so I’m around for a while.”
I grimaced. That wasn’t great news. I wanted him gone sooner rather than later. Something told me he wouldn't be dissuaded from digging down for personal stories and trying to make ‘friends.’
Rhys noticed my gesture and his eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t please you?” he said frostily. He turned to Greta. “You need to tell me your expectations, so I don’t overstay my welcome. Cary doesn’t seem too keen.”
I had a sudden urge to chuckle at the affront in his voice. Like a petulant teenager being told he couldn’t stay over at a friend’s house.
Greta waved a hand at me. “Bah,” she snorted. “Cary here is like a bad-tempered Saluki. He has big teeth and likes to snarl but underneath he’s nothing but a pussycat.” Her eyes challenged me to contradict her. “And I promise we have plenty of people who will be thrilled to meet with you and show you their acts. And Cary will do his bit to make you feel welcome for however long you need to stay with us.” She glared at me and I rolled my eyes.
“Saluki?” I murmured. “Skinny, long-limbed beast with big ears? That’s how you describe me?”
From the glint in Rhys’s eyes, I thought he’d Google the dog breed soon enough.
“Si.” Greta nodded. “Definitely a Saluki.”
I scowled.
Rhys noticed it and he grinned, his fit of pique gone. “Well, I’m glad to hear someone wants me around. Thanks, Greta.”
Someone called to Julien from across the field and he smiled at Rhys. “I have to go, duty calls.” He held out a hand and Rhys shook it. “I look forward to having you travel with us, Rhys. I’m sure I will be a more palatable subject for you than my friend Cary with the bark.”
He grinned at me as I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him. Julien chuckled and hurried away across the field. In the distance, fellow circus performers enjoyed the sun, a dog barked somewhere, and I was itching to get back to my motorhome and cut the feelings out of me. Perhaps doing that would lessen the prickling of attraction I felt for the man in front of me—a man staring at my lips in fascination.
My stomach roiled in anticipatory hunger or fear, perhaps both as I glared back at him, lifting one eyebrow.
“Like what you see?” I asked, venom dripping from my voice. Rhys’s face blushed pink, and I felt a momentary sense of triumph at having embarrassed him being caught ogling my mouth. “Well, I have somewhere else I need to be, so now the introductions are over, I’ll say good-bye. I’m sure we’ll catch up soon.” My words might have sounded welcoming, but they were spiked with resentment and a soupçon of superciliousness, of which I was a master.
Rhys’s eyes darkened. He shrugged. “Sure, Cary. I’ll be moving in when you guys get to Edinburgh next week and I’m looking forward to getting the lowdown from you.” His eyes flashed. “Doubtless I’ll have lots of questions, seeing as how you form one of the main focuses of the book, together with Julien. I have a thing for people w
ho perform in the air, so I’ll make sure I get to spend lots of time with you.” He was challenging me, and I clenched my hands at my side.
Standing alongside us, Greta was smirking. I wanted to wipe it off her face with a cutting remark, but I didn’t dare. I knew which bears to poke, and Greta wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” I said airily, as if spending time with him didn’t curl my insides and make me hyperventilate. “I’ll look forward to having my personal groupie trailing me around like a baby duckling imprinting. I must stock up on treats.” I turned and walked away, not waiting for a reply.
Behind me, Rhys said, “What the hell have I done to him? Is he always like that?”
I didn’t stick around to hear whatever Greta replied. I hurried home and, once inside, closed then locked the door and stood against it, trying to catch my breath. It’d been a while since I’d had a panic attack, which was a major achievement. I focused on my breathing, my nails cutting slim, bloody crescents into my palms as I tightened them, chanting my mantra in my head.
No caring, just The Hurt.
When I felt calmer, I pulled my cilice from its hiding place under the floorboard in the far corner of my home, unwrapping the metal band from its plastic sheeting. I sterilised and disinfected it each time. The last thing I needed was an infection. I might be a crazy cutter, but I was a responsible one.
Shedding my tight shorts and lying back on the seating bunk clad only in a thong, I wrapped my chosen instrument of torture around my thigh and pulled it tight. The familiar spike of pain made me close my eyes in beneficiation. I breathed out as the sexual fluttering in my belly lessened and my mind focused on the stinging flesh, giving me solace for a while. I was performing tonight so I couldn’t go too deep, but I needed a little pain to take the emotion away and banish feelings awakening in my soul.
Rhys McIntyre was fucking dangerous. I wasn’t sure how to manage spending time with him. I’d need to make sure my walls were up, and nothing got through, because the alternative was unacceptable.
Living On Air Page 4
