I cleared my throat and stood up too. “Err, sure. Whatever I can do, I’ll do it.” As long as it doesn’t involve interacting with people too much, especially Rhys bloody McIntyre.
As if she’d read my mind, Greta regarded me with narrowed eyes. “And that might mean keeping Rhys company and showing him around, introducing him to the artistes while Julien deals with other things. Can you manage that?”
Like hell I will. That’s the one thing I can’t promise. I nodded, crossing my fingers behind me as I told a barefaced lie. “If that’s what he needs, yes. I’ll keep him amused.” Like locking him in the ticket office with one of Madame Grace’s yapping terriers. Shoving him in the prop caravan and sending it rolling down a hill. I forced a wide, toothy smile, sure Greta had seen right through it. “I'll look after him, don’t worry.”
“Te escucho, pequeño mentiroso,” she muttered. I knew enough Spanish to pick up the word liar. “Well, I imagine I have no choice.”
Greta reached up and caressed my cheek then leaned in and kissed it. “I am sorry I thought to slap you. I let my temper and grief get the better of me.” She stood, and I with her. “That shall not happen again. I beg your forgiveness.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve forgotten about it already.” I watched as she walked to the door and opened it. “You know where I am if you need me. I’ll keep my phone on, I promise.” I looked around. I didn’t even know where the damned thing was. “Have a safe journey. Come home to us when you’re ready.”
She looked back at me. “Be careful, my friend. I am worried about you. Things are not as they should be with you. I thought having Rhys here might help, but it seems I was wrong. And Marco—” she sighed. “He seems distant. Please watch out for him?”
I nodded, ignoring her comment about my wellbeing. “I will. Honest, how much trouble can travel to Newcastle be—that is our next port of call, isn’t it?”
Again, she nodded. “Si. Julien knows the stops. He will get you all there.” With a last flick of her hand, she disappeared into the night. I closed the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed.
Shit, shit, shit. I should have gone to that damn dinner. Greta deserved better from me. Trying to honour her request was going to be difficult. How was I going to make nice with the man who haunted my fantasies? The other night I’d thought I’d give myself a wrist sprain with all the frantic tugging and tight fisting of my poor cock. My dick had given up, letting loose a slow and sorry spurt of spunk, but boy, I’d worked for that. It hadn’t been the most satisfactory of releases, but it was something.
Earlier, I’d told him to leave me alone. I needed to put thoughts of his beard and how it would feel against my skin behind me.
I’m too much work. He’s better off not getting to know me any more than he thinks he has.
****
I peered out through the curtain, watching the crowds form like sheep in the Big Top. One after another they trailed in, rug rats in tow, candyfloss, popcorn, and soft drinks held in excited hands. Fabian, one of the two circus clowns, scuttled around like a hyperactive monkey, keeping the kids entertained with tricks and showing people to their seats. Fabian loved his job, and being the fall boy for his fellow clown, Rob, titillated him no end.
A soft waft of perfume made me turn around. Lucy stood there, looking beautiful as usual in her soft blue pastel performance costume. At twenty-one years old, she was thin and willowy, and one hell of a performer on the aerial hoops.
I loved hoops too, but fabric—not actual silk, that could have left bad friction burns, I used tricot—was by far my favourite. It was tactile, liquid sensuality when I was up there, plus it allowed me to grip onto it when the pain from my self-inflicted wounds flared. It made a good cover if I ever bled out, being red. That was a deliberate colour choice.
She smiled at me. “All set? You looked uncomfortable earlier. Strain a muscle or something?” Her soft red hair flowed around her elfin face, making her look like a celestial angel.
I swallowed back the thought I often had about what my little sister would have looked like had she been able to grow up. As always, I forced any conjuring of images back into the dark depths from where they came. I can’t do anything for any of them now.
I shook my head. “Nothing wrong, just a muscle tinge.” Yeah, a tinge of scraped and still raw flesh from the steel wool. The Sana wasn’t helping it heal as much as usual. I’d had to bandage it up tight.
“Full house tonight,” she murmured from where we stood backstage waiting to go on. “I see Rhys out there, in the front with his camera. He’s into his photography, isn’t he? I see him everywhere. He showed me the snaps of the aerial shots of Stefan and Emil together, and they were stunning. Beautiful motion shots. The man’s talented.”
She cast me an amused smile as I snorted. “You may not like them, Cary, but they are magic in the air together. They jell, you know?”
“Yeah, with all the semen those two put out, I’m not surprised,” I muttered.
Lucy giggled. “That’s gross.”
I grinned. “Yeah it is.” I glimpsed Marco on the other side and excused myself to Lucy. I wanted to have a word with him before I performed. Greta’s request rang in my ears.
Marco looked the same, white mask painted on, but he looked to have lost a little weight. His eyes were also deeper than usual and behind the mask, he looked tired.
“Cary.” He inclined his head toward me. “Something wrong?”
“Nah. Wanted to see how you were doing. Is everything okay? You look like you’ve lost weight. Been on that seaweed diet again?”
About a year ago Marco had started a disgusting diet of seaweed and raw fish, neither I was partial to. He’d lost weight but become as cranky as hell not being able to have his beloved roast beef dinners and Yorkshire puddings. Greta had demanded he tone down the dieting.
I was glad; I’d thought of a rotund seal every time I’d seen him eat.
Marco shook his head. “Alas, no. I wouldn’t dare. Greta would kill me if I became grumpy Marco again.” I noticed he didn’t answer about the weight loss, but before I could pursue it, his next comment made my jaw drop.
“So, you and our resident photographer have become friends? I’ve seen you sitting together. It’s good you have let someone else in your life, Cary. I knew when I saw you together there was a spark.”
I crossed my arms across my chest. “Oh, hell no. We’re not friends, and not anything else. Jesus, it’s as if you don’t know me, Marco. Since when have I gotten involved with anyone here? Friend or otherwise?”
He regarded me, and I rushed on. “And there’s no spark. Not even a damn flint or hint of smoke. Nuh-huh. You have your wires crossed.”
“And methinks the man doth protest too much.” A slight smile crossed his features. “It is all right to admit a certain reliance on someone else, my friend. One day you may need it.”
“I don’t need Rhys to be that person,” I growled. “Besides, you’re there if I need you. And Greta. I need no one else.”
His eyes flinched at that remark and he performed an uncharacteristic movement of running his hand over his chin. I’d never known Marco to touch his face once his makeup was on, regardless of how dry his paint was.
“Greta is not here and will be away for some time. I got word she has other family troubles after her mother’s death. Something about vultures and carcasses and needing to get affairs in order before said vultures drain her mother’s estate dry.” He sighed. “It turns out Mama Francisco was rather wealthy, and the family have descended like a pack of rabid hyenas.”
His eyes darkened as he continued. “And you cannot always rely on me, Cary. I think the adage about putting all your eggs in one basket applies here. You need to have someone else to have your back.” His face grew sad. “And I know your thoughts on prayer and religion, so I doubt you are ready to embrace a higher being to help you.”
I quelled my irritation at his last words. “I’m okay, thanks.
I’ve done fine by myself so far, and yes, I won’t be looking for any higher power ever. But thanks for looking out for me.”
Marco reached out and gripped my wrist. I stared at him in surprise. “Cary, do not become like me. Alone and with nothing lasting to leave behind when I go except the memories of this circus and my time in it.” His voice was husky but there was an undertone of sheer sadness. “Make your own new memories and find someone to share them with.”
I placed my other hand over Marco’s. “I have memories, Marco, ones I’d rather not share. I can’t expect anyone else to live them with me. That’d be asking too much of any person.”
God, I should keep my mouth shut.
The soft strum of Lucy’s intro—the opening to “Bolero”—played, bringing me back to the present, and the fact that in about fifteen minutes I had a show to do. My entrance would be when the more edgy “Titanium” song began. I loved the lyrics, and they made the perfect backdrop for my performance, followed by Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” another favourite track of mine. Edgy, dark, violent, it encompassed everything I wanted to portray.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s my cue to get ready. Maybe later we can catch up, have a beer after the show?”
I’d promised Greta I’d see what ailed Marco, and perhaps this might be the right time. I squeezed his arm as I waited for a reply, I got a small nod, and I smiled as I let him go.
“Good. Right, let me limber up. I’ll see you later.” I turned and made my way to the curtain, flexing my fingers as I did so.
Time to start my warm-up routine, get into my headspace and put on a show.
****
Exhilarating well described being suspended forty feet in the air with only a long piece of shiny fabric to keep me there. A battle of wits began each time I went up on my silks, one between gravity, muscles, and state of mind.
As I twirled, fell, spiralled, and swung on my weapon of choice, the sighs and screams of the audience faded into muted insignificance as I exalted in being above it all, and the fact that up here, there was only me and my skill that kept me from being splattered and broken on the arena floor below.
Safety nets weren’t used; neither was rigging or harnesses, because, like a gun, it could be used against you. One wrong swing, flip, or contortion and an aerialist could end up ensnared in the tools of the trade, even strangled.
As Air Dancer, I flew through the space above, intoxicated by the freedom. I delighted the audience below as I dropped, did upside-down splits, and executed perfect windmill falls. My body danced to the tune of the rushing air past my ears, the slight whip of wind upon my face, and the burn of the silks as they slipped through my fingers.
My ankles and feet ached through the myriad foot-locks used to climb the silks, anchoring me to the fabric like Velcro to my body.
Air Dancer was not Cary Stilwell; a damaged man tormented by guilt, or Christopher Spencer, a frightened and traumatised boy. Air Dancer was who I’d always wanted to be and wasn’t.
As I wind milled my descent for the final time, being brought down to earth and landing catlike on my feet, I did what was needed and bowed to the audience, acknowledging their admiration.
There was only one face in the crowd I could see. Rhys stood on his feet, clapping, face alight with pleasure. He reacted this way every time I performed, as if it was new and exciting, and not something he’d seen before.
Fabian and Rob ran across with my cloak, helping me into it before they scarpered away to the sidelines to perform more clown magic.
Something crazy in the air must have infected me because for the first time, I turned to Rhys and bowed in his direction, sweeping my cape at him in acknowledgment.
His face lit up, and he bowed back, then stood up, laughing. The light glinted off his hair and my throat closed up. I wondered what it would be like to have his arms around me, telling me how well I’d done and that he was proud of me, and feel his warm hands in my hair.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I brought myself back to reality when the drum roll echoed through the arena, signalling I should be off already. Wrapping my cloak around me, I strode backstage and Lucy pressed a bottle of sparkling water into my hand. Hero worship shone out of her blue eyes, leaving me feeling uncomfortable.
“There you go. You were amazing as usual. Tell me again why you left Cirque du Soleil in Paris to come back to England? They must have been so sorry to see you go.”
I drank then wiped my mouth with my hand. “No, they were glad to get rid of me, I think. The choreographer, Sonia, always called me le morveux, which meant snot-nosed little bastard. She detested me because some of my suggestions were better than hers and the team went with them.” I took another drink of water and watched Lucy’s eyes widen at something behind me.
“Someone here to see you,” she stage-whispered and gave a small chuckle as she danced away.
I knew who it was before I even turned around.
Chapter 7
Rhys
Watching Cary up there on the silks gave me a sexual rush the likes of which I’d never had before. Every sensual move he’d made, every tightening of his abs, every vision of his tautened arse, long lean legs, and strong forearms had contributed to give me a raging boner. I couldn’t help it. I was addicted to someone who didn’t even like me.
We’d been travelling together over a month now. Flung into proximity most of the time because a circus gave little time for too much privacy. And even after a month, the sight of Cary Stilwell caused my heart rate to quicken, my dick to burst forth like a periscope, and with the physical desire came the emotional need to connect with him. That need surged forth like the swell of a tsunami.
What had happened to him to make him so closed off? Who was he, because I knew he was hiding something. Why did he shy away from any human contact? The investigative reporter in me, the one who had followed terrorists and murderers around in far-flung war-torn countries, and seen horrific scenes of violence and human cruelty, wanted to know.
“Rhys.” Cary’s face was guarded. “Did you enjoy the show?” He moved away to wipe his face with an old towel. The sight of sweat glistening on his bare shoulders was mesmerising.
“Uh-huh.” I tore my eyes away from a single rivulet that trickled down his throat and brought my eyes down to his. Cary watched me, but there was something indefinable in his gaze, something heated and unexpected.
Then he looked away, and the moment disappeared. “I need to shower and change. Excuse me.”
He turned to leave. I grabbed at his shoulder in desperation. His skin was hot and firm to my touch. He levelled his gaze at me; pinpricks of amber fire.
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to touch what isn’t yours?” he asked.
I raised my palms up. “They did but I never listened.” I grinned at the scowl forming on his face. “So, as Greta said you have to look after me and all, do you think we could chat tonight? I’d like to find out more about you. I heard Lucy say you were in Cirque; that sounds like a great tale. I also thought to get more casual night shots of you relaxing, if you ever do that. It’ll make a nice contrast to the ones I have of you in action.”
“Tonight isn’t the right night,” he snapped. “Maybe another time.”
“Oh, okay.” I took out my phone and pretended to scroll through texts.
Cary looked perplexed. “What are you doing?”
I waved my phone about. “Greta messaged me, asked me if we’d spent time together yet to get the photos I wanted. I told her my plans for tonight and she was excited. I thought I’d better let her know it was off; otherwise, she’ll be happy for nothing. She’ll message me later asking how it went. I can’t lie to her. She’ll know.” I made a scary face. I’d had no text from Greta and I wouldn’t have messaged her back telling on Cary, but as he had a low opinion of me anyway, I thought he’d buy it.
He swished his cloak around his body and with an arrogant flourish of his hand
, he motioned me to follow him. “Fine, do your stupid shots then. But you’ll need to wait until I’ve changed. And you wait outside while that happens. I don’t care how cold it is.”
He stormed off in true diva fashion and I gave myself a mental pat on the back as I followed him. And note to self: use the Greta threat again.
His cloak wafted in the cool night breeze, allowing me a glimpse of his tantalising backside. I didn’t follow too close; I half expected him to kick out in a fit of pique and send me flying, like a thoroughbred colt.
I chuckled at the image and he stopped. “What’s making you snigger like a loon?” he snapped, not turning around. “Are my pants split or something?”
“Sweetheart, there is nothing wrong with the sight I have in front of me. It’s like the eighth wonder of the world.” I sighed. “Merchants would give their whole chest of precious spices to see it. Sailors would kill the albatross to touch it.”
He shook his head and carried on walking. “Do those lines ever work for you?” His tone was different, amused even, and I gave a mental salute I’d made him feel something.
“I’ve had my share of conquests with my silver tongue,” I conceded. I hurried to catch up with him as he walked faster, only a few metres away from his caravan now. “In more ways than one.”
His shoulders shook, and I was sure he was laughing. When he reached the entrance to his home, he turned and regarded me. “Stay out here until I’ve showered and have told you to come in. If you even think of coming inside, I’ve got a fire-axe behind my door and I’m not afraid to use it.” He opened the door, went inside, and shut it. I was sure I heard the latch lock.
“He’s not a trustworthy bugger, is he?” I grumbled to myself. I peered through the grimy window. A face scowled out at me and Cary drew the blue curtain.
I pulled a childish tongue at the window and sat down on the grass, only to stand up when my camo pants got soaking wet. I’d forgotten it had rained earlier. Ten minutes later the door reopened. I wasn’t invited in.
Cary looked as sexy as sin in a pair of tight blue jeans and a cowl-neck long-sleeved jersey in a shade of pale blue that set off his dark hair. He was beautiful.
Living On Air Page 8
