Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  I’d never come so hard in my life. The smile of satisfaction on Rhys’s face had me laughing. “You look like a Cheshire cat. You’re a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”

  He shoved me. “Hey, you’re the one who craved the tongue-fucking. It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He looked down at his jeans. “I came in my damn jeans. And your jizz is all over me too.” He lay back on the bed. “I need to clean up.”

  I looked down at my sticky body as I tugged my pants up around my waist. “Me too.”

  Rhys waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe we could…” He jerked a thumb toward my miniscule shower.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “It’s too small. You can go to your own place and shower later.”

  I was never getting naked with him. That way lay too much explaining.

  “Are you kicking me out again?” His tone was soft, but I sensed the hurt in it.

  I toyed with saying yes and dealing with the consequences like I’d done before. What had just happened was welcome, but I wasn’t sure I could do it again.

  A proper relationship meant revealing your past, coming clean with secrets, and there was no way in hell I could ever do that. Besides, we lived in different cities and I was always on the move. We were worlds apart, so the chances of having any relationship wasn’t on the cards. Even if I wanted to, which I didn’t.

  I could find all the excuses under the sun to say yes. Yet I wasn’t ready to.

  “Not if you don’t want to go,” I responded. His body relaxed. “You go wash up, then I’ll do the same. There’s a fresh towel in the locker. You’ll need to wear your old clothes though, for your walk of shame later.”

  His grin split his face as he bounded off the bed, colliding with the low shelf on the other wall. “Shit. That hurt.” He rubbed the back of his head, then shucked his clothing right there and left it in a pile on the floor. I couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of him naked. He was broad shouldered and a little hairy, torso lean and muscled with a soft swell to his belly. His arse was high and tight, above legs that were strong, with taut thighs.

  His cock lay half hard against his trimmed pubes, his balls low hanging and substantial. He reminded me of a warrior, tough and earthy, and no stranger to hard physical work.

  “By the way, your bad dream? Care to tell me about it?”

  He rolled his neck, easing out kinks. “It happened in Somalia. A bunch of drug runners thought we were someone else and opened fire. I took a hit, but luckily it ripped my rucksack apart and not me. My camera took a beating though, but I had a spare. I lost all my footage.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. I wanted to reach out and do the same. I clenched my fingers, so I didn’t fall into temptation.

  “You get shot at a lot? Occupational hazard?” I didn’t know much about Rhys’s photography career other than what I’d read online. Yes, I confess, I’d Googled him. The man was a rising star in the industry, far more famous in his circles than he let on.

  Rhys gave a sharp laugh. There was no humour in it though. “Yes. It wasn’t the first time. No doubt, it won’t be the last. When you’re working in war zones, you expect it.” His casual acceptance of potential death was fascinating. It was a grisly subject but one close to my heart.

  “So, what about Bosnia? I read you’d had trouble there.” His face closed up, and his lips thinned. My eyes noticed some scars on his body. One was long and jagged across his back, the other small and round on his left side, under his arm.

  “Is that a bullet hole?” I leaned forward to look closer. “And what’s the other one? Looks like a knife or something.”

  Rhys glanced down. “Yeah, that one’s a bullet hole. Got it in Bosnia. The other thing is a shrapnel wound from when I was in Iraq.”

  His body was a road map, a canvas scarred by worldly events. “How did you get the bullet hole?” I shifted across the bed and ran my finger across it. His skin marbled at my touch. “I can’t even fathom being shot at.”

  He sighed. “I was taking pictures of the cities ravaged by war and came across a group of street kids.” His voice grew quiet. “They were surviving God knows how, salvaging what they could. I captured shots of them until the firing started.”

  “Someone was shooting at you?”

  He shook his head. “No. At the kids. The sniper picked them off one by one. I tried to save one of them, pushing him aside, but a bullet hit me and I went down. The kid was next.”

  His voice creased with pain. “I couldn’t save him, any of them. The rangers I was with pulled me clear, and we got to cover while they took the sniper out. They medevac’d me to a nearby field hospital, and that was the end of my tour with them.”

  I traced the lines of the knife scar. “I’m sorry, Rhys. I can’t imagine what being out there must have been like.”

  He shifted and lifted his eyes to meet mine. "That’s war for you. That’s why I changed course, came here to do something a little more—frivolous.” He flashed a quick, empty smile at me. “If you’re finished listening to my war stories, I’m off to wipe this spunk off me.” He disappeared into the bathroom, pulling the roller door shut.

  I lay back on the bed, eyes closed, waiting for my turn, contemplating how the fuck I’d made my life more complicated by starting to care about someone. It was then I realised I had no overwhelming need to don my cilice or pick up a razor blade and push the feelings I had away. Losing that familiar desire felt both good, and alien.

  I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  I looked around the caravan, seeing a plastic fork lying on the side of the sink. Breaking it to a sharp edge, I gave in to old urges and scratched a deep trough down my thigh. Not deep enough to bleed much but enough to bring back the sense of control I’d lost with Rhys earlier.

  Then I lay back and pulled the duvet over my legs to keep Rhys from seeing what I’d done to myself.

  Again.

  Chapter 11

  Rhys

  The buoyant feeling I’d had in the bathroom as I cleaned up the dried-up spunk—so much so I whistled “Moves Like Jagger” repeatedly—was still there when I finished. The enclosure was tiny and there was no room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.

  When I stepped out, Cary lay curled up in a foetal ball, duvet hugged up to his chin. He was as still as a mannequin, the only perceptible movement the rise and fall of his bare chest. His dark lashes fell against pale cheeks and one hand clenched to his chest. He looked innocent, and the most peaceful I’d ever seen him.

  I debated getting a washcloth and cleaning him up but decided against the chance of waking him up. He looked so at rest, I didn’t have the heart. The man was an edgy dynamo, always moving, eyes always watching, gaze always guarded. This morning he’d let himself loose, and it was humbling he’d done it with me.

  No doubt when he’d wake later, he’d be back to his usual sarcastic, pissed-off self but for now, I’d take what I could get.

  I moved the duvet away to slide in beside him again. He still wore his long pants—it was bloody cold in here. Taking care not to crowd him, because it appeared the man had issues with intimacy, I shuffled as close as I dared.

  I planted a kiss on his cheek. He stirred and murmured but didn’t wake.

  “Sleep, Air Dancer,” I whispered. “I hope we have more of what we did, because I like you even if you are an arsehole sometimes.”

  I lay down beside him, took out my phone and sent a message to Stuart. Finished, I leaned back, as lethargy stole over me like a warm cloak. Relaxed and satisfied, I fell back into a half sleep.

  ****

  Someone was watching me. I opened my lids to stare down into a pair of unfathomable blue eyes, regarding me.

  I yawned and stretched. “Morning, sunshine. I didn’t hear you come back to bed.”

  He nodded, still staring at me. “I was comfy next to you so,” he shrugged and yawned. His lips parted. I thought he wanted a kiss but as I moved forward, he stopped me.

  “Why do you like me?”
he asked as something I couldn’t identify crossed his face. Regret, perhaps?

  I frowned. “What kind of question is that to ask someone you’ve just woken up with?”

  He said nothing, and waited. Below the duvet, one hand moved restlessly, as his other one propped up his head. My dirty mind wondered what he was doing down there.

  “I like you because you’re sexy, frustrating, complex, annoying as crap, your arse could crack walnuts, and you have a beautiful laugh, although I think I’ve only heard it once. And that was when you were watching that one kid the other day go arse over tits in the mud and come up looking like a dirt monster.”

  Cary sniggered. “Oh yeah, that football game we watched after the rain. I can’t believe the state of those kids when they’d finished. You have to admit, seeing him go face first into a pile of mud was pretty funny.”

  I mock-frowned. “I’m disturbed that you gained such amusement from that but —” I shrugged. “To each their own.” I sat up, watching the start of a smile form on his face. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” He motioned me to get out of the bed. “You let me sleep in my own come and I’m feeling skanky. Move out so I can grab the shower.”

  “Oi,” I said. “I thought you looked adorable sleeping. What’s dried spunk between friends?”

  I got up and waited for him to brush past me into the bathroom. His face was rosy, and he averted his eyes.

  He stared into the bathroom mirror, eyes looking back at me.

  “So, we’re friends, then?” he murmured. “With occasional benefits? Because I’m not interested in anything else.”

  My heart sank at that because, yeah, I wanted more. That I already knew. Scaring him off, though, wasn’t in my future game plan. The skittish animal that was Cary Stilwell needed careful handling and gentleness. Something in the man’s past had affected him badly, and I intended finding out what.

  “If that’s all you want right now. I’m cool with it.” I was such a good damn liar.

  He nodded and closed the bathroom door.

  I blew out my cheeks in frustration. This little project would take every iota of nurturing and gentling I could muster.

  ****

  Newcastle was new to me, so I took great delight in exploring the vicinity and taking shots of the city. Everything was fodder for my book: the circus apparatus, the people, and the environment. I loved an opportunity of telling a tale about this travelling community to put misconceptions about them to rest.

  Cary and I had a lasting truce. It had been three days since our erotic session together and while nothing physical had happened again, I felt closer to him. He’d been preoccupied with practice for a new move he was intending to perform. I sensed when he had that bee in his bonnet, nothing could sway him, not even the promise of another kiss.

  He was still the same moody and sharp-tongued man but with a softer edge. Even Julien had commented on the change.

  “Et bien, mon ami. If I had known all along that all our enfant terrible needed was a good man in his bed, I would have found someone to do it earlier.” He’d winked at me, letting me know he didn’t mean it. “My friend, he is almost human again. You are good for him.”

  Greta had been much more effusive with her praise. I’d found myself smothered between huge bosoms and the smell of patchouli.

  “He is still an arrogant gilipollas, but he is a little more tolerable.” She’d hugged the crap out of me. “I knew when you joined us you would get through to him. My instincts never lie.” One pudgy finger had tapped the end of her nose. I’d nodded my head and agreed with her.

  Standing now in the eerie quite of an old abandoned dockyard, camera aimed at the setting sun over a dismal grey building with its own sense of dilapidated majesty, I couldn’t help but feel fulfilled. Happy even. When Stuart had suggested this coffee table book on the ins and outs of circus life, I hadn’t been overenthusiastic. Yet living with Greta and her people, I marvelled at how she’d brought various torn pieces of humanity together into one family. The fact one of those damaged souls was someone I was developing deep feelings for was even more incredible. And scary.

  A seagull alighted on a nearby railing and stared at me with beady eyes. I snapped a quick shot. “You’ll fit in the book somewhere,” I said, as it cawed loudly. The bird gave another squawk and flew away.

  Later that night I watched Cary up on his silks performing the new fall he’d perfected. My heart was in my mouth as he executed a sweeping, graceful, and seamless fall above the crowd, to the ground only to hover a few metres above it. I was not ashamed to say I closed my eyes for fear he’d splat on the bottom of the arena.

  The crowd cheered and hooted as he untangled himself from the red silk and bowed. His eyes lit on mine while I gawped. I swore I saw the slight lift of his lips at the corner, coupled with an infinitesimal wink in my direction.

  He looked dreamy tonight. He’d changed his costume from the gold and bronze outfit and was now dressed in black tights, and a flowing white blouse opened at the chest with an expanse of gleaming, toned torso visible. I had a hard time stopping myself rushing into the arena, falling to my knees, and telling everyone he was taken, even if Cary hadn’t quite realised it yet.

  I didn’t wait for the show to finish; I’d seen it all before. I avoided backstage at peak times like this one. It was mayhem behind the scenes and I’d taken enough pictures of it already for my book.

  Cary normally went backstage, getting caught by Greta or Marco, telling him about his performance. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen the clown in a while. Making a mental note to ask Cary if he’d seen him, I rushed over to his place to wait for him there.

  I sat on the grass, back against the motorhome, making a garland from the long grass growing under the trailer. I was so fixated on my task I didn’t hear Cary’s quiet approach.

  “Is this what it will be like now, with you stalking me at every turn?”

  I looked up, squinting my eyes against the glare of the spotlight angled almost into my eyes from this vantage point.

  Cary looked amused, but behind the words lay another, more biting nuance. I ignored it and stood up.

  “Way to treat the man who’s making you a crown. A crown for a prince. Look.” I held up the finished grass wreath and stepped forward. Before he could stop me, I’d laid it on top of his head.

  He looked at me with pity. “Look, I know you’re five years younger than me so I expect a little childish behaviour, but don’t you think this is a little weird?”

  My eyes widened. “I am so not that much younger than you. You aren’t that old.”

  Cary heaved a loud sigh as he opened his door and stepped inside, the garland still perched endearingly on his crown. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-eight, twenty-nine next month. I’m a May baby.” Cary couldn’t be over thirty. I plonked down on the couch and fiddled with a flyer on the table.

  He picked up the kettle and filled it with water. “And I’m thirty-three. Ergo, five years older.” He busied himself making two cups of coffee as I watched.

  “What? Wow. Thirty-three. Looks like I’ve got myself a sugar daddy.” I snorted.

  He turned around. “Firstly, you haven’t got yourself anything or anyone. Secondly, and most important—sugar daddies have money. I don’t. Ergo, no sugar daddy.”

  “You like that word, don’t you?” I mused. “Ergo. What the fuck does it mean?”

  He poured steaming water into mugs and handed me one. “It stems from Latin, and it means ‘therefore.’”

  I scowled at him. “I assumed as much. I’m not stupid, Mr Private School.”

  He grinned, a flashing, beautiful grin that turned my stomach inside out. “You look so cute when you’re piqued.”

  Inside my chest, my heart did a happy little back flip. Oh my God. I’m having a real conversation with him. He’s bloody teasing me. He thinks I’m cute.

  “Piqued. To affect with sharp irritation and resentmen
t. See, He Who Thinks He Has Brains, I know words too.” I huffed. “And how serious can I take someone who’s wearing a grass crown? You look like Puck.”

  Cary sat down beside me, one eyebrow lifted. God, the man was sexy. His long legs folded effortlessly under one another as he took a sip of his drink. His damaged feet were curiously alluring, a testament to years of practice at his craft.

  “I played Puck once in a travelling theatre in Romania.” His hands tightened around his mug. “I also played the part of Juliet in a pantomime in Rome. The wig was scratchy, and my dress skirt fell down halfway through the performance, leaving my man bits dangling. It was a memorable experience for many people.”

  I couldn’t help the guffaws of laughter at the thought of Cary all bare arse naked up on a stage. Cary looked pleased with himself, and he watched me until I stopped chortling.

  “You’ve travelled all over the world, haven’t you?” I rolled my shoulders, which were feeling a little tense. “I have also, to war zones and places you wouldn’t go on holiday to. Your stuff sounds so much more fun.”

  Cary put his mug down on the table and nodded. “I enjoyed living with circuses and travelling fairs. It appealed.”

  Uh-huh, because no one cared about your past and asked awkward questions.

  I thought I’d try one, and gauge the reaction. “Did you ever live in a normal house, with

  a normal family, or have you always lived in this crazy world, like a flying Peter Pan?”

  The reaction was as I’d expected. His face darkened, and all semblance of the easy-going man disappeared like a shadow entering a shaded glen. “I’m here now,” he gritted out, lips thinning. “Isn’t that all you need to fucking know?”

  I flung up my hands. “Whoa, I get it. I’ll back off the personal stuff.”

  Cary didn’t reply, just sipped his tea, knuckles white with tension. The air between us thickened with his displeasure, and I tried to get back to where we’d been before I’d ruined the moment.