Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  Later that night I had the nightmare again. Insidious, like a sly serpent coiled around in my head, it unfurled and bit deep. I’d had night terrors on and off all my life, but since I’d discovered the man who had taken my family, and my hope, was still alive, the dream had become more frequent.

  Always, it started the same: I was held prisoner by the man I’d called father. I peered out from behind my hiding place in the large armchair where my father sat, silent and heavy. I’d dragged his seated body over mine as I mimicked his pose. Legs straight, seated upright behind his back. Rough fabric blocked my nose, suffocating me with the smell of sweat and death. Tartan patterns assaulted my eyes. My nostrils flared with the scent of blood. I sat hidden beneath the depths of his plaid jacket, like a ventriloquist with a dummy on his knees.

  Across the room, wide empty eyes covered with locks of blood-matted brown hair stared into mine. Grief and fear swelled like a tidal wave inside me and I shut my eyes, not wanting to see the condemnation in her gaze. Tears welled and crept out my closed lids as I choked back the scream in my throat.

  I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, Cherry.

  Around me, grunting, inhuman sounds melded with the noise of someone moving around the room. Then the terrifying demon spoke. “Christopher? This is getting tedious. Come out of hiding right now and show yourself.”

  I tightened my arms around my dead father’s waist.

  Crying is bad. He’ll hear me, smell the salt in my tears.

  “I did this for us. The secret games we play? They are the Lord’s work, my boy. Only I can touch you. I wear the collar. Come on out from wherever you’re hiding so we can leave this place. We can be together, boy, you and I. Body and soul, we’ll be one. You never needed them. You only need me. They shouldn't have tried to take you away.”

  Then the humming started. “All things bright and beautiful…”

  My scream echoed in the emptiness as I woke, bolting upright, chest heaving, guilt weighing me down like rocks in a canvas bag. I launched out of bed, heaving everything I’d eaten that day onto the floor, unable to make it to the bathroom.

  Retching, throat stinging with the acid burn, I huddled in the corner of my caravan, my only solace. Sobs tore up from a throat already sore and swollen, and all I could do was stay there until the light dawned through the windows and banished the shadows away.

  I cut.

  *****

  A month later in Edinburgh I stood and watched as circus folk pulled over a spare caravan, cleaned up and replenished, to the living quarters of our circus family. We cordoned off a section where we all pitched our homes, and while we all lived apart, it was a community atmosphere.

  My bones ached. I hadn’t been sleeping again, nightmares of guilt and indecision coming back in varying degrees of severity. Also, fucking Rhys McIntyre’s impending unwelcome presence had dragged up more of my demons from the bowels of my psyche.

  “Fucking arsehole,” I muttered as I watched Julien and Stefan making sure the caravan mooring was secure. “Why did he have to choose this damn circus? I’m sure there were others that would have been more suited to him, Mr Perfect Photographer, and no doubt, King of Nosiness.”

  Julien and Stefan high-fived, looking pleased with themselves, and resentment coursed through my body. To my mind, they were pandering to the bastard. I bet they’d got champagne chilling in the fridge and placed a fucking chocolate on his pillow.

  Deep inside I knew my animosity was unreasonable, but then I’d never been the most reasonable of people. Even as a child I’d been ‘that kid’ who had an argumentative streak a mile long who fought against every authority figure I’d known.

  While I hated to think about my father, I knew he’d been at a loss at how to control me. My mother had had the knack, and had used feminine wile and my sister’s sweet nature to manage my outbursts.

  And then along came my nemesis. The one man who had found the way to control me, and the reason I was here, burying myself in circus life. He was someone I should warn people about, but couldn’t. Justice needed serving but it wouldn’t bring back what I had lost.

  I shivered and fought back those memories. The nightmares were bad enough without dwelling on the cause of them. I’d had another personal meltdown, and the mess from the subsequent retching had taken a while to clean up to banish the sour rancid smell of vomit.

  A soft cough behind me made me turn. The circus’s one and only white clown, Marco, stood there, concern on his sombre face. White clowns were at the top of the circus hierarchy, being members of one of the oldest circus professions. He stared at me, worry in his pale blue eyes set below pencilled eyebrows that twirled at the ends like that of a villain’s moustache.

  “Cary, you’re looking tired. Is everything all right?”

  Marco was the closest person I had to a real friend. We weren’t bosom buddies, but I tolerated his company, and even sought it out when I was feeling lonely. In his fifties, he’d been part of Trazellas for twenty-two years. I’d never seen him without his makeup. He wore it all the time in public, and I wasn’t sure that even Greta knew what he looked like under the white mask of face paint.

  No one even knew what his full name was or if Marco was even his real one. He was soft-spoken with a formal way of speech, gained in some fancy boarding school when he was younger. He didn’t talk much about it. I respected him like hell for both his art and his warm nature.

  “Just not sleeping well. I’ll be fine. That,” I gestured at the caravan where all the activity was happening, “doesn’t help.”

  Marco nodded. “Ah, the stranger in our midst. I can see why you’d be uncomfortable. You don’t tolerate change well, do you?” He removed a pack of cigarettes from his tracksuit pocket and lit up. Contrary to popular belief, circus people weren’t always clad in their performing garb all day. They dressed like normal people. I couldn’t count how many times I’d seen the disappointed looks on people’s faces when seeing me in my jeans or tee-shirts outside a performance.

  I scowled. “I’m fine with change. Just not with him.”

  Marco’s smile deepened as he blew out a long O-ring of smoke. “Greta told me he had you all aflutter. She seemed surprised by your reaction. You don’t show emotion for anyone, let alone a stranger.”

  Greta and Marco were best friends, and I’d often wondered whether they were more than that. I’d speculated whether they did the dirty, and if so, whether Marco removed his makeup or fucked Greta as a clown. Those thoughts had led to icky feelings, so I’d tried not to revisit them. I also worried that Greta may have shared my story with him. I know he wouldn’t say anything, but it still scared me.

  “I was not all a-fucking-flutter. She’s dreaming if she thinks that.” I stared over at the caravan, frowning as I saw what looked like a silver Lotus Esprit driving up to the caravan before coming to a stop.

  Shit, photography must pay well. That car was close to thirty grand.

  Someone clambered out of the passenger side and I recognised Rhys. He looked good even from afar, dressed in beige chinos and a pale green shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  From the driver side, a tall, handsome man exited the car, and my stomach lurched. Blond hair, chiselled jaw, what looked like an expensive suit, and a smile bright enough to challenge the sun. I hated him on sight and that made me even more annoyed.

  “Oh dear.” Marco’s amused voice cut into my meanderings. “That blond would be dead if glares were lasers.”

  I rounded on him. “Would you shut the fuck up, you clown? I’m not feeling anything.”

  “Oh, baby boy, you think you lie so well.” Marco blew another smoke ring at me. “I know what it’s like to live beneath a mask, Cary.”

  I ignored him, narrowing my eyes as the suited man opened the boot and reached in and passed Rhys a large holdall. They shared a tight hug and then Mr Fancy Pants air-kissed Rhys, leaning in to whisper something into his ear, something that made Rhys laugh. His face lit up and kernels of
something often described as green unfurled in my chest. I drew my eyes away from their embrace with an effort. Marco watched me, a strange expression on his face.

  “What?” I growled. “Have you something else to say?”

  Marco waved a calloused hand. “I wouldn’t dare. Someone is pissy today, and I have no wish to feel the effects of the Cary wrath.” He leaned over and ran his hand down my jaw. “This is the first time I have seen you like this. Perhaps there is hope for you.” He chuckled and began to saunter across the field. I stared daggers at his back as he departed. Marco raised a hand and rubbed between his shoulder blades. He turned, mouthed “Ouch,” at me and went on his way.

  I watched the Lotus depart, and as Julien took a still-laughing Rhys into his new abode, I turned and made my way over to Greta’s luxurious trailer. She’d mentioned earlier she had something for me and I was to pick it up before the show tonight. Knocking on her trailer door, I waited. A long moment later, she opened it with a beaming smile and waved a pudgy hand at me.

  "Cary, come in, please. I hope you like what I have for you. It is stunning, and you will look so sexy in it.”

  I blinked. “What?” I hadn’t been expecting anything like that comment.

  Greta walked across to the bench under the window, dragged the long cushion off, and opened the seat to reveal storage beneath. She reached down and took out a large, brown wrapped package, torn and with strips of sticky tape dangling from it. Her face creased in a grin.

  “It is a new costume. Remember we spoke about this? I ordered it and it has arrived.” She looked pleased with herself.

  Shit. I’d forgotten that talk. A while back we’d talked about the possibility of a new outfit. I think I’d been suffering a hangover at the time and had told her to do what she wanted. Last time she’d gotten me a costume, I’d had to find an excuse not to wear it because it was too short and would have shown off my scarred thighs.

  I smiled at her. “Sounds like a real treat. Let’s look.”

  When she flourished her purchase in my face, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a pair of knee-length spandex tights, pastel green in colour, with an emerald sleeveless tunic that was open in front and embellished along the seams with sequins of bronze and gold. It was an attractive piece of clothing even if it looked a few sizes too small.

  I peered at it. “Are you sure they got the measurements right?” I held up the tights and looked down at myself. “I mean I might not be as well-endowed as some, but that looks like it would clamp my balls into my stomach. And that top—I think my nipples will show. I’m scandalised you’d think I’d want to be a slut.”

  Greta peered at me. “Do not be such a prude, mi amor. What do you think? You like it?”

  I nodded and went over to hug her. “It’s awesome, thank you. My favourite colour.”

  She beamed at me. “That is not all. I also have this. I want you to have the grand entrance tonight, my beautiful Air Dancer, so I got you this.” She did the whole ‘ta-da’ flourish and drew out another garment from the seat and held it up.

  I gasped. It was a bronze and green cloak, a satin and sequined affair that looked both regal, and as if an over-the-top fairy godmother had created something a drag queen would wear. I loved it.

  I reached out and took it from her, turning it around. My eyes pricked when I saw the embellishment on the back. “Air Dancer” in gold thread, floaty letters that leapt off the fabric. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned.

  “Oh God.” I could barely speak. “It’s incredible. I wonder if this is how Rocky Balboa felt when he got his first boxing robe.” I looked at Greta and she nodded, her face a picture of happiness.

  “Put it all on, mi querido. I want to see how you look in it.”

  I left the cloak with Greta and went into her spacious bathroom, where I changed into the tights and tunic. After the initial discomfort of putting them on, they moulded to my body like a second skin.

  When I went out into the lounge area again, she threw me an approving smile. “Bravo, that fits you beautifully. Shows off your impressive package, mi amor.”

  I snorted. “Because that’s what you want to show the little kids coming to the circus. You’re a pervert.”

  I wasted no time shrugging into the long, draping sleeves of the cloak, revelling in the feel of the silky fabric against my skin. This was how I took my pleasure, enjoying things that weren’t human, or cursed with emotion. There was only me and the swish of the garment, and the feeling when I walked into that circus ring to perform tonight. The crowd would see me as something bright and talented, and not the damaged individual I was.

  The door to Greta’s trailer flew open and Julien bounded in, with fucking Rhys McIntyre standing on the bottom step. “Greta, darling, our guest has arrived. I thought you’d want to—wow. Cary, you look magnificent. Je crois que tu es très beau.” Julien kissed his fingertips and blew a kiss at me.

  Rhys’s eyes were wide as he looked at my outfit, unmistakeable heat flaring in them. It was unfortunate his face was almost at my crotch level. He stood back, observing, and at his sides, his fingers clenched on the camera hanging from around his neck. I swore he wasn’t breathing.

  He wants me.

  I swallowed; stirrings in my groin I’d thought were in the past came to life. I drew the cloak closed, lest anyone see anything pushing against my tights, and then cleared my throat as I silently swore at my dick. Now you make yourself known? What the hell?

  “Thank you, Julien. Greta outdid herself. It’s amazing.”

  “Yes, a thousand times, yes.” Julien moved around me, inspecting the garment. “It is special, my friend. Tonight, you are not just Air Dancer, you will be the Angel of the Air when you walk in the ring.”

  Behind me, the cloak lifted, and Julien laughed. “Your derriere in those tight things is a work of art, Cary. The ladies and gents in the audience are in for a real treat.”

  I turned around and slapped his hand away—a hand that was caressing my rear end. Julien wasn’t gay but at times, he acted like it.

  “Frenchman, keep your hands off the merchandise. People pay good money to see that derriere, let alone manhandle it.”

  Rhys made a small sound, and I turned to look at him. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up and making it stand on end.

  Greta moved over to him. “What do you think, Rhys? Is our Air Dancer not a sight to feast the eyes on?”

  There was silence then Rhys replied softly, “Yes. He is.”

  A shiver ran through my body. I needed to get out of here, away from the man standing before me. “Right, well, now that I’ve made everyone happy, I need to take this outfit back home then get to practice. I have a few things to finish up before I go on tonight.” I nodded at Rhys as I brushed past him down the steps. “Welcome to the circus again. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Trazellas. Oh, and nice car your boyfriend drives. Very fancy.” I said it with more grace than I felt because, fuck, the man was still riling me.

  I took off the cloak and folded it over my arm, not wanting to risk getting grass stains or mud on it as I walked home.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. Stuart is a friend,” Rhys said quietly.

  I shrugged. “Whatever. Nice car either way.” Then, conscious of three pairs of eyes trained on me, I opened the door to Greta’s home and walked out.

  Chapter 4

  Rhys

  Fuckity fuckity fuck.

  I watched the lithe body of the sexiest and most infuriating man I’d ever met walk out the door and across a patch of field to a large white motorhome not far away that had the silhouette of a man hanging on a length of silk, with the words “Air Dancer” emblazoned across the side in two-foot-high cursive.

  My guts churned. I’d all but taken out a damn banner in the paper and announced my interest in him to Cary, Greta, and Julien if their sly looks were anything to go by.

  Julien twirled an imaginary moustache and winked at me. “So…he is quite someth
ing, our Cary, isn’t he?”

  A good six inches shorter than me, the picture of lean, muscled wiriness, and coal black straight hair that swept down to his ears, Cary Stilwell wasn’t “quite something.” He was more like my personal porn fantasy come to life. I’d seen his chiselled abs through the tight fabric of that costume, and he had an arse that made me salivate.

  Those beautiful blue eyes helped the whole image of a brooding, secretive romance hero.

  God, listen to me. I’ve gone soft.

  I didn’t give a fuck whether he was the stereotypical personification of every romance book out there—Cary Stilwell was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Too bad he didn’t like me. The man appeared unapproachable, and I wasn’t willing to work that hard for a potential hook-up. In casual conversation, Greta had already confirmed he was gay, which I thought was forward, but who knew what her motives were.

  As much as he was sex on a stick, Cary Stilwell was bad news. I intended keeping this gig professional and consoled myself with the thought I could jack off to the image of Cary and save myself the aggravation of any actual involvement. But damn. Even his smell—clean fresh soap and something apple-y—made my dick stir. I liked a sensory atmosphere when I was relieving my sexual tension. I figured my fruit basket might need replenishing, and intended to keep that unique Cary scent as an aphrodisiac when I jacked off.

  “I’m going to need more apples,” I muttered, forgetting my audience.

  Both Julien and Greta looked at me in perplexed silence. I flushed, hating how my every emotion seemed to rise on my face. It was my bête noir.

  “Apples?” Greta murmured, a glint in her eye. She glanced over at Cary’s trailer.

  I flapped my hand. “Nothing, forget it.” I shifted my camera strap from where it was digging into my shoulder. “So once again, Greta, thanks so much for letting me stay here. The caravan is a home away from home and I’m looking forward to taking pictures. I understand from Julien we’re moving to Glasgow in a few days?”