Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  She nodded, her eyes still on Cary’s trailer. “Si, on Sunday, we take down the top, and travel overnight to Glasgow. You need to be there for something?” She cocked her head like a tiny sparrow and stared at me.

  “Oh no, not at all. I want to plan out my shots, and thought if I had a map of our route, I could take pictures of certain iconic things along the way. Document the trip so to speak.”

  Greta looked satisfied. “That is a good idea. I like it. Our journey in pictures. It will make for an interesting book, I think.”

  Julien stepped forward. “I am looking forward to the journey together, Rhys. Don’t let our beautiful Air Dancer put you off. He is an irascible soul, but when you see him perform later, you will forgive him every transgression and marvel at his beauty. You will capture it majestically, no doubt. And you would do the same for me no doubt when I am up in the air.”

  He smiled, white teeth glinting. “Now, I must be off, business calls. This circus does not run itself as much as Mistress Greta would have you believe. Our queen bee has her worker bees. And drones. Plenty of drones.” He reached out a hand, patted my arm, and then turned, sweeping away like Rhett Butler leaving Scarlett behind. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “He’s something too, isn’t he? Is everyone here such a character? I will feel boring in amongst them all.”

  Greta’s face shadowed. “We are an eclectic mix of people, most of us with secrets, some with pasts they want to forget. My one word of caution to you staying here is not to pry into anything personal. We are a private community. If you ask too many questions, the skittish horses will bolt and then there will be no turning back.”

  I put my hand on my chest. “I promise to keep my curiosity to a minimum and to the pictures I take.” And I’ll try not to lust too much over the unobtainable Cary Stilwell.

  Greta nodded, looking satisfied. “Then you and I shall remain friends. These people are my family. I want them to stay with me and feel safe.”

  I frowned. Her words confused me. Safe from whom?

  I had no time to ponder the remark because a pack of small, sequin-clad terriers ran up the steps and assailed my ankles. I watched in sheer disbelief as one of them raised its leg and peed on my foot.

  Greta let out a screech of laughter.

  “What the fuck?” I yelled as I dodged out of the way. “Who let the rats out?” I liked dogs, but being pissed on wasn’t endearing me to this bunch.

  Someone laughed behind me. “Looks as if he doesn’t like you,” the person murmured, amusement coating his tone. I knew even before I turned around to glare at him it was Cary fucking Stilwell. A cool gaze regarded me with mirth through strands of coal black hair.

  “I forgot my keys.” Once again his skin touched mine as he disappeared into the trailer, and moments later he came out with a bunch of keys in his long fingers. Cary nodded at the woman rushing toward us. “Don’t let Madame Grace hear you referring to her beloved animals as ‘rats.’ She is the wife of the man who throws knives for a living. I’d be careful if I were you, Rhys McIntyre.”

  Cary tipped an imaginary hat at me and sauntered off across the field.

  “I’m so sorry, my love. My little ones are not usually so rude.” I turned to see a tall, thin stick of a woman dressed in a flowing plaid skirt and loose pink blouse staring at me.

  “Sherlock, behave.” She reached down and scooped up the offending mutt, who yipped and licked her face with joy. The other dogs milled around the woman, also yapping. My ears hurt, and my leg was wet.

  The runt dog’s name was Sherlock? Heaven help us.

  I forced a smile and shook my head. “It’s fine, what’s piss between friends.” I reached over and scratched the dog between its ears. “He performs in the show then, he and his mates?” I waved at the dogs bouncing around our feet like miniature Tiggers.

  The woman I assumed to be the knife thrower’s wife nodded. “Yes, he does.” She held out a hand. “Let me introduce myself. I am Madame Grace.”

  I shook her cool hand, and she squeezed mine. I tried not to wince. The woman had a hell of a grip. “Rhys McIntyre, travelling photo journalist and resident fire hydrant.”

  Greta snickered and reached over to coo at the dog, running her hand down its fur.

  “Again, I apologise. I’m not sure why he did that.” Madame Grace looked shamefaced.

  “According to he-who-shall-not-be-named, he doesn’t like me.” I hesitated. “The dog, I mean, although I think the same could be said for he-who-shall-not-be-named. I’m in his bad books.”

  Greta reached over and touched my arm. “It may not seem like it now, but it is in fact a good sign.” Her tone was approving. “You impressed him and let me assure you, with that one, it doesn’t happen often.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not holding my breath we will be best friends,” I grumbled. “I think he’d like to murder me in my sleep with one of her husband’s knives.” I jerked a thumb at Madame Grace.

  Both women tittered. I’d never heard the sound before. I’d read about it, but not experienced it first-hand. It was unnerving.

  Madame Grace put the dog down on the ground and I watched as the boisterous pack ran onto the green field. “My advice to you, and I am sure Greta here would say the same, is to continue doing whatever you’re doing with Cary. He could use the challenge of a man like you.”

  I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the fact we were both gay men or to my sparkling and cheery personality pissing Cary off. I inferred the latter.

  “I’ll give him my best shot.” I realised how that might sound. “I mean, I’ll try to make friends with the guy, not, you know, give him—” My voice trailed off as both women did the whole tittering thing again.

  “Friends, but don’t push him,” Greta warned. “His past is just that—his past. It has no place here anymore.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t piss off the sexy aerialist more than I have to,” I muttered. I rolled my eyes and uttered a groan when Greta tapped my arm in rebuke.

  “So, we understand each other.” Her appraising eyes regarded me. “I think you will help us, Rhys. A breath of fresh air is welcome. Bringing in the outside world is not always something we relish but you—I think you might be the exception.”

  She turned to Madame Grace. “Come, love, let’s go inside and we can have a quick drink before we get ready for tonight. Rhys, I hope you settle in. We’ll talk more later at the show.”

  I waved to the ladies and turned to stare at the Big Top. Time to go spy on my prospective new best friend and see what he was up to.

  Perhaps I’d get a few pictures.

  ****

  Fifteen minutes later I was gaping in awe, sitting on the cool ground hidden in the folds of the tent, watching Air Dancer practise on high.

  Suspended forty feet in the air, his lithe body taut with tension, silk wrapped around his naked forearms, he performed a slow spiral. He’d pirouette on the silk, wrap it around his body, then fall, only to climb up again, and do it all again.

  I’d watched YouTube videos of him, but they were taken from far away and lacked detail. Seeing it up close and personal was breath taking. I’d taken shots from different angles, trying to capture the beauty and sensuality of the man on camera.

  Cary Stilwell was magnificent. He was an artist, an athlete, a performer, and a study in silk and skin. I had an uncomfortable half boner watching his toned and muscled body curl into the silk. He was, without doubt, the sexiest, most graceful and intriguing figure I’d ever encountered.

  Even from here, the sheen of sweat on his naked upper body was something I wanted to taste. “Down, boy,” I chastised my cock. “He’s off limits that way, remember?”

  I gasped in fear as he worked the silk, wrapping it around his body as he twirled around, lower and lower, faster and faster, ending up only a few feet from the ground. I managed a few more pictures before he landed like a cat on the sand and let out a low growl as he rubbed his upper left thigh
and swore. I remained a voyeur, hidden in the shadows of the tent, clutching my camera.

  Cary slid his hands over his leg, winced then turned and did the same to his arm. I saw the red mark running the stretch of his forearm. I wondered if it was a burn from sliding down the silk.

  His harsh voice rang out over the emptiness of the circled arena separating us. “I know you’re there, so you may as well come on out.”

  I held my breath and waited.

  Cary shrugged. “Fine. Be a pussy and hide away."

  He turned and fiddled with the silk. I bristled and walked out from behind the curtain, stepping over the low bollards and into the arena.

  “I’m not a fucking pussy. I didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all. You seem to get all tetchy when I’m around.” I stood behind him, seeing his glistening skin close-up, resisting the impulse to lean forward and lick it, even if the man was an arsehole.

  Oh God, those words conjured up even more indecent images of him bending over, cheeks spread while I…

  Cary turned around, interrupting my dirty thoughts of rimming the man until he screamed for mercy. “I wonder why that is,” he murmured. He avoided looking at me, staring at a point behind my shoulder.

  “Because you’re an unsociable git perhaps?” I suggested then bit my lip, worried I’d pissed him off when warned not to.

  His face darkened and blue eyes the colour of Crater Lake in Oregon met mine. “Think what you like. So, did you get any good pictures? I heard the camera clicking.”

  This was something I could talk about ad nauseam, so I did. I took my camera off my shoulder and pitched the bag to the floor.

  “I got some incredible shots.” I squatted down, scrabbled in my bag, took out my camera, and stood up. “You’re photogenic and what you do up there, Christ, it’s fabulous. You’re like this vision of pure fluidity, and I think I captured that.” I sidled closer to him, holding the camera as I fiddled to get the pictures up.

  Cary looked a little panicked, but I didn’t care. I wanted to show him what I saw through the viewfinder, how magnificent he was up in the air. Not thinking, I crowded into his personal space, leaning down and shoving the pictures at him. “Look there, see that shot I got of you twisting? Look at the blur just there,” I pointed, “it makes the picture stand out. And this one where you slid to the ground? I got a great action shot.”

  I shut up long enough to realise he wasn’t saying anything. He was standing stock-still. Looking down at him, I found him focused on my lips, not the pictures. There was a hunger in his eyes, a need mixed with fear and something else. It was so primal I couldn’t speak.

  My eyes travelled down to his lips, those parted, full, red lips, then down past his throat where a pulse throbbed. A bead of sweat lay there, innocuous, but oh so erotic. My gaze went south, to strong shoulders and a set of well-defined pectoral muscles, a ridged stomach with a tantalising V leading into his trousers. He was perfection, and I wanted him.

  The heat in my groin and the slow swelling of my cock bore testament to that desire. The intoxicating smell of him—sandalwood mixed with sweat—I wanted to ravish him.

  Cary swallowed, and I mirrored that movement. Our eyes met, and the spell broke. He swore in a language I didn’t understand and moved away to pick up a towel draped over a bollard.

  “They’re great photographs. You’re mega talented. I didn't realise how I looked through someone else’s eyes.” His voice was hoarse, and he towelled his hair, hiding his face from view. I didn’t mind. It gave me the opportunity to see the evidence of his own arousal in the loose pants he wore, a definite bulge in front. His erection lay thick against his right thigh.

  Aha. My sexy Air Dancer isn’t as aloof as he’d like to be. He wants me too. The thought warmed me. I dragged my eyes away and tried to restore the balance of power.

  “Thanks. I had a good subject. They’ll look incredible when I download them to my Mac.” I put the camera back in the bag and when I stood up, Cary was watching me again, his face blank, a towel placed in front of his groin.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you favoured your leg, the top of your thigh? Have you injured yourself?”

  Cary stilled. The air grew oppressive, an ozone-laden draught prior to a fierce thunderstorm. Then the air cleared as Cary shook his head and the moment passed.

  “I strained a muscle, nothing serious. It’ll be fine for tonight.” His gaze narrowed. “I guess you’re coming to the show. Greta give you front row seats?” He turned, retrieved his tee-shirt from the ground, and pulled it on. I tried not to watch him dress.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ll be there. Ringside seats, I think she said.”

  Cary nodded. “You might have to move around to get the best shots. The equipment and wires may get in the way. You’ll probably need to climb higher for better pictures. It’s packed on a Wednesday night, being midweek, so you need to fight your way through the customers.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  There was an awkward silence before Cary slung the towel around his neck and moved away. “I need to get back to my trailer and chill out before I go on tonight. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” He strode toward the exit, and a minute later, he disappeared. I sighed.

  It seemed to be the way of things with this man. A few minutes of conversation, ending with the sight of his lovely backside walking away from me.

  I picked up my camera bag. Time to get back to my caravan, get rid of the ache in my groin by hand, and unpack the meagre belongings I’d brought with me. I needed to set up my laptop so I could download my pictures to the cloud. I was paranoid about losing them so tended to overkill by sending them to any cloud app I could find.

  Later, I was busy cursing the slow Internet speed in the area and was wondering where to buy a wireless dongle in the nearest town when I glanced up at the window. I thought I’d crap myself. Peering in was the white face of a clown. I think I might have already mentioned that I wasn’t a fan.

  Seeing one looking in at me, no doubt plotting to smother me in my sleep and chop me into little pieces at night, or drag me into a storm drain, was soul scary. I hate to admit that I gave a girlish scream and even clasped my hand to my chest. The face disappeared, followed by a knock on the door.

  I hyperventilated, wavering between opening the door and hiding in the tiny toilet. Common sense and man-the-fuck-up won out. I was in a circus and I’d known this could be a “thing.” I hadn’t expected to meet one so soon.

  “Grow a pair, you idjit,” I muttered to myself as I steeled myself to face whoever was out there. Plastering a smile on my face, I opened the door and stood at the top of the stairs. Standing below on the grass, the face of my nightmares stared up at me. Close up, it was even fucking scarier.

  “I’m sorry I scared you.” The voice was deep and not what I expected. Was that a damn smirk on his face? It was hard to tell beneath the makeup. He was white-faced, with red lips and eyebrows that looked better suited to a villain in a 1920s comedies sketch.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m not scared. Wassup?” I must let him know I don’t fear him. Clowns sense fear. They beguile you into the sewers.

  The figure grinned, showing even white teeth. I quailed and gripped the door tighter.

  “My name is Marco. I wanted to introduce myself, see if you needed anything?” The figure made a move up the stairs and I closed the door a little more while peering out. I didn’t think he wanted to come in, but there was no fucking way a clown was getting me alone in a damn trailer.

  “Oh, that’s great, thanks. Uhmm, I’m okay I think. But thanks for asking.”

  Blue eyes regarded me. “No problem. I like to make the jossers feel welcome.”

  “Jossers?”

  He smiled, showing even more teeth. “It’s what we call non-circus folk.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Good to know. Thanks.” His scrutiny made me uncomfortable. Was I being sized up for what suitcase size he’d need when he cut me
up?

  “You’re not what I imagined you’d be,” Marco said, reaching into his pair of loose trousers and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. His loose black shirt blew in the gentle breeze. He proffered the pack. “Smoke?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t smoke, thanks though.”

  Marco lit up and took a deep, satisfying puff. “Ahh. Good for you. It’s a nasty habit. I’ve always smoked, and I doubt I’ll give it up now.” Regret and sadness laced his voice. “It’s too late for me, I’m afraid, to make healthy lifestyle choices.” He waved a hand, and a plume of smoke unfurled and wafted towards me. “So—you are the one who has our Cary all in a spin.”

  “What? I, no, I have no one in a spin. Do I?” The thought of being able to affect the great Air Dancer in any way should be ludicrous, although that boner he’d sported earlier made me think perhaps something might be happening. I wasn’t telling this guy that though.

  Marco nodded again. “He is certainly discombobulated. Cary is a solitary soul, but your arrival has—shall we say—changed the dynamic here. It will be interesting to see how things pan out.”

  I snorted. “The man can’t stand me. He’s not a fan so I doubt my coming here has made any difference to him.” I frowned. “Is he, like, king of the circus, or something, because everyone seems really concerned about his welfare.”

  Marco laughed, and it wasn’t what I expected a clown to laugh like—a belly laugh, or a cackle. Marco’s was gentle, almost desperate. “No, Cary is not king. He’s a star attraction though, the star, and someone we all respect and care for. He’s a private person, too much so. Your arrival has caused some, how shall I say it, conflict within him.”

  I squinted at him. “I doubt anything conflicts that guy. He’s the original Mr Ice Cool. I think you’re all making too much of this.”

  Inside I was smug that everyone thought I’d be able to shake Cary Stilwell’s world. I knew if I got him alone and in the right circumstances I’d rock it though. Any chance to be up close with that sexy body and full lips would be a perk of this project.