Living On Air

by Susan Mac Nicol

  Marco inclined his head. “Perhaps. We shall see. Well, Mr McIntyre, I shall say good-bye until we meet again later. I hope you enjoy the performance later.”

  “Rhys. Call me Rhys, please.” This man didn’t seem so scary anymore. “Thanks for dropping by. I appreciate the hospitality. Everyone has been quite hospitable.”

  Marco shrugged. “We can be. It depends on the person. If we don’t take to you —well, let’s say I have a blunt saw and a large wooden box. Good evening, Rhys.” With a sly smile, he walked away. I stared after him and blinked.

  Yep, he was still fucking scary.

  Chapter 5

  Cary

  “Fuck him,” I muttered as I watched Rhys smile at a bunch of happy kids, all angling to be in front of the camera. He’d been taking photos of them for the last fifteen minutes, directing them on what to do and then grinning like a loon when his shot turned out okay. “What gives him the right to fit right in here, in my fucking homoland?” I scowled. “Greta thinks the sun shines out of his arse.” An arse that was squatting down, on display, and one I’d thought about more than once in the last few weeks, even in my damn dreams. The man had been here almost a month now, charming the pants off everyone, and he’d shown no signs of wanting to leave.

  Whatever sexual famine I’d experienced the last few years seemed to have disappeared with the arrival of one annoyingly sexy and frustrating man.

  He was everywhere. When I practised alone in the Top, or duetting with Lucy. I’d seen him in the makeshift bar, knocking back beers with some other artists. I’d walk past and see him adjusting people this way and that, so he could get what he called “the perfect shot.”

  He was a perfectionist and while part of me wanted me to be near him, watch his passion with his camera and enjoy the expressions on his face as he worked, the other part wanted to run far away.

  Rhys shouted with laughter as one kid kicked the ball, narrowly missing him. He fell onto the ground, chuckling and wrapping arms around his camera to protect it. The shouting kids rushed over to him, laughter echoing across the field as they tackled him. I heard his warnings not to break his camera, or he’d put spiders in their beds. That Scottish burr sent shivers down my spine every time I heard him speak.

  Turning back to the dishes I was washing in the sink, I banged the plates into the drying rack. The window was steamy with the cold inside. The heaters didn’t get turned on until it got to below freezing point. I was frugal with my gas and electricity, not wanting to give utility companies any more money than they needed.

  I cleared another patch of mist from the window to see out and banged a mug onto the drainer, yanking the plug from the sink at the same time. “When will he leave so I can get back to normal? Surely he has enough now for his fucking book.”

  The biggest problem with Rhys bloody McIntyre was the fact he was getting to me. I never let myself become affected by anyone else, but that man was acing it. And I had no idea why.

  Putting a jersey on over my tee-shirt, I brushed fluff off my tracksuit pants, wincing when my fingers brushed over the damaged flesh on my thigh. My cilice was getting a lot of use lately. Rhys added to my torment, physically, mentally, and emotionally. And Father Price was still alive and wasn’t behind bars. I was filled with guilt, guilt that needed vanquishing. A decision needed making soon as to what I would do about that before I ripped myself to pieces.

  Instead of hiding in the trailer, I opened the door and stared at the bane of my existence. Rhys was still rollicking with the kids, appearing to be having a lot of childish fun. I snorted and tried to ignore him for the next few minutes, staring out around the other activity on the field.

  A strident call rang out from a faraway caravan, and I stepped down to see what was going on. Lucia, the children’s mother, was summonsing them for lunch. The kids hugged Rhys good-bye, for now, then ran off, three energetic bundles in sweatshirts and joggers racing across the field to the caravan on the other side of the green.

  Rhys regarded them with a fond smile, snapping shots of them as they disappeared. Then he took a deep breath, rolled his shoulder as if it ached, and turned around. His eyes fell on me watching him and his face brightened.

  My heart missed a beat. He looked so much like Cam when his emotions were clear on his face. Rhys liked seeing me, being with me. How was I supposed to deal with that?

  I schooled my face into a blank mask, not wanting to show how the sight of his green eyes, ruddy cheeks, and warmth affected me. When he sauntered over, his hair mussed with grass, and what looked like an ice cream stain on his pale blue long-sleeved shirt, I cast my gaze to his left, my aloof side hoping not to interact with him even as my other treacherous side implored him to stop. As usual, he didn’t take the fucking hint my aloof side offered.

  “Cary, you should have joined in.” He waved a hand toward his recent activities. “I’m sure the kids would have loved that.” His wide mouth curved into a wicked grin. “Unless it’s not seeming for the star of the show to resort to tomfoolery on the field. I know you don’t like to consort with we common folk.”

  His tone was teasing, but it hit a nerve. I knew some people in my circus world thought the same—that I was a stuck-up bastard who needed humility. Hearing it put into words by an outsider, though, stabbed my chest like the slow, insidious prick of a hatpin.

  “Oh yeah?” I bit back, knowing I sounded like a schoolboy. “You’ve no idea who I’d consort with. You don’t know me.”

  He nodded, rubbing his chin. “You’re right. I don’t know you. Nobody does. You make it too damn hard.”

  I humphed. “You ever thought there’s a reason for that? I like being alone. It’s what I want.”

  He shook his head, green eyes softening. “No, it isn’t. It’s what you think you need. What you deserve.”

  Fuck. Cameron had said the same thing, more than once. A twinge of sadness ran through me as I thought of him. He’d been dead four years now. We’d been friends for ten. I knew he’d be so mad at me right now. All that counselling he’d done with me and I was back where I started. He’d come into my life as my therapist and ended up my friend. I missed him.

  Butterflies shifted in my gut, fluttering in panic. How the fuck did Rhys know that about me? Was I that easy to read?

  “Listen to Sigmund Freud here,” I sneered. “Is that your professional opinion? Are you a psychologist as well as a photographer?”

  Rhys regarded me, weariness on his face. “No, just a keen observer of human nature. It comes with this job.” He held up his camera. “When you’ve seen the things I have, you soon realise what’s beneath the mask. The smile on the face of an Army official hides the heart of a monster that’s just condemned dozens of people to death. It’s not something you forget in a hurry.”

  I had no sarcastic response to that. The pain on Rhys’s face, the sadness in his tone—even I knew to make fun of him now would be an arsehole thing to do. And God help me, I wanted to know what put that desolation in his voice, caused his sunny nature to darken like a cloud passing over him. I was about to respond when a sudden slap to my arse made me swing round to see the grinning face of Stefan behind.

  “Keep your fucking hands off,” I growled. “You don’t get to touch me.”

  Stefan smirked. “I think no one gets to touch you, Cary. You’re untouchable. God made you cold and frigid, like an ice princess.”

  I moved closer, getting up in Stefan’s face. This close, I could see the faint wrinkles on his brow, the thin red lines on his cheeks masked under what looked like foundation. Stefan told everybody he was twenty-seven years old—I suspected he was closer to his mid-thirties.

  “One. God did fucking nothing for me so don’t mention him again. Two. Just because you don’t get to fuck me doesn’t mean I don’t get fucked. Or do any fucking.” His eyes narrowed as I moved away, sneaking a glance towards Rhys. His watchful gaze wasn’t friendly towards Stefan. “I’m fussy about who I climb into bed with, and you and Emil
don’t fit the bill. Find someone else to be the extra sausage in your double Polish hot dog.”

  Rhys gave a strangled cough, and I stared at him. The tips of his ears were pink, his expression a mix of distaste and amusement.

  Stefan stepped back, lips twisting in a snarl. “No need to be a bitch, Air Dancer. Just because Greta thinks the sun shines out of your backside doesn’t mean everyone does. Emil and I are no longer interested in your skinny arse, anyway.”

  Rhys spoke, voice husky, his accent sexy as fuck. “I think Cary has a fine arse myself. I’d watch the sun rise with it.” He flashed a charming smile Stefan’s way. “On it, even.”

  I stifled a reluctant smirk. I didn’t need Rhys knowing I found him amusing. “Why did you come over here?” I glared at the now scowling trapeze artist.

  Stefan huffed. “Julien asked me to tell you both as there’s no show tonight, everyone’s meeting in the Big Top for dinner. Greta insists we all be there. She’s got an announcement to make. She said it was important.” He rolled his eyes.

  I squinted at Stefan and brushed a strand of hair off my cheek. Rhys’s green gaze followed every move I made. It was disconcerting.

  “Well, you’ve delivered your message. You can piss off now.” I waved a hand toward the other end of the field. I had no intention of attending a congenial home from home dinner with all my fellow artists. I had a microwave dinner ready to heat and a get-together with my razor.

  Stefan sneered as he turned away. “Always the tough guy, Cary. The outcast who protests too much. You need to be careful. One day all that stuff you hide away will rise and infect you like the toxin it is. And then who’ll be laughing?” He gave me the middle finger then strode away across the field.

  “Wow. He isn’t a fan of yours, is he?” Rhys looked after him. “What did you do to piss him off so much? I mean I know you’re a prickly son of a bitch with no manners, but that seemed a little excessive.”

  I snorted. “It’s none of your business. Why d’you care?”

  Rhys heaved a deep sigh. “God, you are such hard fucking work.” He screwed his nose up and pursed his pink lips. I hated that I found it cute. “Fine, don’t tell me. He was right about you. I should have known better.” He fiddled with his camera, engrossed in some little weird gadget on the side.

  And I fell for it. “What do you mean, he was right? Which bit was he right about?”

  Rhys peered at his camera gadget, oblivious to my frosty tone. “About you being a tough guy and protesting too much. You’re so quick to push people away, it becomes boring.”

  “I’m fucking boring now?” My voice hit a higher octave as I gazed at him in temper. “Well, fuck you, Rhys McIntyre, high and mighty deity of the perfect photo shoot, with your green eyes and sexy arse. I am not bloody boring to people I don’t want to be boring to, only people who bore me and I bore them in return—” I was spluttering now in indignation, a little lost as to where I was going with my diatribe. Rhys’s shoulders shook as he looked down at the ground.

  The bastard was laughing.

  “Oh my God, Cary, your face.” Rhys howled with laughter, his face red and eyes wet with tears. “I’ve never heard the word ‘bore’ used so much in a sentence. That was priceless. You are too damned funny. And adorable.”

  No one had called me adorable before. Glowering at him, I waited for him to finish laughing.

  “At least I learnt something new about you,” he managed, wiping his eyes.

  “What was that?” I snapped, crossing my arms across my chest. “Pray tell me your words of fucking wisdom.”

  He moved closer, his emerald gaze boring straight into mine. His dark hair tangled across his face, wafting in the breeze that passed over the field. His breath smelt of something sweet and spicy, like cinnamon.

  “You notice me. Like I notice you. You know I have green eyes and you called my arse sexy.” He studied my face, his gaze wandering down to my throat; desire glistened in his eyes. His tongue came out, and he licked his lower lip. It was like watching a spell being cast, a spell with the sole intention of making me as hard as a drill bit and fuelling a need inside my body that hadn’t felt this way in a while. Well, until Rhys had arrived, anyway.

  I needed space. He was too close, this was too intimate, and any moment now I would grip his face between my hands and kiss the fuck out of him.

  I stepped back, flustered. “Well, you said you liked my arse, so I guess we’re even.” My face flamed. I hadn’t meant to acknowledge his earlier compliment.

  A warm grin flooded his face like liquid honey. “You bet I noticed your arse,” he murmured. “It’s a work of art, like the rest of you. The question is, when do I get to appreciate said art? I know you like me, Cary. You think you hide it so well, but I know better.”

  He reached out and ran his middle finger across my jawline. I couldn’t speak for the sensations coursing through me while Rhys’s warm tone seeped into my veins and turned into molten honey beneath my skin. His voice continued its sly seduction. “You try to lock people out, but inside, you’re starving for it. For someone to see the real you, and to feel skin against yours, and a warm kiss on your mouth. You need old-fashioned affection.”

  His last words broke the fragile grip he had on me and I slapped his hand away, cold anger now seeping into my veins and turning the honey to crackling shards of caramel bitterness.

  Rhys stepped back, confusion on his face. “Cary, I didn’t mean to upset you—”

  “I’m not a fucking dog that needs a master’s touch,” I spat at him. “You've no idea what you’re fucking talking about.” Words spewed like acid. The last person who’d shown me any so-called affection had taken away the last vestige of youthful innocence and compassion I had left. “Everyone thinks they know me. Well, they don’t. Stop trying to psychoanalyse what you think I want and leave me the hell alone. We’ll both be better for it.”

  I turned and stalked off to my caravan. I couldn’t quell the body shakes or my hands trembling. Bile lined the inside of my mouth and I swallowed it down, wincing at the bitter taste.

  Behind me Rhys shouted my name, lost in the slam of the door as I entered my home and sanctuary.

  Chapter 6

  Cary

  “Cary? I know you are in there. If you do not open the door, I will get Julien to break it down and you can freeze over what is left of winter.”

  Greta would do it too. The woman had no boundaries.

  I roused myself from the semi-sleep I’d been in and swore.

  “Okay, keep your panties on,” I shouted as I gathered the old blanket around my waist and stood up. I’d decided against the cilice after I slammed the door on Rhys, using steel wool to scour the skin on my hip instead. It hurt like a bitch as I hobbled to the door. It would be fine with two painkillers and a fresh dressing of Sana later.

  I flung the door open and scowled at the woman glaring up at me. “What?”

  Greta hitched up her puffed skirts and huffed up inside. She entered my caravan with all the fury of a Valkyrie, slamming the door behind her. I winced as the faulty lock shot off and disappeared under the kitchen cupboard. I’d have to fix that later.

  “Miserable bastard, where were you at dinner? I asked Stefan to tell you about the gathering, did he give you my message?”

  I thought for a fleeting moment of landing Stefan in the shit and saying no, but my honesty got the better of me. “Yeah, he did. I didn’t feel like it.”

  Greta reached up and instinctively I drew back from her raised hand. Then she lowered it. For the first time, I noticed her red-rimmed eyes and the pale tear streaks down her cheek.

  “You are a selfish bastard, Cary,” she spat at me as I gawked, still wide-eyed at the fiery virago standing in front of me. “I wished you to be there while I imparted news to the family and what do you do? You hide away like a slug in your home. You care for no one.”

  Still taken aback by the fact she’d almost slapped me, I choked out a reply. “I’m sorr
y. I didn’t realise it was that important to you.”

  Greta’s face dissolved into tears. This was even worse than her temper; I’d never seen her cry before, not through some of the worst times in her past.

  “I was in such temper I almost struck you. You, who have been through so much. I am a monster. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” She sank down on my two-seater bunk and buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

  I sat down beside her. “You aren’t a monster, you are my Greta. The person I care most about in this place.” I tried to put the almost slap out of my mind. “Tell me what’s got you so worked up.”

  She raised swollen eyes to mine. “If you had been at dinner, you would know this.” I handed her an old tea towel—all I had to hand—and she wiped her nose and eyes. I made a mental note to put it in the laundry. I managed a grin at her waspish tone, seeing the old Greta.

  “My mother died yesterday. I need to return to Combarro to take care of things.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a mother.” The words were out before I could even stop them and earned me a dagger-like stare.

  “Everyone has a mother, Cary. Even you.”

  Blood, bits of brain tissue, and a dark red-stained blonde fringe falling over unseeing ice-blue eyes was the only image I had of what once was my mother. I choked back the reply I wanted to give and stuck with something safer.

  “No, I meant, I had no idea you still had family over in Spain. You never talk about them.” I winced at the irony of that remark. I didn’t give anyone the option to talk about their personal affairs with me, even the woman I thought of as my mother. I squeezed the cold hand lying on my lap. “I’m so sorry, Greta. Sorry you lost your mum. Sorry I wasn’t there at dinner. Do you need me to do anything for you?”

  She shook her head and sighed as she stood up. “No, mi querido. I leave on a flight tomorrow for a while. Julien will look after this place while I am gone. I expect you to give him the help he needs.”