“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself up in the air today, pull a muscle?” I sat up with concern. He shifted and got comfortable, trying hard not to wince, but I saw through it.
“It’s a leg strain, nothing major. I’m fine.”
The pallor of his face made it clear he wasn’t bloody fine. I stood up and moved to sit next to him. He stared at me, blue eyes startled and apprehensive.
“What are you doing?”
I waved my hands in the air. “If it’s a muscle strain, I’ve been told I have magic hands. In more ways than one. I can massage it if you like.”
His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened. “I told you, I’m fine. You don’t have to play the protector with me.” He moved back, farther away. I sighed.
“Fine, you stubborn bastard. Deprive yourself of these.” I waggled my hands again then dropped them into my lap. There was an awkward silence then I spoke. “So, the other night, we were bitchy to each other. Can we agree to put it behind us and agree you have a jaded and pitiful view of the world and humanity, and I shall forever be the man wearing rainbow-coloured glasses and dancing in the daisies? If we can agree on that, maybe we can move on and even be friends.”
His lips twitched in what I thought was a smile. “Friends? You know what they say about me, don’t you? I don’t have friends.”
I patted his knee like a perfunctory uncle. “Tsk, tsk. There’s always time to make them.”
Our eyes met, and I swear the heat emanating from them could have melted plastic. I couldn’t help it; my hand turned from comforting uncle to perverted uncle in an instant as my thumb slowly rubbed his knee. I cursed the fabric in the way of firm, warm flesh.
His breath caught, and his lips parted as he watched my hand become bolder and stroke small circles.
“I apologise in advance for what I might do,” I said huskily. “You affect me like a damn drug. You annoy me, frustrate the hell out of me, and make me wish I could deck you one, but oh my God, I want to kiss you. Taste you.”
His eyes widened, and his breathing grew even more erratic. I watched his face, looking for signs of panic or fear, but found none.
When he took a deep breath and gave a tiny nod, I thought I’d missed it. I didn’t miss the closing of his eyes to half-lidded sensuality and the infinitesimal move toward me that brought his mouth nearer.
I leaned in and pressed my lips to Cary’s and a fuse blew in my brain. The cinnamon taste of his lips, the firmness of them, and the scent of his shower wash or soap, something coconutty, made me whimper with need.
At first, his lips stayed closed, and I took what I could get, tickling his closed mouth with my tongue, not claiming entrance but advocating he give it. I wouldn’t ever force anything on this skittish, sexy, and complex man.
His hands came up to frame my face, then one of them moved into my hair, running his fingers through my curls. Then the dam within him broke, and it seemed as if everything he’d ever yearned for came flooding out.
His mouth parted, and his tongue thrust into my mine with fever and desire. His small moans of pleasure hardened my dick to a steel drill bit. I licked the inside of his mouth, his lips, tangled with his tongue, and explored his mouth like it was a Santa’s cave of hidden delights.
I don't know how much time passed as I bore down on his body with mine, pushing him back against the wooden veneer of the cupboard behind him. His arms were everywhere, around my neck, my back, my hips, and his fingers even brushed against my cock, making me groan.
I didn’t venture further than his waist, some instinct telling me now wasn’t the time. But God, how I wanted to undo that zipper, reach in and take out that beautiful cock—because it would be beautiful, no doubt—take it in my mouth and feast on him until he came, spewing hot spunk down my throat.
He pulled away, gasping for air, body shuddering and pupils blown; his swollen lips moved soundlessly. I couldn’t even think, let alone find any words to talk.
When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Jesus, what are you doing? I don’t want to feel, I don’t dese—” He stopped. I stared at him, doped up with the memory of that powerful kiss and the way his hard body had felt pressed against mine.
“Wow,” was all I could manage.
Cary pushed me away and sat up, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. His crotch was eye level and I couldn’t help noticing the state of him. The man was packing and turned on as hell.
“Rhys, this was a bad idea, you need to go.” He stood up, leaving me blinking up at him.
“I love the way you say my name. It’s so much better than arsehole, twat, or motherfucker.”
His brow furrowed as he stood glaring down at me. “I’ve never called you motherfucker.”
“You haven’t? Must have been someone else then.” I brushed my hair from my face and smoothed down my shirt. I wasn’t sure my legs could support me. And besides, the boner I had would topple me forward ending up like a tripod.
Cary’s agitation was palpable. “Rhys, I need to be alone. This is all…” He thrust a hand though his hair, hands which shook. “It’s all too much. I need space.”
I stood up, noting with relief I could. “Sure, I get that. I’ll bugger off and leave you alone. I’ve got enough with that kiss to keep me going for a while, well, not too long, I’d like a repeat sometime, but—”
“Rhys.” Cary’s tone grew desperate. He swung open the door. “We can talk more about this later. I need you gone.”
It wasn’t all that different from being kicked out from a few of my one-night stands, but I admitted it hurt a little more this time. The difference was he seemed scared, panicked.
I tucked in my shirt, loosened by Mr Grabby Hands, and smoothed down my hair. I wasn’t keen to do the walk of shame across the field looking as if I’d been fucked.
At the bottom of the stairs I turned to stare up at the man framed in the door.
“To be clear, this isn’t an end, it’s a beginning. We will talk soon about what’s happening between us.”
The door shut with a final click and I was alone out in the dark.
Chapter 9
Cary
Oh shit. I was screwed. Why had I done such a stupid thing? And worst of all—why did I want more of it?
I scrabbled in the kitchen drawer for my cilice. I don’t want to feel anything. I need The Hurt.
Rhys’s touch had ignited my cold blood with fire and sent waves of feeling through flesh and soul I’d thought was dead and barren.
Cilice in hand, I slid off my jeans and sat on the bunk, clad only in my undies. The instrument wrapped around my left upper thigh, already tender and torn. My right thigh was even worse as my preferred ‘go-to’ limb to torture.
Teeth clenching, I pulled the sharp braiding of steel needles tight, feeling the fickle stab of pain radiate into my soul. Soon my endorphins released their painkilling saviours. I pulled the cilice tighter.
The room went fuzzy, my vision blurring, and I gasped—short, shallow breaths. The world was reduced to the bubble surrounding me, the small space that both suffocated and released me at the same time. Floating away into a world of my own choosing, I heard faint voices.
Christopher, look at me. Son, none of this was your fault. Don’t do this.
Cary, you stupid bastard. Cameron. I didn’t go through therapy hell with you for you to go back to doing this.
“Too late, both of you,” I whispered as his familiar visage appeared before me along with the floaters that speckled my vision. “I can’t stop now. I let you all down. He’s alive, Dad. You’re all dead, and he still lives because I’m afraid to face him. What kind of justice is that?”
Chrissie, please. My mother’s voice was enough to make my eyes fill with tears. You have nothing to forgive yourself for. We’re glad you were spared. You live, my darling son. Make the most of it.
Kissifer. I sobbed as the girlish tones of my little sister wafted into my ear. Kissifer, please don’t hurt yourself. I don’t li
ke it when you have blood. Mommy, tell him to stop.
“Cherry,” I gasped, supine on the bunk, my grip around the cilice loosening as I sobbed for breath. “Baby, please don’t cry. You know I hate to see you cry.”
The voices congealed into an intermittent buzz, and as I faded out of my world, so did the memories from my past.
****
Life was different now. “The Kiss” made sure of that.
I’d avoided Rhys in the past two days, between performing in shows twice a day and making sure I wasn’t anywhere he was. That meant hiding out in Marco’s caravan, taking the keys to Greta’s and sleeping there, and avoiding my place.
I’d sat in Greta’s easy chair, watching Rhys storm up to my trailer, knock on the door, and shout. I confess it was a little amusing to see him stride off again, auburn curls sweeping around his face, and no doubt swearing to himself as he called me all the foul names under the sun.
He’d knocked on Marco’s door once and I’d growled and told him to “Beat it” in a passable imitation of Marco’s voice. He’d turned and pelted like a hare across the field.
I knew it wouldn’t last. We were getting ready to pack up this afternoon and move onto new pastures in Newcastle for a month-long mooring. No doubt Rhys would help with the tent take-down, as would I. There was no escaping the fact we’d meet up.
After applying the last application of Sana and a clean dressing to my leg, I rolled down my trouser leg and dry-swallowed ibuprofen. My next performance would be Wednesday, so I had plenty of time to heal from the self-indulgent torture I’d put myself through the last few days. I steeled myself for the inevitable conflict and went out to help my circus family pack up.
Rhys was there, shirt off, muscles bunched in the sunlight as he held the rope tight, so Julien could lower the tent. His teeth bit his bottom lip endearingly as he focused on his task. He must have felt me looking because he turned his head and his eyes met mine. Then, without even so much as a glimmer of recognition, or emotion, he turned back and stared back upward at Julien. His lips thinned, his arm muscles bulging as he gripped the rope tighter.
While I shouldn’t have, I felt ignored, dismissed. Hurt even.
God, I am such a contradictory fuck-up. What did I expect?
The physical action of climbing the tent poles, dragging the rigging down, and helping to wrap up the tent was distracting, if painful.
Hours later, in the dimness of sunset, the tent was down and packed. I was ready to move out. Not for the first time I was glad of my modern Roller Team motorhome. Bought second-hand when I’d come back to the UK, it had been a wise purchase. No one had to suffer my sullenness and lack of conversation, and I didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s chatter.
I wondered who Rhys was travelling with. I had my answer about half an hour later as I made sure for the tenth time I was ready to depart.
I stood outside making sure everything was secure and the gas turned off when the same silver Lotus I’d seen bringing Rhys here pulled up onto the field. Rhys waved at the driver with a grin.
Stuart— looking put together and smart as usual—clambered out and pulled Rhys in for a hug. I saw him say something and for a moment, Rhys’s gaze flickered over in my direction. Then he shook his head at the other man and turned away. Stuart shook hands with Julien, who air-kissed the man.
I confess I felt left out. Under other circumstances I’m sure Rhys would have attempted to acknowledge or even introduce me. Now I could only watch the two of them stride across to Rhys’s caravan, bring out travel bags, and load them into the car.
One of the other circus drivers with a 4x4 would need to take Rhys’s caravan because the Esprit sure as hell couldn't do it.
Rhys hugged everyone standing around, waved at the kids on the field, and climbed into the car. With the thrum of the powerful engine and one last hoot, he was gone.
*****
The journey to Newcastle Town Moor took me four hours, as I stopped to refuel, change the dressing on my leg, take a piss, and then drink coffee more than once.
It also gave me far too much time to think. As much as I tried to put the memory of Rhys out of my mind, the acidic secret I carried around in the darkest part of my soul played its usual loop, yet my fucking brain wouldn’t let me forget Rhys.
I fiddled with the radio controls and the rasping vocals of Steven Tyler reverberated inside the car. Perhaps some heavy music might drown out the disapproving voices in my head.
I reached the new campsite after dusk, parked my van, climbed out, and stretched myself. My arse was numb, and my back clicked when I moved. I did a few warm-ups to get rid of the stiffness then looked around the enclave.
We moored in a large field, with a wood of trees to the left. A dim light shone from Greta’s caravan and my spirits bolstered at the thought she might be back from her funeral. Julien had mentioned it might be a possibility. I couldn’t see the silver Lotus anywhere so either Rhys hadn’t arrived yet or his bosom buddy had left already. If it was the former, I didn’t want to think of any reason they might not be here yet. There were plenty of small bed-and-breakfast places along the way for a little intimate tête-à-tête.
Ambling over the field, hope rose when I saw muddied bright green wellington boots at the bottom of the steps. I knocked. There was a sound within then the door opened to reveal Greta, in a large tartan dressing gown, hair piled on top of her head and her reading glasses perched on her wide nose.
She smiled when she saw me. “Cary, mi amor. Come in. I missed you.”
I stepped inside. “Missed you too, pequeña madre. I’m glad you’re back with us.” I wrapped my arms around her in a hug, the comfort of her soft, warm body soothing my mood.
She hugged me back and when she moved away to put the kettle on, I didn’t miss the surprise in her eyes.
“Has something happened since I’ve been gone to make you so approachable, my prickly little hedgehog? Something good, perhaps, with a certain young man? I heard you two had spent time together.”
She poured water into a teapot and slid the lid home, then covered it with a tea cosy. I snorted at her obvious ploy to drag something intimate out of me about Rhys.
“No, and stop your damn fishing. Can’t I be pleased to see you?”
She took the cosy off and poured the tea. It was a strange ritual I never tired of watching. It reminded me of my mother.
“Ai, my love, of course you can, and I am glad for it. It’s good to be back.”
“Did the funeral go well?” I reached out and took the cup of black tea she offered, taking a sip. It was rich and dark, the way I liked it.
She shrugged as she poured her own, black with a splash of soya milk. “It was a funeral. People came to pay their respects, to mourn and to drink my best calvados. Two days of constant socialising and well-wishes from the guests was exhausting when all I wanted to do was curl up in my bedroom and sleep, even cry. But it is over now. She is at rest and the living must move on.”
I sat down on the comfortable old couch, covered with a festively coloured Mexican blanket. As I sat down, something swished past my ankles and I saw Greta’s pet ferret, Bambi, disappear under the couch.
“Huh. I wondered where she’d gone. I take it Madame Grace was looking after her in your absence? I bet she gave the terriers hell.”
I reached down, dangling a thread of wool I found tucked down the side of the couch. Bambi loved to swat and chase it. She was like a cat, only not. Cats weren’t allowed here. They brought bad luck.
“Si, Gracie looked after her. I would have taken her, but travelling is something she is not so good at. Not to mention all the stupid rules.” She scowled. “Bah. They wished her to have a microchip implanted, can you imagine that? I need no one able to trace my pet or me by some stupid government implant.”
I laughed. “I can only imagine the horror on your face when they told you that. You, Mrs ‘stick it to the man’ conspiracy theorist. I would have loved to have been a
gecko on the wall for that.”
I sipped my tea as Greta chortled, a sound that was both amusing and scary. “It was rather fun watching the stupid man’s face as I told him my theories of government control and how they planned to make us all into drones if they ever did it. I do not think he was a fan of my theories. Julien got me out of that place before I could tell him any more of them.”
She plonked herself down beside me and patted my knee. “Tell me.”
I frowned. “Tell you what?”
Greta rolled her eyes and sighed. “Do not take me for a fool, Cary. Something has happened between you and Rhys. I can feel it.”
I put my tea down next to me, my hands shaking. “Nothing has happened. In fact, we’re barely even talking to each other.”
“Ah. What did you do?” Greta’s dark eyes peered at me from above her teacup.
“I did nothing, why do you always assume I was the one at the fault? We don’t mesh together, that’s it. I spent time with him like you asked, showed him around, talked to him…what more did you want? Was I supposed to fuck him for you too?”
Crap. That wasn’t a wise thing to say.
Greta placed her cup down on the side table then stared at me. I shivered at that look.
“I’ll ignore that last remark because I know how stupid you can be when you strike back at things that make you uncomfortable.” Bambi appeared from nowhere and jumped up on her lap. Greta stroked her pet. “And you know what? I am done. My efforts to turn you into a more palatable human being with the rest of society are at an end.”
I swallowed at the sour taste in my mouth. That didn’t sound good. It sounded like she was giving up on me. And the Greta I knew never gave up.
“Let us move on to other things. Did you find out what was troubling Marco? Tell me all about it,” she demanded.
I got her up to speed on what I knew of life over the past couple of weeks and ended with telling her I had come no closer to finding out what might ail Marco.
She harrumphed as Bambi stared at me from under sooty lashes. The ferret looked cosy curled up on Greta’s lap. “I shall have a word with him, see if I can understand it.” A soft knock at the door interrupted us. She gestured to open the door so as not to disturb her pet. I did so and looked straight into Rhys’s face.
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