“Have you seen Marco around? I can’t help noticing he’s being a little conspicuous in his absence.”
Cary’s brows furrowed, little marks between his eyes I wanted to smooth away. “I haven’t. I think Greta told me he’d asked for some time off, which is unusual for him.”
“Maybe he’s visiting family,” I suggested.
Cary looked at me. “He has no family. They’re all dead. His parents died years ago in an IRA bombing. He had a twin sister, but he never talks about her. She’s gone too.”
“God, that’s terrible. How does anyone survive losing their whole family?” I thought of my mother and father and Joseph back on the farm in Inverness and gave thanks. I couldn’t contemplate losing any of them.
“You survive.” Cary’s voice was harsh. “Do you have any siblings at home?”
“Yes, Joseph is ten years younger than me, so eighteen. He lives with Mum and Dad on the farm. He was late in coming along.” I laughed. “Mum gave birth to him in the pigpen and we’ve never let him forget it. We tell him Bunter is his little brother.” I sniggered.
“Bunter?” Cary looked confused as hell, and he still seemed a little off.
“Mum’s pet pig, and more the joy of her life than any of the McIntyre men. I swear, if it came down to choosing between which one of us to save in a catastrophe, Bunter would win every time. His dad, Admiral, was there when Joe was born. Hence the little brother comment.”
Cary was still. His blue eyes were far away, and I wondered if he was thinking about his family wherever they were. “That’s an entertaining but disturbing story,” he said. “But it sounds like you have a wonderful family.” He stood up and took his mug over to the sink. It dropped in with a clang. “I’m tired.” He turned to look at me. “I’d like to turn in now, if you don’t mind?”
I wanted to tell him it was only ten pm and we could still sit and shoot the breeze, perhaps even get down to more kissing. Cary’s face, however, didn’t look welcoming, and I knew somewhere in this conversation, whatever nerve I’d hit was still raw. I knew which battles to pick, and tonight wasn’t one I needed to win.
I unwound myself from the uncomfortable bench couch, got to my feet, and stretched. “Okay, no problem. I’ll go for a quick walk, then turn in myself. I’ve got shots to upload to the cloud, so that’ll keep me busy.”
I debated whether to kiss him good night and thought, fuck it he can deal with it. I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His breath hitched and for one moment, I thought he might find my lips.
Then the moment was gone. He swung around and gripped the kitchen sink.
“Good night, Rhys. No doubt, I’ll see you tomorrow for your usual stalkerish antics.”
“You love it, don’t give me that. You like my sexy stalker body being around.” I had expected no reply and was bowled over when he replied.
“It’s not unwelcome. Good night, Rhys.”
I left, with a distinct bounce in my step.
Something good was brewing and I couldn’t wait to taste it.
Chapter 12
Rhys
“Laaadies and gentlemen. Up next we have Mysterio, the death-defying act of two young men who brave the odds to bring you, our audience, entertainment on a grand scale. Please welcome Stefan and Emil as they glide through the air.”
I snorted as I watched Cary’s arch nemeses step into the ring. Clad in tight-fitting costumes, spangled with glitter and sequins, and wearing ornate carnival masks, I could appreciate their anatomy. Both men were—well, let’s say they were eminently fuckable. But I knew beneath the surface of tight arses and strong limbs, both men were bastards.
I’d seen it first-hand whenever Cary was around, the bitchy comments and sniggers, which Cary ignored, even though I’d seen his hands clench more than once. I’d heard tales of their sexploits, disregard for other people, and the narcissism that was oh so clear whenever they were together.
Wouldn’t have stuck my pecker in either of them even if they were the last guys on earth. Besides, I had my man crush. Cary shone platinum compared to their tarnished and dirty bronze.
The object of my affection stood in the wings with Greta. They both looked worried. Time to stick my nose in and find out why. I sauntered over to the pair, who stopped speaking.
Greta smiled but her heart wasn’t in it. “Rhys. Did you finish your session with Randolph?”
I nodded as I reached them. “Yeah. He's accommodating. I think he likes the camera, and he’s photogenic.” The idea I’d had for a series of shots featuring the knife thrower in a circle of a fire, all while under the moonlit sky, had gone down well.
Randolph had scowled, bared his teeth, arched, and crouched like a true film star, all the while flinging his set of knives at various random objects around the site. He’d hit a bull’s-eye each time, although I dreaded to think what Madame Grace would say when she found out we’d used one of her dressmaker dummies for practice. That was Randolph’s problem to explain to his wife. Bet she’d set her pack of terriers on him.
That thought made me chuckle and Cary cocked his head. “Something funny in that mind of yours?”
“Oh always. I’m a laugh a minute, me.” I grinned at him. “What’s the big powwow about? You both looked like your dog has just died.”
Greta pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “We were discussing Marco. He came back half an hour ago and no one has seen him since. He’s holed up in his caravan and won’t talk to anyone.”
I frowned. “Yeah. I saw him arrive earlier in that beat-up old car of his. He didn’t look well. Even Randolph said so.”
Cary glanced at Greta. “I’ll go over after my performance and see if I can talk to him,” he said. “One grumpy loner to another might help.”
Greta smiled, lighting up her round face. “I believe that title might be in query where it concerns you,” she murmured with a coy look at Cary.
Cary glowered. “Don’t be so sure,” he retorted. “I think people give Rhys far too much credit for the effect he thinks he’s having on me.”
I pointed my fingers at him in a gun gesture, pulled the trigger then blew the supposed smoke away. “Thank you, Greta. I think my presence here has something to do with it. He’s still got a long way to go. But I’m working on him.”
Cary’s low growl of displeasure made my cock harden and my heart beat speed up. “Don’t get cocky, Rhys.”
Too late, I thought with an inward smirk. I rubbed a hand over my beard, watching Cary’s eyes follow my fingers as I stroked it. His eyes narrowed, and I thought perhaps he’d realised what he’d said.
Greta smacked me on the arm. “You are trouble, Rhys McIntyre, but I love trouble. Your kind.”
“He’s a menace,” Cary grunted. “He stalks me, waits for me at my trailer, and leaps out when I’m not expecting it. I’d be better off having a baby goat as a pet. They don’t talk as much and they’re cuter.”
The glimmer of amusement in his eyes was worth all the previous trauma I’d suffered trying to get this man to acknowledge me. I laughed. “We have baby goats at the farm. I must take you up there so you can see them for yourself. Once you’ve lived with a bunch of them and had them eat your socks, your iPod mini, not to mention a string of condoms you left lying about, then tell me you still want a baby goat.”
Cary’s eyes widened. “Condoms at your parents’ house? What the hell were you—” He stopped and flushed pink at my raised eyebrow. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to know.”
I rejoiced in the fact he sounded a little peeved. It was no big mystery. I’d taken a whole load of clothes up to my folks the last time I’d visited and while doing my washing, they’d fallen out of my jeans pocket. Arabella, our feisty little female goat, had swallowed the two that remained. But a string sounded so much better for my story.
Someone cleared their throat behind us. We all turned to see Julien.
“Sorry to interrupt, I think the conversation must have been riveting from the me
ntion of les chèvres. Cary, you are due up in the air in half an hour.”
Cary nodded and leaned in to peck Greta on the cheek. “Let me go fetch my cloak. I’ll see you all later. Rhys, no doubt you will be around after the show. Try not to eat anything you shouldn’t.” He gave a wave and strode off towards the changing room.
I chuckled. “I think I’ve just earned the title of pet goat.”
Both Greta and Julien stared at me, a strange expression in their eyes.
I reached up to feel my chin. “Have I grown a goat tuft or something? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Greta didn’t speak but her eyes looked misty, Julien’s too if I was being honest. She took my arm and grabbed me into a giant Greta bear hug. “Thank you, Rhys. You do not understand how much of a difference you've made.”
Julien nodded, taking my face in slim hands as he air-kissed me. “Oui, mon ami. You have worked miracles. We are indebted to you.”
Before I could say anything more, they released me and vanished into the wings. The heavy curtain swayed as they passed through, and I stood there with a deep sense of accomplishment.
I’m doing something right with Cary then.
A sneering voice interrupted my self-pride musings. “You think you have won with Cary? I can tell you that you have won nothing.”
I turned to see Emil staring at me, dislike written across his face. Petite, with wild, messy dark hair, he looked like an elf with his pointed features and thin lips. Not my type.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “I seem to have gotten into his good graces more than you and your boyfriend ever did.”
“Kurwa, that man is cold and sexless, so damaged he will never be fit for anything. Cary is overrated as a performer and why Greta insists on billing him as a top spot when Stefan and I are far more entertaining, I do not understand,” he huffed angrily. “Everyone has their favourite lap dog, I suppose.”
I reined in the temper I’d been born with. “Cary isn’t anyone’s lap dog. He’s earned the right to be top-billed through hard work and dedication to his craft. Anyone can see that.”
Emil laughed, the sound harsh and cruel. “Dupek. You have rose-coloured glasses on where he is concerned. Mark my words, when things get tough he will turn his back on you like the cold fish he is. He has no feelings, that one.”
“Are you this hostile because he won’t be in a threesome with you and your boyfriend? Wow. How shallow are you?” I spat out in disgust.
Emil shook his head, a taut smile on his face. “Have you fucked him yet? Or has he fucked you? I will bet the answer is no.”
I bit down my instant retort we had in fact fooled around but held back. I didn't want to cheapen intimacy between Cary and me with this fool.
“I think it’s safe to say you’ll never find out if your suppositions are true.” I turned to walk away, tired of the conversation, then screamed in terror.
Marco stood behind me, looking much the same as usual, only thinner. The man had lost a lot of weight since I’d first seen him a few months ago. Beneath the white makeup his face was grey. I still felt a frisson of unease seeing him there, countered by the concern I had at his expression. For a clown, he looked sad.
“Rhys, do you have a moment?”
“Sure, let me get rid of the insect buzzing in my ears.” I raised my middle finger at Emil as I walked away with Marco. “What’s up? We’ve not seen you. Is everything okay?”
He didn’t answer and heaved a deep sigh. “Alas, that question is too complicated to answer.” We stepped out into the cool night air. The breath left my mouth in little puffs of opacity. Marco looked up into the night sky and smiled. “It is a beautiful night. The stars are out in a fine display.”
I squinted up at the blue-black sky. Up above, twinkles of light speckled the inky canvas. “They are,” I agreed. “What’s up?”
“I wished to say I appreciate you trying to get know Cary and being there for him. He has been a troubled soul since he joined us all those years ago. Then you came along, and I see him thawing a little day by day.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that sentiment expressed a lot.” I crossed my arms over my chest as a chill wind blew. “How long has he been here? I’ve asked him about his past, but he’s always evaded talking about it somehow.”
Marco shook his head. “He has been with us since he was a child, but it is his story to tell, not mine. Patience, my friend. I hope he tells you everything when he is ready.” He squeezed my arm. “He has been through a lot in his life, and I hope you will remain there for him.”
I snorted. “As long as he lets me. He’s a moody, cantankerous bastard and while I want to be friends with him, I won’t push the boundaries if he’s not happy with it. There’s only so much abuse I can take from his sorry arse.”
Marco’s eyes glittered through the pale makeup. “You wish to be more than friends with him, though, yes?”
I cleared my throat. “That obvious, huh?”
He chuckled, sounding more like the old Marco. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Rhys McIntyre. Your googly eyes are difficult to misread.”
“Huh.” I looked up into the sky. “Crap, does everyone know about this googly phase then?”
He nodded. “I believe so, yes. And they are happy about it. Except of course for the gentlemen of Mysterio. Pah. They don’t count. Nasty young men, the pair of them.”
We stood in silence for a while, me contemplating the arse-holiness of Stefan and Emil and Marco off in his own world. Then he touched my shoulder. “Look after yourself, young Rhys. Those war zones you worked in have left their own shadows on your soul. You deserve light and happiness as much as Cary does. Perhaps one day you'll find it together. Make sure he knows this. It is my only request of you.”
With that, he turned and ambled off toward his caravan. A tingle trickled down my spine. His request had sounded so final, as if he’d imparted some last meaningful words of wisdom.
I shook off the misgivings, not wanting to think the worst, and pondered on my situation.
Everyone seemed to know I had the hots for their sexy Air Dancer. Damn. I thought I’d played it cooler than that.
I rubbed my chin and sighed. The only person I had to convince of the ‘situation’ now was Cary himself.
Chapter 13
Cary
I had the dream again. The one that bound me to my past and wouldn’t let go. In my dream, there was a boy. He lay still as his chest ached with a pain he’d never have imagined in his darkest nightmares. He dared not breathe too hard lest the demon in the room heard him, tracked him down, and tore him apart with sharpened claws.
Shivers of panic and dread shot down his spine, but he kept himself still, holding his breath, the stench of excrement reminding him he’d soiled himself when the shooting began, and he wondered if that would give him away. Along with the fear and grief, a sense of shame made the tears flow faster. He blinked, trying to chase them away.
Crying is bad. He’ll hear you. Smell the salt in your tears. The Father is the devil.
The boy closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, but he knew it was useless because God didn’t listen to anything he had to say. God and Jesus—they’d given up on him a long time ago. He’d known that as he’d been forced over Price Littlejohn’s couch with the man’s hot poker thing up his arse.
The humming of a hymn the boy had once loved now meant nothing more than a dirty ditty associated with hate and pain. He’d never be able to hear that hymn again without feeling sick.
The child had a decision to make. He could crawl out from the dead pit where he hid and become an unwilling captive, consigned to a life of hell. He could fight back and try to get to the devil and kill him. Then he might join his family wherever they might be. However, the boy didn’t believe in Heaven anymore, so he wasn’t sure whether he wanted that option.
His final choice was to take a chance, leave the safety of his family’s bodies, run, and never look bac
k. An hour later, he decided. When he saw an opportunity to crawl out from the charnel house containing his dead family and run as fast as he could, across green fields that had once been a playground and a haven for him, his sister, and their friends, he took it.
The nightmare woke me, and I sat up, the wet of tears on my cheeks making my skin cold. I scrambled out of bed and went into the bathroom to take a piss. Urine dribbled onto the seat as my shaking hands held my dick. I wiped myself and the seat clean, pulled up my drawstring yoga pants, and went back to sit on the bed.
My hands itched to cut. I’d last used my cilice a week ago; I’d needed the pain. I couldn’t even remember what had set me off. My thighs were healing and didn’t look like chopped liver anymore.
It was a temporary respite, I thought as my hands sought my razor. The disconcerting presence of Rhys bloody McIntyre everywhere I turned. In the canteen tent, I’d see him sitting with the other circus folk, laughing and playing around. He’d be out on the field, kicking a football with the kids. At night, he’d sit in the stands, eyes fixated on my performance, and he’d be one of the first to clap when I’d finished.
His camera was his constant companion, and it wasn’t unusual to walk about at night and come across him lining up a shot of the lights reflecting off the field, or aiming it at a group of customers or artists, clicking off rapid-fire shots.
The man had taken over my head and my sanity, and I’d been too preoccupied with him to cut as often as I had. Until now.
The remnants of the dream, childish voices in song, hands on my body, violating, probing and greedy, the taste of bile in my throat coupled with withholding screams as something invaded my body.
I never knew what triggered them. It could have been the sight of a priest in official clerical garb, a small, angelic-looking child that hearkened me back to my childhood days, or a newspaper article or snippet about child abuse seen on the TV.
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