The dark thoughts that nudged at my common sense, trying to push reason out of my head, were overpowering. Sitting there on the cold floor, thighs stinging, while tears welled in my eyes for yet someone else I’d lost, I wondered for the hundredth time why I wasn't slaughtered with the rest of my family.
My pity party lasted an hour until I could no longer ignore the ache in my back and the pain of my damaged thigh. It needed cleaning and treating before it got infected.
I climbed to my feet. Survival remained in that even as I wished myself dead, I needed to ensure I didn’t die from blood poisoning or infection. Where the fuck was the logic in that?
I busied myself taking off my blood-spattered and dirt-encrusted clothing and wondered whether Marco had been cut down yet and taken somewhere to rest in peace. The knock came ten minutes after I’d showered and changed into clean clothes. I didn’t want to answer the door. I knew who it was.
Rhys stared at me as I opened the door to admit him. He walked inside and before I could throw him out, or reject whatever he would say, he pulled me close in a hug and buried his face in my neck.
I stood as he murmured in my ear. His scent tantalised my nostrils, the rich, male tang of sweat and aftershave. He was so solid, so real.
“I’m so sorry, Cary. I know he was your friend.” He moved away. “The police are with Greta now, they’re checking out the woods to see if they can find a note or anything. They said it looked like suicide.” He took a shuddering breath. “They’ll get him to the morgue in a little while.” He smiled tiredly. “I’m glad. I don’t like to think of him alone out there. It’s getting dark and there are little critters in the wood.”
The emotion in his voice struck deep in my heart. I nodded and moved to pour myself a stiff drink of bourbon. I raised an eyebrow at Rhys and he nodded. I filled the kitchen tumblers with the dark liquid and handed him one.
“I suppose they’ll want to talk to me?” I took a sip of my drink, closing my eyes at the burn.
Rhys blew air out, causing his cheeks to balloon, and frowned. “They seemed quite interested in talking to the ‘man who discovered the body.’”
I winced. “He’s always their first suspect, isn’t he? The jogger out running who finds the body in the woods.” I gave a harsh laugh, hands trembling around my glass. “Instead of this prison,” I waved around me, “perhaps I might find myself in a proper one this time.”
“Shit, Cary, you’ve done nothing wrong. No one will suspect you of anything.” He plopped down on my bed and eyed me up and down. “Anyway, I think we have something else to talk about.” His tone was flat, and the look he shot me was both angry and concerned.
I shrugged. “We have nothing to talk about. You don’t own me, and I don’t owe you anything.” I wandered into the living area and sat on the couch as far away as I could get in this limited space. I didn’t want to face Rhys right now. I needed to be a bastard to get him to leave this subject alone, and watching the emotions on his face wouldn’t help.
There was silence as I stared out of the grimy window, not seeing anything. Then the bed squeaked and Rhys came through and stood before me.
His green eyes blazed. He’d been running his hand through his hair. It was mussed and framed his face with soft tendrils. His full lips thinned clearly in frustration because I was being such an arsehole.
Damn the man was gorgeous. I’d need all my willpower not to climb him like a tree and ask him to hold me and tell me things would be all right.
I waved my hand at him. “Don’t even think of continuing that conversation. It won’t happen. Keep out of my business.” Inside I screamed to be heard, to share my story with someone who cared. I couldn’t. It was mine to live with.
When he spoke next, his burr was in full force as he levelled an angry stare at me. “Listen here, you lavvy-heided wankstain—”
I blinked. I kind of got what he was saying, something about me being a toilet-headed sexual smear, but it was a new insult even for me.
“—you stubborn, exasperating excuse for a human being. You will not fob me off on this one. I’ve been in your bed, jerked off with you, and tongue fucked you. Shite. We’ve even cuddled.”
I opened my mouth to protest at that last one and he reached down and laid a finger on my lips. “Shut it. We have cuddled, Cary, you choose to forget it. I think we’re more than friends and I’d hoped you saw it the same way. Forgive me if I worry about you and want to know why the fuck you were cutting yourself out there. It looks like you’re quite the expert.”
While his alpha male Braveheart routine was both stirring and sexy, fuck, oh so sexy, I couldn’t let my guard down. I wasn’t ready for me to reveal the man I was, the coward and the boy who’d let someone slaughter his family after abusing him in ways I didn’t want to remember.
Rhys could never know who I was. It would destroy me.
I stood up, quelling the need inside to share myself with him, and froze him with a stare of my own. Forgive me, Rhys. I need to protect myself from you. I can’t give in to caring about anyone that way.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” I hissed. “What we had was lust, nothing else. We aren’t anything to each other and never will be. It was about scratching an itch. You came along and insinuated yourself into my life without even asking. It could never be more than that.”
Rhys’s eyes widened and for a moment he looked unsure of himself. “I don’t believe you. There is something between us, I know it.”
“There is nothing between us,” I snarled. I stood up and tossed the rest of my drink down my throat. I willed my hands to stop trembling. “You think you can save everyone, Rhys. Those children in the war zones, you couldn’t save them, and you sure as damn can’t save me. So best to stop while you’re ahead.”
Chapter 14
Rhys
Cary stared at me with flat, dead eyes. His last remark about the kids in war zones had stung. “I didn’t ask you to care,” he remarked snidely. “I don’t need your caring. All I need is air to breathe and I’m okay. Nothing else matters.” His tone indicated even that wasn’t a prospect he relished.
Given his history and the scars on his wrists and legs, I thought he might well not care whether he took another breath. That thought shocked me to my core. The thought of no Cary in my life made my chest hurt.
I struggled to find the right words to reply. “Don’t do this, Cary. Don’t push me away. You can’t survive on only air. You need someone to care for you. Why can’t it be me?”
Cary shrugged his slim shoulders, his face bleak. He reached up and brushed a strand of silky black hair behind his ear. His fingers trembled and knew I knew he was not as unaffected by this conversation as he’d have me believe.
He continued to gaze at me without expression. “I’ve been living on air for a long time now, Rhys. It’s kept me going this long. I imagine it will continue to do so.” He moved away, his lithe dancer’s body displaying the old familiar tension and uncertainty. Turning away, back straight and unflinching, he crossed his arms over his chest to stare out the window.
Behind the dull and smear-ridden panes there was frenzied activity from the circus staff as they readied things for the big night ahead. Outside there were bright lights, swearing, comradeship, and coordinated chaos. Inside this caravan, however, there was only a deep, cold darkness and a sense of loss as I struggled to get through to Cary that he didn’t have to be alone.
From the look on his face, it seemed as if I wasn’t about to win this one.
“Why do you do that to yourself? Does Greta know? Did Marco? What happened to you that you feel the need to cut yourself like that?” His shoulders tautened at the questions, but I forged ahead. “I want to understand, Cary. I want to help you if I can.”
He laughed and turned to look at me with pity. “You can’t help me. Cameron tried, and it worked for a while then he died, and everything fucking fell apart. Your problem is you care too much.”
I raised my hand
s in frustration. “Who was Cameron to you? A therapist? A lover?”
Cary’s face softened for a millisecond then grew stony again. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is that you need to give up this stupid idea of redeeming me and get the hell out. I don’t want to talk about my past. My friend just died. You should respect my privacy to grieve.” Cary turned and motioned to the door. “Leave me alone, please.”
I nodded. “I respect your privacy, I assure you. When my friend Laird died, I fell apart too, but I had family and good friends to help me through it.”
I moved over to him and squeezed his shoulder. His muscles were tight and unyielding. “I’m sorry for your grief. I know you respected Marco and it must be a huge loss. I want to offer my friendship, if you decide you need it. You know where I am.”
Cary said nothing, didn’t even turn when I walked out the door.
As I walked across the field, two policemen made a beeline for Cary’s home. I wanted to go back and be there with him while he answered their questions—but I didn’t. He was capable enough of looking after himself; he’d made it known I wasn’t welcomed.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the police as they passed by me with a nod of their heads. They didn’t know what they were walking into.
***
“Do we have any idea why Marco did what he did?” I sat with Julien in the half-empty bar cum canteen. The usual buzz of the early evening dinner rush was missing. I poked at the sausage and mash on my plate, not wanting to eat but needing nourishment.
Julien’s drawn face was pale, his eyes lined with fatigue. He’d been handling a lot of the arrangements for Marco’s funeral and all the police matters while Greta tried to restore the morale of the circus folk. The last few days had been tough for them all, and she’d taken it upon herself to hobble around and visit everyone, ushering in comfort and solace.
I’d expected cancelled shows tonight, but a fierce Greta had said Marco would never have wanted that.
Julien looked at me. “I thought of all people, Rhys, you might have been told. Cary is aware of the contents of Marco’s suicide note. It was short and to the point.”
I snorted in derision. “I’m the last fucking person he’s talking to. He’s hiding away from me. Again.”
Julien nodded as he toyed with his leftover green salad, a limp piece of lettuce and half a tomato. “I suppose I can tell you, you will be discreet.” He took a deep breath. “Marco had advanced pancreatic cancer.”
I gasped as he continued. “It was terminal, he said the doctor had given him a few months.” Julien slammed his fork down on the table. “We all knew something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell us. Instead he chose to deal with it alone.” He looked up at me. “Remind you of anyone else we know?”
I gave up trying to eat and pushed my plate to one side. Let the circus mutts have the last sausage.
“Yeah. Why hanging though? That’s so…so—final. And a horrible way to die. I’ve seen it first-hand.” I shivered. “He was high up in the trees though. Did his neck break before the rope could strangle him?”
The subject was so terrible and tragic and yet here the two of us sat in a circus tent discussing someone’s method of suicide. It all seemed so surreal.
Julien dropped his voice. “I overheard the police say it would have been quick, his neck had broken, yes. So, we have that to console us.” We sat there contemplating the tattered tablecloth together.
When Julien spoke again, he was hesitant. “I heard stories of Marco’s past, but we never substantiated them. Before he joined us, he was with a small family circus, had been since he was a boy. That circus has long since gone out of business, and to my knowledge, no one remains. There was a rumour Marco had a twin sister called Julie. When she was twenty-five, she hanged herself in the same copse of trees he did. Marco was devastated, and he never got over her death. Five years after she died, he joined Trazellas.”
I stared at Julien. “You think he hanged himself at the same spot, sort of, to be with her?” I considered that. “That’s…touching in a terrible way.”
“If true, I hope they are together now and his suffering is over. That is all I can hold on to at a time like this.” Julien pushed back his chair and stood up. “Now I should get back to work. There are still things to resolve before the show tonight.” He leaned down and kissed the top of my head, which was awkward but nice. “Au revoir, Rhys. I will speak to you later.”
I was in my caravan around seven pm, trying to distract myself with cleaning my camera, and watching a slideshow of shots I’d taken. I had to say, not being big headed, they were impressive. The quirkiness and beauty of the subjects and scenery would blow the publisher’s socks off.
One subject was given special attention, and I had more shots for my personal spank bank than I’d ever need. One shot was a close-up of Cary in his tight trousers and if you looked closely, you could tell he wasn’t circumcised. As I’d had his cock in my hand, I had been up close and personal enough to establish that as fact.
I was deliberating whether to hold that shot back and keep it for myself when there was a knock at the door. Hoping to see Cary, I flung it open. Greta stood there, cloaked in her voluminous long coat, face paler than usual. “Rhys, may I talk to you for a moment?”
“Sure.” I beckoned her in and turned to put the kettle on. She looked like she needed a peppermint tea. “Is everything okay?”
She huffed. “Given the circumstances, nothing will be okay for a while. But nothing else has happened. Other than this.”
She passed me a white sealed envelope with elegant cursive writing addressed to Cary Stilwell at the circus P.O. box address. I turned it in my hand, confused. “It’s a letter.”
“You are so insightful,” Greta deadpanned. I grinned a little because it was good to see her getting back to normal. “It’s the sender I’m worried about. It’s from Marco.”
I gaped. “Oh. I see why you might be concerned.” I flipped the letter again, trying to see if there was anything strange about it other than it was from a dead man. “He must have posted it before he died.”
Greta rolled her eyes. “Again with the Sherlock. What would we do without your powers of deduction?”
“Well, someone could have posted it for him,” I said. “Don’t you think?” I handed her a cup of fragrance-rich tea and sat down beside her.
She sipped it then pursed her lips. “It makes no matter. My worry is what it says. Cary is already upset by Marco’s death, I am not sure whether I should give it to him now or wait until he is more…approachable.”
I had no qualms about that decision. “Let him have it.” I took a slurp of my tea. “He won’t thank you for withholding it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him, it’s not to treat him as if he’s fragile or a child.”
Greta sighed. “I was of the same opinion but needed it validated. Julien thought I should wait.”
I handed the letter back to her, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she sat down on the bunk with her tea and peered up at me. She looked tired, eyes red-rimmed, and I knew Marco’s death had hit her badly. I reached over and drew her into my arms, hugging her close. She folded in against my chest, and after a few minutes, she moved away, sitting up to look at me with gratitude in her eyes.
“Thank you. I needed that. Things are bad out there as we worry through all this. Marco was special to me too. But life must go on.”
“Have you spoken to Julien?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, he is aware of the suicide note, and he has shared his theories with me about why Marco chose that spot to do what he did. I have nothing more to add.” Shifting her bum around to get comfortable, she sat back with a sigh.
“About Cary. Have you seen him yet? He has been like the grumpy bear, hibernating in his home. Everyone is scared to roust him in case he bites their limbs off. I have tried too, but he growls at me. I rarely pay mind to it but this time, it is different. He is hurting.”
> I huffed as I laid the letter beside the kitchen sink. “Oh, believe me, I know. I’ve been trying too. He even threw a large shoe at me last time I went to see him. It missed my head.” I hesitated. I couldn’t tell her that the reason I was being so persistent was how scared I was that Cary was hurting himself. I had no idea how much she knew, or if she did at all.
Instinct told me she didn’t because I was sure if she did, she’d have insisted on him taking treatment as an ultimatum to staying at Trazellas.
I cleared my throat. I needed to be diplomatic now and not give away his secret. “I know you told me we never discuss personal business here at the circus and that most people are here for reasons of their own.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped drinking her tea, cup halfway to her plump lips.
I ploughed on. “I can’t help thinking I’d be more use to you if I knew something, anything, about how Cary came to be here. It might help me get inside his head.” I sat down on the opposite bunk. “I had a great friend, a lover too, who was a psychologist specialising in damaged people. He taught me a lot about people and their psyches, and he told me I was a natural listener.”
I waited. Greta resumed drinking her tea, seemingly oblivious to my request. It felt like longer than a few minutes when she spoke again. “You are right. I would not usually tell you anything personal about one of our circus family. It is something that keeps us safe, lets people join without fear of being found.” She scowled as I sat at the edge of my seat at the potential offered with the word “usually.”
“Here we have women hiding from abusive husbands, and men from wives. We have teenagers cast out on the street for displeasing their parents. We have convicts who have served their time. We have housewives looking for a change, and we have artistes who wish to pursue their talents in a less pressured showmanship arena than somewhere like Vegas. These people want a quiet life, a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and somewhere to belong. I give them that.”
She fell contemplative and I waited out the silence. “Then we have Cary. I will tell you how he came to be here, but no one knows much of his backstory. I can assume much and prove nothing.”
Living On Air Page 15