“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m in heaven.” I reached over and took the oval dinner plate off the salver, placing it on Rhys’s tablemat. He removed the lid to the other one and did the same with mine. Before long dishes of vegetables, roast potatoes, and mint sauce were on the table, and we were tucking in.
There was something about being out of the Trazellas environment that made me relax. Rhys had been right, although I’d never admit it. This easy-going, social evening was like nothing I’d experienced in many years, and for a moment, I could pretend I was a normal guy on a date with a sexy partner and forget everything.
Tomorrow would be time enough to get back to dark and gritty reality. Tonight, I wanted to relish every moment of Rhys’s company, watch his face alight with mischief as he told me some of the latest circus gossip, and revel in the way his hands moved as he ran them through his rich copper-tinged hair.
And whatever he would tell me, I’d manage. I always had.
Food and wine completed, we moved to the lounge with our Irish coffees. I groaned, relaxing against the plush soft fabric of the couch.
“That meal was amazing. I’ll have to train more to get rid of the food baby I have in my belly.” I stroked the skin of my stomach under my shirt as it rode up above my cotton chinos.
Rhys eye’s travelled down to the hand resting on my stomach. “You still have one of the most beautiful bodies I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.
He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on my knuckles, then turned my hand over and trailed his mouth down to the pulse in my wrist, his mouth close to the bare skin of my stomach. His warm lips sent a pulse of desire straight to my groin while the hairs on my belly prickled with anticipation.
Part of me delighted that such reactions were commonplace when he was around, my cock not having been interested in anything in the past; the other part was already tensing up at wondering where this might be going.
He picked up on my mood. “Don’t worry, I meant what I said. I’m not pressuring you. I wanted a taste.” He grinned. “That was my dessert.”
He sat up, eyes dark as my gaze fell to the bulge in his Levi’s. My breath caught at the need on his face, then he turned away to reach down beside him.
“So, do you want to watch something?” He picked up the remote from the side table and switched on the television. “There’s a new episode of Modern Family if you fancy a giggle, or Mad Men? What do you like?”
I shrugged. “I don’t watch TV so anything you put on will be fine.”
His face fell. “Well, these are part of a series, so I’d rather get a film up then. How about the new Avengers Assemble? You like superheroes?” He switched on the television and the room flooded with light and low sound.
I snorted. “Men in tight leggings and cloaks? I think I might be one of them.”
He chuckled as he looked back at me with a tenderness that made my throat clench. I took that moment to make my decision.
“I’d rather you sat here with me, and we think of something else to do. Seeing as how you’re going tomorrow morning. And you said you had something to tell me.”
Shit, what the hell had happened to my old, aloof Cary persona?
His breath caught, and he nodded. “Yeah, okay. If that’s what you want.” He sat down, and I couldn’t help sniggering at the fact he looked a little spooked.
I liked the feeling I could get him off guard, have him unsettled because of the power I held over him. I wanted to use it. “Do you want to kiss me again?” There. It was out. I’d said it.
He didn’t even answer. He drew me close, wrapped his rough hands around my face, and brushed his lips against mine. “I thought you’d never ask.” His mouth opened mine and before long, he pushed me back against the plush richness of the brocade-covered couch while he plundered my mouth like a horseman taking his spoils.
Rhys’s beard scratched my chin, and the feel of his body, hard and stocky, against my own claimed possession, and I let it.
We drew apart, both gasping for breath, and stared at each other.
“Wow, every time we do that it feels better than the last. I’d say we’ve got this kissing lark covered, wouldn’t you?” Rhys grinned, a flash of white teeth.
I couldn't speak. “Uh-huh.”
His eyes sparkled. “I think we should finish up our drinks and see where this takes us.” He raised his Irish coffee in a toast. “Sláinte.”
We clinked glasses and drank. I put my glass on the table and ran my fingers over his bare arm. He shivered.
“What did you want to tell me before you go?” I couldn’t hold back my apprehension any longer.
Images from the television flashed in the dim light from the sidelights as some big guy from a show called Modern Family pranced around in a clown suit. Great. It seemed I couldn’t escape the circus life wherever I went. It promoted a bittersweet reminder of Marco.
Rhys took a large swig of his Irish coffee, then another, and my blood curdled to ice in my veins.
Dutch courage? Crap, how bad is this going to get?
His throat moved as he swallowed. “‘Pure fluidity in motion and only a dancer of air could climb so high and be so graceful.’ Does that sound familiar?”
I frowned. “Yes. My friend Cameron used those exact words when I knew him. He loved watching aerial work. It’s how I got my stage name. How do you know that phrase?”
A chill wheedled its way down my spine. Where the fuck could he have heard that from? Greta?
He looked across at me, shaken. “I know it because my lover Laird used to say the same thing while we lay in bed together and watched Cirque du Soleil. He had a thing for your sport.” He drew a deep breath.
I frowned. “So? Lots of people like it; why would that be strange?”
Rhys exhaled. “Because he used that phrase more than once. He was a therapist, and he had a patient. An aerialist.”
My stomach clenched, and my hands grew cold. Coincidence much? I didn’t believe in them.
Rhys regarded me with sad eyes. “I knew nothing about the patient because Laird was rabid about protecting their privacy. All I knew was that his patient used aerial sport as therapy, and Laird watched it to see what drove him to it. What it was about the movements and the routines that made his patient tick. He said he could better understand him if he did.”
My mouth was dry. “Am I to understand from this that you think my Cam and your Laird were the same person? How’s that even possible?”
Rhys fished out his phone and fiddled with it while I waited. Then he thrust the screen at me and pointed.
“They are the same man,” he murmured. “He used different names for business and personal.”
I looked down at the screen, seeing the death certificate and the same date of birth and death I knew, and still I was not assimilating it.
Rhys pulled out his phone, scrolled through it then stopped. He handed me the phone.
“Take a look,” he said softly.
I looked down at the picture and the past came rushing back to cover me with sweet, poignant sadness. It was a photo of Rhys and Cameron—or in Rhys’s case, Laird. They stood together, posing before Big Ben, both grinning like loons. It was an old photo but there was no doubt who the two men were.
I handed the phone back to Rhys, unable to say anything,
Rhys smiled sadly. “It’s a small word, isn’t it? I think perhaps we were meant to meet, and this was his sneaky angel way of bringing us together.”
I shook my head incredulously. “I can’t believe it. I knew he had lovers, and one he was fond of, whom he called his travelling Viking.” I glanced at Rhys, who was smiling in remembrance. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “It looks like the whole six degrees of separation isn’t such a myth after all.”
We were silent, both no doubt reflecting on the man we once knew being present in both our lives in such an intimate way.
My throat was clogging up with shock at finding out we’d sha
red a beautiful soul. “Anyway, there’s no such things as angels,” I muttered, downing the last dregs of my now cold coffee. “Or anything else like that. There’s only life, then death. Look at Cameron.”
Rhys’s face shadowed. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’m not religious myself. My folks go to church, I guess my dad has to, he’s the vicar in our parish in Inverness.” He reached over and took my hand. “You’re cold. Here, let me warm you up.”
He massaged my hands with his warm ones. It was comforting, and I watched his nimble fingers even as his words sent a chill down my spine.
Men in black, with white collars always did.
“Your dad is a man of the church?” I tried not to think of the past, but memories came flooding back, memories I was powerless to prevent. I shuddered, and Rhys glanced up at me, worry in his eyes.
“Am I hurting you? Sorry.” He stopped what he was doing, which wasn’t what I wanted at all. “Yeah, dad is like the Vicar of Dibley, you know, all up in the village business and always the one people come to when they need help. He’s pretty laid-back though, he doesn’t preach fire and brimstone or anything like that.”
My dry mouth couldn't form the next words. “So why aren’t you—religious, I mean?”
Rhys’s eyes grew dark, and he looked down at the hands that should have been massaging mine. “I’ve seen some terrible stuff in my lifetime. It’s tough to think of an all-powerful, all-loving God somewhere in the heavens given the atrocities that man commits. I couldn’t come to terms with some big guy up there,” he gestured toward the ceiling, “being able to put up with the things people do without bringing down his wrath in response. I’m not one of those ‘The Almighty has a plan’ people, and ‘Have faith, it’s his will.” He snorted. “Not when you’ve seen starving children. Kids abused and blown up, and women with babies ripped out of their wombs. There’s no fucking ‘plan’ in the world I want to believe in if that’s what it’s all about.” He cast me an anxious look. “Sorry. That brought the mood down, didn’t it? I apologise.”
I shook my head. “Don’t. I feel the same way. Even deeper than you. Religion and I aren’t on good terms.” I wanted to take the words back at the flare of interest in Rhys’s eyes. I’d said too much.
“You had a bad experience, then?” he murmured. “Is that why you do what you do?” His eyes flicked towards my thighs.
I swallowed and tried to calm my beating heart. “Not ready to talk about that right now.”
He nodded. “Okay. Like I said, not pushing.” He reached over and drew me down against his chest. “Tell you what, let’s lie here a minute, let our dinner settle then maybe we can have a rethink of what we want to end the night on. Deal?”
I sank against him with relief. “Deal.”
With his heartbeat below my ear, I smiled as his arms curled around me and played with my hair.
This felt good, so right. I didn’t want to let it go.
Chapter 17
Rhys
“Cary? Baby, my taxi is here. I need to get moving.”
I blinked and tried to focus on what was happening. I rubbed my eyes as I realised I was on the hotel couch with a blanket over me.
“Ugh, what time is it?”
Rhys crouched in front of me, a warm smile on his face. “It’s nine o’clock. I need to leave, my flight is in two hours.”
I sat up and looked around. Behind Rhys was his wheelie suitcase. “You’re going now? Did you always plan on leaving from the hotel?”
He nodded. “I said good-bye to the folks at Trazellas yesterday. Last night was ours. I brought my stuff here, so we wasted no time travelling to and fro.”
“We fell asleep.” I stood up and stretched. “Fuck, what a crappy send-off for you. Sorry about that.”
Rhys shook his head. “It was perfect. Well, maybe a little more could have happened but at least I got to spend the night with you in my arms. I got up earlier and checked to make certain I had everything ready. You looked so peaceful I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
I stared at him. He looked a little lost, and the shadow in his eyes was surely reflected in mine too.
Somewhere below us, in the street, a car hooted.
Rhys snorted. “Impatient bastard. I have to go. Can I get a kiss at least before I do?”
I nodded. His kiss wasn’t hard and demanding but soft, affectionate, and I held on to him as long as I could.
He pulled away as the taxi driver honked again. “I ordered you a taxi for ten o'clock, all paid for. I’ll call you when I get home.” He pulled me in for a bear hug. “You look after yourself, you hear, and keep in touch. No damned radio silence. And if you don’t contact me soon, I will come looking for you. Capisce?”
I looked into his beautiful green eyes and acknowledged the not-so-much-a-threat-as-a-need. For both of us. “Capisce. Same to you.”
“And Cary. Make me a promise please.”
My gut clenched. Please let it be something I can do.
“You feel the need to cut, you call me, you hear? That’s what you do in place of causing yourself harm. I’m not naïve enough to think it will work every time, but maybe I can help some of it. Can you promise me that at least—that you’ll try to call me first?” His face was determined, his tone fierce. I knew in my bones I would try but I might not always succeed.
I nodded. “I promise I’ll try. That’s all I can give you right now.”
His face relaxed. “That’s all I want. Thank you.” He came over and planted a fierce, possessive kiss on my lips. “Remember I care about you.” He flashed a quick smile, which didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoy Scarborough. Think of me when you’re walking on the beach.”
He backed away and took the handle of his suitcase. The last sight I had of Rhys McIntyre was him leaving the hotel room, this time without a backward glance.
*****
Three days later, the circus packed up and left Newcastle, and moved down to Scarborough. I spent a little time on the beach, but it wasn’t the same on my own. Then two weeks after that we moved to Liverpool just in time for the April Easter weekend.
I spent whatever time I had doing research into the life of Father Price Littlejohn, a country vicar from Kingston. I rejoiced at finding out there was no statute of limitations in the U.K. for murder. I’d been worried about that. While my mind might find peace by confronting him about his crime, I wanted the man locked up so far away that no one would ever find him.
In between finding out more about the man who ruined my life, and making my plans to confront him, I FaceTimed Rhys now and then. He texted every day. I didn’t always reply but I liked to know someone out there was thinking of me.
I needed that link to him. The things I was finding out about the esteemed village pastor of the little village of Cromwell-on-High, the sleepy hamlet where I’d lived for the first ten years of my life, sickened me to my core. I’d discovered he’d fostered a young teenage boy around the time I’d run away. I remembered Leo Scanlon from the choir days. He’d been in the Senior group, being around five years older than me.
According to the newspaper, his only parent, his mother, had died of cancer shortly after I’d left, and Littlejohn had stepped forward to offer him a home. At least Littlejohn couldn’t have had anything to do with the mother’s death. Not even cancer was within his feverish control.
Had Littlejohn done to Leo what he’d done to me? If I’d come forward at the time and told everyone about his madness and his slaughter of my family, might I have protected Leo?
I’d seen pictures of the Littlejohn family on the parish website, taken at some church picnic. The father looked relaxed and cheerful next to his petite wife, whose name I’d long forgotten. Their daughter, around twenty years old, had kids of her own, toddlers who smiled toothlessly at the camera. Beside Littlejohn stood Leo, probably in his late thirties, and was looking at the priest with awe on his face.
The hero worship I saw there made my heartburn worse. Was I a monste
r like Littlejohn, helping subject other innocents to his depraved obsessions?
Guilt burnt a hole in my gut for the umpteenth time, and at night, I popped antacids to help me keep the bile at bay.
I cut. I tried to call Rhys, I truly did. The first time, it went to voicemail, and I took that as a sign that cutting was okay to carry on with. If I hadn’t been meant to harm myself, he would have answered and talked me out of it. Such was my twisted logic.
I didn’t use the cilice this time, only my razor, so I congratulated myself on being a little more progressive in my promise to try not to self-harm. It was the logic of someone confronting his demons and finding himself lacking in being able to say they were all to blame.
****
My memories of Rhys blurred as the weeks went by. April came and went and before we knew it, we were heading back down to Kingston-upon-Thames for a performance in mid-May.
All the plans I was making culminated there, where it belonged, so I worked to put them in place.
It’s true what they say about being out of sight, out of mind. Somewhere deep within me I knew I wanted Rhys back, but the overwhelming urge to right things had taken over.
Late one night, around midnight, my mobile rang while I was reading in bed after a cutting session with the cilice. The overwhelming guilt I felt that this time I hadn’t called Rhys to let him talk me down made me want to ignore the call. But the desire to hear his voice, to remember that out there was something worthwhile, and someone who still believed in me, overcame the desire to be a coward.
I answered the call and warmed at the sound of the soft Scottish brogue in my ears. “Hey, you,” I murmured, laying down the book I was reading. It was Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I’d read it before, but it was one of those stories always worth the reread.
“Hi, gorgeous.” Rhys’s husky voice echoed down the phone. “Are you in bed?”
I nodded then realised he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Reading. Performed earlier and I'm knackered. How about you?”
He sighed. “I went out for a few drinks with Stuart, we met up with a couple of interesting photographers from the old days, swapped war stories, then I came home. I’m beat too. And missing you. You’ve been quiet.” There was no recrimination in his tone. I heard the swish of what seemed to be bedcovers in the background as he continued. “I’m glad I didn’t wake you up. I know you don’t go to bed much before one and I needed to hear your voice.”
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