Living On Air Read online

  PIERCING THE NIGHT

  Cary Stilwell has been existing since he was ten years old, and each year it gets harder to find meaning in his bleak life. The only exception – his work. As a top-billed aerialist in a popular travelling circus, he enjoys accolades and applause, but little else. When notable photographer, Rhys McIntyre, joins the circus to catalogue its inner workings, Cary fights the attraction that hits him from the moment they meet. But a kind soul wrapped in a beautiful body has a way of battering all the walls Cary has built around his cold, dark heart.

  WITH LIGHT

  Rhys McIntyre is on his third iteration of reinventing himself. Once a hotdog financier, he embraced his passion for photography and became an eminent war photo journalist. Until one too many bullets lodged in his body, and he gave up the front lines for the softer side of chronicling life. When he accepts the assignment to record life in a circus, the last thing he expects is to find the man crush of his dreams. Except Cary Stilwell is a cold, tortured man who seems incapable of any warm emotion, never mind love. But Rhys is known for his persistence, and this time the pay-off might be more than he could have ever imagined.

  ALSO BY SUSAN MAC NICOL

  THE MEN OF LONDON SERIES

  Love You Senseless

  Sight & Sinners

  Suit Yourself

  Feat of Clay

  Cross to Bare

  Flying Solo

  Damaged Goods

  Hard Climate

  Survival Game

  THE STARLIGHT SERIES

  Cassandra by Starlight

  Together in Starlight

  OTHER TITLES

  Stripped Bare

  Saving Alexander

  Worth Keeping

  Double Alchemy

  Double Alchemy: Climax

  Love and Punishment

  Sight Unseen

  Unlikely in Love

  Living On Air

  Susan Mac Nicol

  www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

  LIVING ON AIR

  Copyright © 2018 Susan Elaine Mac Nicol

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  ISBN 978-1-948029-12-4

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  DEDICATION

  There are people out there suffering silently, weighed down with the daily business of going about life feeling alone and despairing. These people may have nowhere to go, and feel they have no one to talk to. They hold their torment close to their chests in the hope that one day it will end. Their coping mechanism of choice to hold themselves together may be razors, knives, something to burn their skin with, or worse. With the pain comes the knowledge they control something in their lives.

  All I can say to them is this. It’s not easy to admit you need to speak to someone, get some advice on what troubles you. I implore you to reach out to someone and talk to them, find some help. There are plenty of organisations that will listen, like Mind – https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/self-harm/#.Wmm7-qhl-Uk. Or the Samaritans https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help-you/what-speak-us-about/signs-you-may-be-struggling-cope/helping-you-through-self

  Don’t do this alone. Reach out to somebody else who may be able to help.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I have so many for this book; it’s a novel in its own right.

  Firstly, a huge thanks to the generous and accommodating Ernest, Eva and Sacha Santus from Santus Circus here in the UK. I was fortunate enough to spend three days with them while I did my research and it was an incredible experience. To read more about my stay with this wonderful family, copy the below into your browser and be prepared to be amazed.

  www.divinemagazine.biz/circus-shenanigans-life-and-me

  To my husband Gary for spending time with me at the circus in a tiny caravan wish no running water, a non-flushing loo, and narrow bunks, in the middle of the cold snap. He’s such a trooper. (It’s our secret: we sneaked home 40 miles away one night to have a hot shower and sleep in a proper bed before getting up the crack of dawn and sneaking back to the circus. My lips are forever sealed.)

  To my muse for Cary: Dr. Chris Talbot in Australia. He’s one of the loveliest people I’ve met in the pole art industry, and he holds accolades for many events centered around this, and for fitness and modelling. He’s truly fabulous in character, not to mention breathtakingly gorgeous. (He won’t mind me saying that, I’m sure.) You can see him on my website, and there’s some wonderful shots he did especially for me on the back of this cover. Check him out.

  To my as-always brilliant beta readers for this one, JP Bilbao, Torhild Borg, Robert Cox and Ann Alaskan. They were instrumental in bringing the story you have to life with their wise advice and kind support. JP is especially good at pointing me in the right direction. This woman pulls no punches, believe me; Robert, thanks for taking time out of your busy screen writing endeavours to take the time to read it. One day, we’ll meet up again in LA, I promise! Ann, as always, loaned me her insight and professional advice into the world of a troubled individual and the journey of self- harming. Torhild offered her own unique take on the story, which gave me a wonderful boost.

  And lastly to my editor Michelle Klayman from Boroughs. She’s always there to steer me right, and make sure my story is the best it can be. She doesn’t know how much I appreciate her. The one joy in a writer’s life is having a great editor, who gets their work and works with them in the way she does.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book delves into subjects some people may find disturbing. There are elements of the main characters' past that include paedophilia, the dark side of religion, and the horrors of war. Aspects of the story include self-harm, depression, and suicide, and the book is set in a circus where clowns are featured.

  None of these elements are gratuitous, but instead are included because they are part of the human condition, and are essential to our main characters' journeys. I hope you join Cary and Rhys as they navigate their way to love.

  Susan

  CONTENTS

  Also by Susan Mac Nicol

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24


  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Living On Air

  Chapter 1

  Cary

  Pain. Welcome, loving, giving, motherfucking pain.

  Head swimming with it, I travelled to my secret place—the place offering solace from the torment that ate at my soul like acidic tendrils of a many-tentacled octopus stinging barbs into my damaged psyche, leeching away at the last remaining emotions I had locked away in my dead heart.

  I could be poetic when I did a lot of thinking. Or drinking.

  “No caring, just The Hurt.” Through the silence in my head, I whispered my mantra, treating it like a priest’s vow of celibacy. The Hurt imprinted in my mind, capital letters giving it the respect it deserved.

  It was mine; I fucking owned it.

  The object tightened around my bloodied, torn thigh was proof of my desire to rise above human feeling to concentrate on physical pain. Along with a box cutter, it was one of my favourite instruments to use as my punishment for failing; it was my penance for surviving and failing my family.

  I heard a deep, shuddering sigh, and I realised it was me. The floor of my motorhome was an uncomfortable place to bleed out. My thin tee-shirt was useless against the chilled surface burrowing into my back and shoulders as I leaned against the cold wall.

  The sweat-stained sweatpants jumbled around my ankles were partly to blame for my goose-fleshed skin. Erratic breath from behind gritted teeth left puffs of white smoke hanging in the cold air.

  I closed my eyes, embracing the agony of having sharp, intrusive fangs digging into the meaty flesh of my left thigh. The pins of my custom-made cilice dug in like malevolent weevils boring into decaying bone.

  I gritted my teeth, pressing the band deeper. I had a high pain threshold, but this action was testing me. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, dripping into my eyes. The stinging sensation was welcome, another string to my bow of pain. Triumph flooded my body as I gazed down at the scarred and torn flesh.

  “I can forget, but I exist. Fuck you. Fuck you all.”

  Among the hazy agony, I imagined how Jesus had felt, tacked up there on that cross, a crown of thorns around his head. Brothers in arms, we might have been. Except I wasn’t a myth. I was real, and I bled.

  I shook my head, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back against the thin walls of my home. Thank fuck I’m not performing for a few days. This wound isn’t going gracefully into the good night.

  Seeing the newspaper article earlier that week had messed with my head. I stared over at the innocuous Daily Kingston newspaper, which now lay crumpled up on the narrow kitchen surface that ran along the wall of my kitchen.

  This two-day-old paper held the name of a man I’d long believed was dead; a man responsible for the fuck-up that was my life. The knowledge that someone I’d hated for so long wasn’t in the pit of hell had caused me to vomit my meagre breakfast into the frosty grass of the field where the circus was camped. Guilt and torment had come belching up like a poisonous gas and burnt my throat, searing my soul with its acid; bleeding into my brain until I could think no more.

  The circle of blood and ragged flesh around my thigh, matted with old cutting scars and new bits of skin, was ugly, bloody, and monstrous. The real monster was still alive. A jury of twelve innocent words brought my house of cards tumbling down to lie in the bloodied dirt.

  Father Price Littlejohn cutting the ribbon at new animal shelter last Saturday.

  The picture below the newspaper tagline showed the smiling face of someone I’d never forget. Like a dark, putrid smell, this man had lived out his life while I’d tried so hard to forget mine.

  He’s alive. How can that be?

  How many others had suffered torment, had their lives ruined while I was hiding out here in my solitude in the Kingdom of Not Giving a Fuck? On my eleventh birthday, twenty-two years ago, I’d rejoiced with a stolen bottle of brandy and extra cuts to my arms when I’d believed he’d died. It hadn’t brought my family back, but to my tormented heart, it was over.

  It appeared my celebration had been premature.

  I looked down at the welling drops of blood on my leg and snarled, baring my teeth. “You know what? It’s not my fucking problem. I survived—others could too if they wanted. What doesn’t kill you strengthens you, right?” I hit my thigh, driving the cilice deeper, and then swore at the agony it unleashed.

  “I hate this fucking county. It’s too close to my past.” As a child I’d lived in Kingston, on the outskirts of London. I didn’t want the memories the place offered me, and I was only too glad to be moving on soon.

  As hot tears ran down my face, I undid the cilice. My hands trembled, bloody fingers making smears against my pale skin. When it was free, I snapped the band around my other scarred thigh and I pressed it in. As my chest heaved with the shock of it, endorphins flooded my body. The release that followed was merciful, and I whimpered in the stark confines of my caravan. The agony took me away as everything went dark as blessed peace spiralled me into blackness.

  *****

  “Cary? Wake the fuck up, my friend. Time to get the Top up. Reveille-toi!”

  The French accent permeated the fog of my half-sleeping mind. I opened my eyes, sticky with sleep, turning to peer at the small alarm clock on my old bedside table. The pain in my thighs struck like flesh caught in a bear trap. I gritted my teeth and took a deep, shuddering breath, biting down on my lip. Screaming out loud in agony would not help keep my secret.

  Sitting up, I swung my feet off the bed and onto the floor. Dizziness swamped me with the sudden pressure to my mutilated legs. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  “Cary, are you awake, mon cher?”

  The same exasperated voice drew closer. There was a thump on my door. I started, making sure the covers hid my legs. Our circus purser and acclaimed trapezist, Julien Aubert, did not respect privacy and would interrupt anyone, even in flagrante delicto, if he believed it served his needs.

  I opened my mouth to tell him I was already up, but it seemed my personal wake-up call had already moved on. There was a thump to the caravan next door as Julien’s strident voice shouted a rousing call to arms to my neighbour, Madame Lucille.

  When Lucille shouted back, “Fuck off, you little French git. I’m up already, can’t a woman get dressed in peace?” I grinned, despite my pain. Madame Lucille wasn’t the type to mince words.

  Wincing, I held one hand flat against the wall to support me as I stood up. My torn thighs protested. Fuck, it would be hell helping them set up today. The twinges of guilt grew as I moved around my comfortable motorhome, or trailer as the circus folk commonly called it. I had to try to help to get the Big Top up even feeling as I did. If the circus owner, the fiery Greta Francisco-Zella—my pseudo-mother—ever found out what I was doing to myself, she’d kill me before I did myself in.

  More than once I’d felt the wrath of her temper when I didn’t take care of myself, which was often. I forgot to eat, not seeing the point; drinking was an animal instinct, and I did it as needed. As for rest… Rest was for the innocent and the dead. I was neither.

  I threw the blood-spattered bed covers onto the floor. They’d need washing today. I looked in the mirror and grimaced. My face had always been angular but now it was sharp and thin, my cheekbones standing out. A chalk-white face with dark shadows under blue, puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back at me. I had a bed head look a yak wouldn’t envy, my black shoulder-length hair splayed out at all angles, looking limp and greasy.

  Face it, I’m a fucking mess.

  I walked into the compact bathroom and turned on the shower. It took a while to warm up and when it was ready, I stepped in. The heated water hit my wounds and I hissed, tears of pain springing to my eyes. As I grit my teeth, my usual cleansing routine took over. Wash and rinse. Repeat. I must have looked like one of those mechanical dolls from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Staying clean was a function, something I did to follow social norms.

  As I w
ashed my balls and cock, I looked down. My dick lay down my leg, not particularly interested in the proceedings. I needed to manscape; my stubble was itchy.

  I talked to my groin as I washed my hair. “You’re happy seeing no action, aren’t you? I can’t get you up anyway even when I want to.”

  I’d been sixteen before I’d first developed any interest in sex. And my first attempt at trying to frot with a guy at seventeen had been a disaster. When he’d tried to fuck me on our second 'date', I’d freaked out, had a panic attack and pushed him away, then ran from the seedy hotel room so fast I could have been The Flash.

  The last time I’d tried to have sex with someone had been a year ago. He’d understood when I couldn’t get hard and was sympathetic. I’d pushed him out of the motel room, snarled at him to lose my number, and sent him packing. Nowadays, if I could work myself up into any state of excitement, I got myself off.

  And what does that say about you? Freak. Loser.

  I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a threadbare towel around my waist, and tended to my legs.

  First, my ointment.

  Shit. I should have done this last night.

  One of the best tools of the self-harmer’s trade was a special ointment called Sana. It was a concoction made by a pharmacist affiliated with two self-harm sites I frequented. I didn't know the ingredients, but it worked miracles.

  The anonymous pharmacist had always said if they couldn’t stop people self-harming, the least they could do was help people heal and stop infections. It was ironic, healing people so they could harm themselves again. Infections were a risk when you did what I did, so I was fanatical about my after-session clean-up.

  I wrapped a bandage around the scarred and defiled tissue, so my injuries didn’t leak, then chased down three painkillers with cold tea. I’d barely dragged on clean, loose jogging bottoms and a cut-off tank top when the door burst open and two hundred pounds of Latina barrelled into my domain.

  The indomitable Greta had arrived at Chez Cary.