Living On Air Page 3

  “You have a lift to the airport later?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, someone back at camp has a hire car, and he’s giving me a lift. He goes back tomorrow but he’s spending the night at the airport. I’m not complaining. It saves me from more of your bloody reckless driving.”

  We smiled at each other. I had a ton of flying ahead, going from Durban to Johannesburg, then on to Scotland. I was looking forward to getting home, but I’d miss the friends I’d made here over the last month while travelling with a group of photographers. We’d all come over as part of a picture-for-pay consortium for a well-known nature magazine in the U.S. I had plenty of shots, and with luck, they’d buy them. If not…I gave a mental shrug. I didn’t need the money. I did it for the kicks, for the love of getting the perfect shot.

  Later that night, after drinking far too much homemade beer with Eziweni and the rest of the photogs, I stared out of the airplane window seat at the clouds below.

  I was going home. A place I never stayed long at since I jetted around the world as much as I could. The past few years I’d been away so much, I’d not gotten a dog or a cat. But I loved my lifestyle; even the bad places.

  I’d been to the ruins of Rwanda to photograph mass gravesites that made a man vomit and wonder how human beings could be so cruel. I’d been in Bosnia last year taking pictures of the grim-faced soldiers, bodies tired and despaired, but still determined to fight. As a fledgling photographer, I’d taken pictures of the sickening atrocities in Mumbai in 2008.

  I still had nightmares about them all when I got too stressed. It was why I’d stopped doing war photography, before I burnt out and made myself truly crazy. Scenery was so much more rewarding, even if it paid less.

  Capturing the beauty of Mother Earth, seeing the glory in everyday life of everyday people, were the snaps I loved the most. There was nothing more satisfying than capturing the majesty and magnificence of the world.

  My former lover Laird would have adored this. Travelling around from place to place, seeing the sights. As a psychiatrist, he would’ve had plenty of customers dealing with all the fucked-up individuals I’d met during my time doing war photography.

  The old familiar sense of loss washed over me when I thought of him. He’d been dead for four years now—bloody fucking cancer—and I still missed him. He was the one who’d insisted I leave the miserable and hectic world of stock brokering and go into photography, one of my hobbies and passions.

  A memory of him sitting in bed, hair mussed from our lovemaking, his beautiful dark eyes flashing as he waved his hands, clenched my heart and opened the floodgates.

  “Rhys, look at you. You’re a mess. You need to get out of this business before it kills you. I see people like you every day, stressed, suicidal even. I care about you too much to see that happen.”

  I’d nodded and smiled and ran my hands through his soft, messy hair, so like mine in colour, and yet we were worlds apart in personality. I was the risk-taking, capricious high flyer, who took each day as it came, never planning anything. Laird was the careful, steady sort, making lists of everything he needed to do.

  “It’s my job as a psychotherapist,” he’d said. “I write everything down because if I don’t, I could miss something important that impacts someone’s life.”

  I’d kissed the serious look from his face whenever he’d said that, and more times than not, we’d end up in a quick rough-and-tumble wherever we were.

  We hadn’t been exclusive, and had only seen each other when we could, but we’d grown attached. It might have progressed to something else had cancer not taken him from this world far too early.

  Christ, I missed him. The wound had healed but it still hurt.

  I sighed at the memories, rubbing my chin and grimacing at the length of the hair there. The man next to me chuckled. “Is it that bad? You sound as if the world has ended.”

  I turned to look into dark brown eyes, a cheeky grin, and a face topped with a shock of black hair. I’d noticed him when he’d sat down, but he’d been sleeping with the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Now that he’d pushed the hood back, inviting eyes stared at me. My neglected dick gave an appreciative stir.

  “Nah. Feeling the effects of a little too much overindulgence and needing to work it off,” I murmured. My eyes travelled to my air companion’s lips—lips a little on the thin side, but tasty anyway.

  “Oh, believe me, I know that feeling. I need a little working off myself.” He licked his lips and my cock hardened at the thought of them wrapped around it.

  “Yeah?” How intriguing this guy was confident enough to flirt. I was a big guy, and dressed in my grungy yet comfortable travelling clothes, I didn’t think I was an attractive prospect in the ritual gay mating game. “How do you suggest we do that? Work it off?”

  My seat passenger—jailbait, he couldn’t have been more than about twenty-two or three—reached out and touched my knee. I drew in a sharp breath at his warm touch. I hadn’t had a sexual connection with another man in over two weeks, and I felt the deprivation.

  “If you need to blow off steam, then maybe we should go somewhere more private?” He smirked. “Ever heard of the Mile-High Club?”

  I nodded. “I might have.” I cocked my head toward the aisle. “Going to follow me there then?”

  The stranger nodded and brushed a hand over my swelling cock. “Oh, baby, I’ll follow you anywhere. You are so fucking hot. I love guys with beards. I’d blow you here, but I’m guessing you’re not into exhibitionism.” He smiled. “I have a blanket…”

  I stood up into the aisle. “I think I’ll take my pleasures elsewhere, and a little more private.” I hoped like hell this guy wasn’t messing with me. All I needed now was to look like a lonely fool in the tiny toilet cubicle.

  My new admirer waved a hand. “Shoo then. I’ll see you there in a minute.”

  I left my seat. A heady sense of guilt and anticipation made me feel as if every eye on the plane was staring at me—a fool about to get blown. I reached the cubicle, unlatched it and went inside, closing it behind me.

  Christ, there’s no damn room, it's like being a sardine in a can. I hope we fit.

  I cleared my dry throat.

  What if we get caught? What if the guy is fucking with me? I waited, debating whether to go back to my seat, when the door opened, and a warm, hard body slipped inside, pressing itself against me. I oomph’d, my back pressing against the minuscule sink.

  “Did you miss me?” He grinned. “I needed to wait a little for appearances, but honest, I don’t give a fuck if anyone knows what’s going on.” His hands fumbled at my jeans, unzipping me as a hot tongue licked the side of my neck. “Oh, you are so fucking sexy, big boy. I’m so going to enjoy having this in my mouth. You can call me Cliff when you come.”

  He flipped a condom out of his pocket, opened it with a wrench of his teeth, then rolled it down over me. He slid to his knees, the ease with which he did it giving credence to the fact this wasn’t his first blowjob above the clouds. And when that hot, wet, hungry mouth closed around my aching cock, I closed my eyes, and let myself drift home.

  ****

  I was glad when I got to my building and entered the lift to my top-floor flat, set in the bustling city of Edinburgh. I loved being back. As welcome as Cliff’s attention had been, nothing could beat the quiet of home, a stiff whisky, and my comfortable armchair.

  Dropping my bags onto the cool tiles of the entrance hall, I slung my suit jacket over an armchair and made straight for the mini bar. Braving the chill, I opened the sliding doors to let the night’s icy air in to freshen up the place. I’d been away almost two months and even though my next-door neighbour kept a watchful eye on things, the place smelt a little musty Luckily for any temporary caretaker, I had no plants to water and little food in my cupboards or fridge to go rotten.

  It was close to ten o’clock and the twinkling lights of the city were a welcome sight. I leaned against my balcony, enjoying the whi
sky. It was a hefty dose, and I intended to enjoy every drop.

  My father had given me this bottle when I’d visited my parents’ rambling yet comfortable home in Inverness. A sprawling, ramshackle, in-need-of-repair farmhouse set in the Highlands, with views over the loch and a menagerie of what I considered small animals, including my younger brother Joseph, a ferret, a cockerel, and a huge Large Black pig called Bunter. Bunter was my mother’s pride and joy, winning many national shows and touted as one of “Scotland’s Most Desirable Hogs.”

  I wasn’t fond of Bunter at all. He was a miserable and tetchy damn animal and had nipped me and Joe more times than I cared to remember. Yet Bunter adored my mother. He turned to mush when she was around. I swear if a pig could cast adoring glances, Bunter did.

  I was contemplating having another scotch before I turned in when my mobile rang. I glanced at my watch. It had just gone eleven-thirty. Who the hell is calling at this hour?

  I knew who. It could only be my best friend, likely a little drunk.

  Swearing, I tugged my phone out of my jacket pocket. Pieces of lint, an old piece of chewing gum, and my crumpled-up boarding pass came with it. I rolled my eyes when I saw the caller.

  “Stuart? Everything okay?” The noise and laughing in the background meant he was in a pub somewhere.

  He laughed. “Nothing’s wrong. Can’t a man phone his best mate without him getting worried? You know I love speaking to you, my wee mannie.”

  I winced. He was a loud man even when he wasn’t drunk, which he sounded now. Stuart didn’t do the whole Scottish slang thing unless he was pissed as hell.

  “Tying one on, are we?” I grinned, phone against my ear while sipping the last drops from my empty scotch glass. Hearing Stuart always made me feel better about everything. Thirty-four, he was five years older than me, looked like a model, with his blond hair and perfect teeth, yet had a voice like a foghorn. He’d pulled me back from a few brinks in his time.

  “Och, I’m with Daniel—you remember him from that stag do we went to? And Archie’s here too. We’re celebrating Dannie’s new bairn.” His voice grew injured. “Would have liked you here too with us except you had to jet-set across the bloody sea to some foreign country. You been back long then, laddie?”

  I glanced at my watch again and smiled. “About an hour and a half.” I wandered over to the bar to pour myself another scotch.

  Stu snorted like an enraged bull. “Well, I hope you’re going to bloody stick around this time. Every time we speak, you’re off to God knows where doing God knows what. Am I going to see you soon?”

  I took a large gulp of my drink and walked back onto the balcony. “I’m back for now. I’m waiting to confirm a few assignments then I’ll decide what I fancy doing next.”

  Stuart cackled in my ear. “Lucky brat. We don’t all have a fuck-load of money in the bank like you to enable us to live the high life of the rich and famous and pick our next la-di-da trip to exotic places.”

  To someone over hearing his little speech, those words would have seemed rude, even insulting, but I’d known Stuart Baker since I was seventeen, and I knew there was no malice intended. The fact I’d made a lot of money in investments years ago, and been the rising star in the Edinburgh investment market, meant I never had to worry about money again.

  Hence the forays abroad to indulge in my then part-time passion: photography. It had been my full-time life now for years. Stuart had been instrumental in getting me into the business, having done it for much longer.

  I’d worked with Stuart abroad when he was a war photog. I was as good at it as I’d been as an investment broker. Better even. Taking photos didn’t require bullshit and a healthy disregard for the finer points of the business and legalities.

  Plus, it was what Laird had wanted for me.

  My life now was aeons better than the one I’d had in the investment business, working twenty-four-seven, snorting coke to keep me going, drinking to excess and screwing any guy who had taken my fancy. I’d survived my wild party days—others hadn’t. I had fewer friends now than I’d had then, lost to suicide and substance abuse.

  “So, how’s the rag trade?”

  Stuart shared a rather foul expletive. “Hey, just because I’m not some rich hoity-toity dick slut with no proper job, don’t make bloody fun of mine.” Stuart was now the editor and chief reporter for his own magazine called Life in Our Eyes. He’d given up the dangerous world of war photography and started something less risky a few years back.

  “Dick slut?” I pursed my lips and stared across at the impressive castle on the hill. “Wow, you are bringing out the big guns. Apt, yes, but an insult all the same. Better than being a rabid pussy hound like you.”

  Stuart’s loud guffaw echoed down the phone. “Touché, mate. I guess we both have our little ways. When’s the last time you got laid? I’m looking at mine right now. A buxom lass with a winning smile and a come-hither look in her eyes.”

  I shook my head. “You are incorrigible.” Stuart would have no problem pulling tonight. The ladies loved him. “I got a blowjob on the plane and before that, there were slim pickings in South Africa. Not a lot goes on where I was. I’m looking forward to remedying that soon though.”

  There was a nightclub nearby where, in the past, I’d scored picking guys up to bring home. Maybe this weekend I’d get lucky.

  “Anyway, why are you calling me at arse o’clock? Was it to talk about my sex life or lack of it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The noise in the background grew fainter, and I guessed Stuart had moved somewhere more private where he could talk. “I was talking to this guy I knew here earlier, and he came up with an idea I think might be right up your street. I wanted to tell you before I forgot.”

  “Oh?” I drained my drink and walked back inside. It was getting nippy. “What street would that be?” I shut the sliding door and put my glass down on the side table as I settled into my couch. I was bone tired now and wanted my bed. Showering and shaving could wait until morning.

  “He’s from some fancy publishing house and when I told him you were a well-known and respected photographer, his eyes lit up. He’s had this idea of doing a fancy coffee table book about circuses and a ‘behind the scenes’ exposé.’” He sounded proud of me, and it warmed my chest, but I couldn’t help giving a loud snort.

  “I’m not sure publishing a book of photos and some captions about the gay sex club scene is what he had in mind as experience. And did you use those words ‘well-known and respected’? Wow, baby, I didn’t know you cared that much.”

  “Don’t be a fucking arsehole,” Stuart growled. “You know I admire you for becoming a photographic legend in only four years. You’re a classic high-functioning overachiever, and I love you for it.”

  I grinned down the phone. “I love you too. Tell me about this guy. What does he want?”

  Stuart warmed to his story. “Well, he thinks you should join a circus for, like a few months, travel with them, take pictures, and then at the end, he wants to publish a book about that journey. I think it’s a radical idea.”

  I was aghast. “What, he wants me to join a circus? A real one?”

  “Well, you idjit.” Stuart sounded exasperated. “How else are you going to do a story about the real world of living in one?”

  “Live in one of those tiny caravans with no running water, electricity, and pee into a bucket? With clowns everywhere?” I wrinkled my nose in distaste. “No offence, but is he off his fucking rocker? I can’t think of anything I’d rather not do except poke a gun barrel up my arse.”

  Stuart went quiet. I cringed, knowing he was pondering my last words, no doubt wondering how to take the mick out of me for it.

  True enough, his next words confirmed my suspicion. “So, is that a thing you guys do?”

  I made a loud, scary sound that had my friend beating a retreat. “Right,” he sputtered, but there was a tinge of amusement in his voice. Fucker had been baiting me. “So, have you read about the ci
rcus lifestyle? They don’t all live in bloody gypsy caravans and dance around fires, you ignorant twat. They have these motorhomes now, with flushing toilets and everything. And ladies in skimpy sparkly outfits, although I don’t guess that would do much for you. There are cute guys though, all dressed in tights showing off their junk.” His voice grew sly. “I’ve seen them advertised.” He yelled, “Hold on,” which I presumed was directed at his mates. “Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, did I mention the photos will also appear in a magazine this publishing house owns—a teensy-weensy little rag called International Photo Media?”

  My ears pricked up at that. International Photo Media, or IPM as we in the business called it, was a sought-after venue. They only took on the best of the best, and it was the one publication I hadn’t cracked yet, despite what Stuart called my “photographic legend” status. It would be a coup to have my pictures represented there, and it would do wonders for my future career.

  “No, you plonker, you didn’t mention that. Maybe you should have led with that pertinent fact and I might have been more amenable to following trapeze artists and assorted weirdos across the country.” I got comfier on the couch, lying down and closing my eyes. “Okay. Text me this geezer’s details and I can have a chat with him. No promises. And if they want me to bunk in with a clown, I’m done. There will be no book.”

  I’d had a thing about clowns ever since I was about seven years old and one had tried to hug me. The rank smell of him, coupled with the smears of greasy makeup he’d left on my face and collar, and his wide, blood-red smile, had made me squeamish.

  While it wasn’t quite a full-blown phobia, I wasn’t a fan. Getting up close and personal with one would not happen. Looking through my viewfinder and keeping them at bay—perhaps.

  “Excellent.” From his tone, Stuart was beaming the other side. “I’ll text them over and you and he can chat. I’ll tell him you’re interested and will be in touch. It’ll give him a right hard-on.”