House of Mirrors (6 page)

Now it was Jonah’s turn to groan. Rafe felt the vibration in his mouth, which was still mashed against the other man’s. Satisfaction shot through him as he stroked the solid length, and Jonah thrust. Knowing the pleasure Jonah was feeling was almost as good as feeling it himself.

Almost.

But now Jonah snaked his hand between them and fumbled with Rafe’s trouser buttons. There was no belt to impede him since Rafe wore braces and in a few seconds Jonah’s hand plunged beneath his drawers and freed his cock. Jonah wasn’t tentative in handling it. He pulled with long, even strokes, rubbed his thumb over the head in a gentle caress, and then tugged some more. Heat built between his hand and Rafe’s shaft.

Rafe forgot to give attention to Jonah’s erection, pausing with his hand wrapped loosely around it while he took pleasure from the other man’s pumping fist. Tension gathered in his groin and swelled through his cock. It’d been too long, more than a year since he’d know such pleasure from any hand other than his own. The traveling life afforded some opportunities to indulge in sex with nameless strangers, but Rafe had stopped looking for the secret signals men such as he gave one another. He’d been content with his monkish existence.

Not any longer. The energies he’d been storing burst through him now, caressed to life by the hypnotic stroking of that snake charmer, Jonah. Life pulsed through him, and before he was aware it was going to happen, erupted from the tip of his penis.

“Oh,” he gasped, taken by surprise by the abrupt orgasm. “Oh God.” He glanced down at his cock, at Jonah’s hand so tight and warm around it, at the white spunk spattered over the other man’s fist. Then he looked up at Jonah and grinned sheepishly, embarrassed at the speed with which he’d come.

“A short ride,” he quipped. “Let’s hope I can give you a longer one.”

With that, he redoubled his efforts on Jonah’s behalf. He stared at the lovely cock in his hand, the head disappearing with each pull upward, reappearing on the down stroke. Then he looked at Jonah’s face. It was just as he’d pictured in his fantasy: slack, relaxed, eyes nearly closed and lips parted, the violet bruises enhancing the vulnerable appearance of his face. His soft moans thrilled Rafe. He wanted to elicit more of them and had the power to do so in his hand.

And in his mouth. He considered dropping to his knees to take Jonah’s cock between his lips, swirl his tongue over the smooth head and taste the salty flavor. Just as he’d decided to suit action to thought, Jonah thrust into his fist once more and shuddered. Warm spunk shot onto Rafe’s waistcoat as the other man reached his conclusion.

Rafe pulled until Jonah’s cock was depleted, and even then, continued to cradle it in his hand. They stood in silence, both breathing hard, the distant sounds of voices talking and laughing coming through the closed window. Low, grumbling moans floated to them from Sir Lancelot. Rafe knew the old lion would be pacing his cage. The animal didn’t like it when the caravan stopped and was lulled to sleep by the rocking motion whenever they were on the road.

How long could they stand here holding each other’s dicks? Rafe glanced down at the white fluid decorating his green waistcoat and let go of Jonah at last to wipe it clean with a bandanna from his pocket.

Jonah did the same, cleaning up his hand with a white handkerchief spattered with dark stains of dried blood.

Rafe nodded at the handkerchief. “They got you pretty good. Was it because of something like this?” With a wave of his hand he indicated what had just transpired between them. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer. As I said, you can leave the past behind here.”

Rafe stepped away, tucking his cock in his trousers and buttoning them. He avoided looking at Jonah. With that sudden frenzy of lust over, there was nothing to do but carry on as if nothing had happened. Now that the edge was off his fervent need, regrets crept in. He shouldn’t get involved with an employee. What they’d done mustn’t happen again, let alone anything more involving mouths or bungholes. A one-off with a stranger along the road was one thing, but he couldn’t fuck a man who was working for him, someone he’d see every day, someone the rest of the group would soon figure out he was fucking.

He picked up a blank sheet that had fallen from the sheaf he used for posters, jostled loose from its place as they went along the road—rather like his brain. He tucked the poster paper away and busied himself with securing the stacks of paper rather than look over at Jonah.

“I’d better check how Dimitri is doing with the axle. We’ll be moving again soon. I suggest you gather your things and go find Crooked Pete. He’s the head of the roustabouts. I’m sure Sam pointed him out to you, but if he didn’t, the old man looks like his name. He’ll tell you where you should bunk and what your chores will be.”

“All right.” Jonah still sounded breathless, but Rafe didn’t look back to see how he reacted to the brusque order. He didn’t want to see disappointment or hurt on the young man’s open face. It might make him change his mind.

Chapter Six

Rafe hovered over Dimitri, but his attention was on his own wagon. He watched Talbot emerge, carrying his little bundle, and go look for Crooked Pete. Good. No more temptation lying on the floor beside him tonight. His thoughts turned to the few minutes they’d groped each other in his wagon, and he shivered at the memory. Jonah’s obvious experience had taken him by surprise. The way he touched and kissed demonstrated a fluency in a language Rafe barely knew. Such a contrast to the man’s innocent face and demeanor—a mirror shifted, and a different aspect was revealed. Hell, maybe country boys got up to all sorts of grappling with one another in haymows.

But Rafe didn’t want to think of sex anymore. He shut down that part of his mind and focused on getting the crew moving, since Dimitri had announced the axle was “patched for now.” The caravan got back on the road not fifteen minutes later as Dimitri had promised, but almost a full forty-five.

They didn’t reach Bartonville until after dusk. Rafe made sure their advanceman, Jack Treanor, had paid the men in charge the proper bribes before the carnival began setup.

Men trailed after him as he raced through the site, finding the perfect location for the gumshoe—a sturdy, round block of wood that would be the main support for the big top. He strode on, waving at the spots for the smaller tents and pointing to where the wagons should be placed. Once the poles and lacing were laid out, everyone took his position by the canvas, ready to haul. The horses snorted and shook their manes as they waited. He couldn’t resist the dramatic pause—he was a showman, after all—before he blew the whistle and the steady, slow pull on the ropes, the shouts, and the chantey began.

All right;
this
was the part he loved best. It was grueling work, and the carnival wasn’t fully erected until late at night, everyone working in the light of kerosene lanterns to finish up. Rafe caught glimpses of Jonah now and then, once with a bucket of sloshing water suspended from each straining arm, another time helping Dimitri lay the iron boundaries of the ring Rafe had just carefully measured out in the main top.

When Rafe finally retired, exhausted from overseeing every aspect of the setup, his trailer had never seemed so quiet. Usually he found the silence a blessing after the constant noise and confusion of the carnival, but tonight it just seemed empty, not peaceful at all. And his body ached, not from the physical labor he’d engaged in—for he always worked right alongside his rousties—but in deeper places than mere muscles.

He wanted. He needed. Knowing the object of his want and need was so close yet inaccessible drove him crazy. Crazy he didn’t need. Rafe shoved sexual desire away from him like a man rejecting an ill-fitting suit of clothes and forced himself to sleep.

* * *

The week went smoothly, though every day had its challenges. Four days after picking up Talbot, the show’s morning dawned, stretched, yawned, and started out with a fight that Rafe had to break up. The “Signortoris” again. Although Henry and Ellen Fisher were actually from Bangor, Maine, they’d somehow taken on the personas of the fiery-tempered Italians they’d played in their act for so long. When they yelled at each other, Ellen even used her adopted accent. She was screaming now, accusing Henry of cheating on her, of being a no-good drunk, and of trying to kill her during their knife-throwing act. Rafe knew two out of three of those things were true.

Their three kids seemed inured to their parents’ quarrels—perhaps the drama of the carnival made them think this too was make-believe. Rafe only hoped they were as indifferent to the yelling as they seemed. He liked the occasionally insolent but always hardworking Fisher kids. When it came to learning routines for their acts, they were serious and as professional as any artiste he’d seen.The oldest, who was sixteen, rolled his eyes, grabbed his twelve-year-old sister’s hand, and walked away.

By the time Rafe had soothed the Fishers, listened to Miss Jamie’s petition for new costumes for the dogs and ponies in her act, and dealt with Sam’s complaint that he didn’t feel well enough to be “Kaspar the Giant” today—Rafe reminded him that all he had to do was sit in a tent and be gawked at, which didn’t take much effort—it was late morning and time to open the gates to customers.

Jack Treanor had done a good job of announcing their arrival. Posters were plastered on shop windows in town and on signposts and trees beside rural roads. Word of mouth spread quickly in this countryside, where a carnival coming to the area was akin to a Shakespearean festival. The hayseeds were thrilled to have any entertainment in their humdrum lives.

Rafe stayed busy putting out fires, since luck was apparently against him today and nothing would run smoothly. One of the miniature ponies got feisty and nipped at a little girl who was taking a ride. Miss Jamie usually handled such situations with aplomb, but the young woman was not herself lately, and Rafe ended up having to mollify the girl’s family. His presentation of a candy apple to the little girl stopped her bawling, and the full force of his charm was enough to calm the upset mama.

Then Sam proved to be as sick as he claimed to be, vomiting right in front of the customers who’d come into the freak tent to see the tallest man on earth. Guilt-stricken, Rafe sent Sam to his quarters and Mindy to look after him, which left him more shorthanded than he already had been. The carnival was small enough that everyone had many roles to play, and he allowed no complaining from the “talent” when they had to do other labor.

Rafe ended up calling for the freaks himself, enticing people to come inside and see the marvelous vagaries of nature for a nickel. Other than Claudia, the fat lady, and Sam, there was a two-headed chicken and other anomalies pickled in brine. It wasn’t much of a freak show. The midget, Alan Henderson, had walked off the job last month to join a much larger outfit, the Orcully Brothers. That was a huge loss. Perhaps it was time to invent a gill-man or a he-she—half man, half woman by costume only, not a true hermaphrodite. Both required only the application of a little stage craft. Meanwhile, Rafe talked up the mysteries to be seen inside the tent until he was hoarse, and the customers who came out of the tent seemed satisfied despite the lack of a giant.

It was late afternoon when Rafe caught sight of Jonah hurrying past on some errand. Rafe beckoned him over. “I need a break. You take over here.”

“What? I’m no barker. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“The term we use is ‘talker.’ You know how to talk, right? Just open your mouth and say anything—loudly. Entice people inside. Promise marvels such as they’ve never seen before. You’ve heard the patter.”

He didn’t give Jonah time to argue or to look at him. Those soulful green eyes tied his stomach in knots. They’d make him do something else stupid if he allowed them to, and he couldn’t afford for his dick to take over his brains right now.

Rafe jumped off the platform and walked away as if he had no doubt Jonah would obey him, but hid by the nearest booth and watched. Instinct told him that Jonah, despite his diffident manner, had the heart of a showman. The man loved Shakespeare. He probably harbored a desire to be an actor; Rafe had been around the show long enough to spot the ones who loved performance. Talbot’s speaking voice was a pleasure to listen to, soothing and warm—enticing, which was just what the job called for. He’d have to make sure the volume was there, of course.

Rafe listened. Yes, there it was, a few tentative words about the jaw-dropping beauty and terror to be found within this fascinating little world of wonder. Fairly good stuff. More alliteration would fit the ticket. And certainly Jonah could use more assurance, conviction that he believed every word he shouted. But that would come—if he stayed on. Rafe knew better than to count on that happening. The road life wasn’t for everyone. Likely once he’d gotten far enough away from whatever devils chased him, Jonah would leave. Rafe only hoped he’d spare the time for an honest good-bye instead of slipping off in the middle of some night—rather as he’d done himself when he’d left England.

Chapter Seven

Jonah stood on the box, overlooking the crowd, and issued familiar instructions to himself.
Speak from the diaphragm. Look your audience in the eye. Don’t forget to include gestures with your hands and arms, but do not allow them to be comical. You are not in a music hall. Keep your back straight and shoulders down. No one wants to see a hunched member of the clergy. Don’t be stiff, and allow your voice to proclaim the word of
… Well, no, that part he’d dismiss. This was
not
the word of God.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the touch of God’s presence in his heart to believe he could speak of such things. His father would say that God could not enter a place like a carnival. The noise, the riffraff crowds, the ungodly performers, the essence of lies, would be more likely to attract the devil. Drive out the devil.

Jonah sucked a long new breath, pushed out the old, and returned his mind to the secular. Breathe out the pain. Drive out the devil.