“Do you always feel like that after a fire fight?”
“Depends,” Nat said.
Connor raised an eyebrow. “On?”
“On who makes it home. Can’t say I get a kick out of loading body bags into the heli.”
“But you do get a kick out of risking your life.”
It wasn’t a question, so Nat refrained from admitting that some days he did perversely enjoy active combat. Instead he let the relative peace of the base seep into him, soothing the aching muscles and scratchy eyes his fading adrenaline was leaving behind, well on his way to falling asleep where he stood.
A smooth fingertip tracing a jagged scrape on his forearm brought him back. He didn’t like Connor’s pensive gaze much.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Me?” Connor blinked, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Oh, you know me. Trying to piece it together. Figure out what it all means.”
“All what?”
“This, you . . .” Connor gestured around them. “This is no life, Nat. It can’t be. No one living this way—eat, sleep, fight, repeat—can be happy.”
Nat had never felt another man’s sadness quite like he felt Connor’s then. The urge to take Connor in his arms and comfort him, hold him tight until the disquiet in his eyes went away, was strong—so strong Nat’s chest ached—but apathetic flippancy won out, like it always did. “How do you know we ain’t perfectly content, eh? Fecking mind reader, are ya?”
Connor pulled his hand from Nat’s arm, leaving Nat mourning the loss of its heat. “No. I just know a man who claims to feel nothing can’t be anything but miserable.”
“Connor, you awake?”
Silence.
“Connor?”
Silence.
“I’ve got bacon butties.”
Connor sat up. Nat grinned and kicked his legs. “Come on. I’ve got something for you.”
“Thought you’d brought me breakfast.”
“At 1600? Fat chance. Get up. It’s downstairs.”
Nat turned on his heel, confident that Connor’s insatiable curiosity would outgun his irritation with being awoken on a false promise.
True to form, Connor fell into step beside him on the stairs, clutching the notebook that seemed surgically attached to him.
“You won’t need that today,” Nat said.
“You said that yesterday.”
“Did I? Don’t remember that.”
Connor scowled. “Arsehole.”
Nat let him have that. The last ten days had been a little hectic—hectic and dangerous—and he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about relegating Connor to the palace. Despite not having a moment alone together in more than a week, keeping Connor safe had climbed steadily up his list of priorities with every day that passed. “You haven’t missed much, if it’s any consolation.”
“It isn’t, and you’re a crap liar, Nat. I know you’ve been storming that MSR every waking hour, blowing up every launch site and rabbit hole you come across.”
Nat snorted. “How do you know that?”
“Wedge told me, just before Bobs did. You’re the only fucker who doesn’t talk to me.”
I talk to you, even when you’re not there. Nat caught sight of the stack of boxes he was looking for, even as a flashback of the morning they’d returned from the first airport run flooded his mind. How he’d stood on that damn balcony with his tongue tied and a mind full of things he should’ve said. Wished he’d said.
“Are you going to show me what’s in these boxes, or what?”
Nat snapped back to reality. “Don’t know if I should if you’ve got a strop on.”
“Fuck off and open the box.”
Nat opened the box. Tired, grumpy Connor Regan was fucking hot and damn compelling. “Islamic colouring books, with matching wax crayons. Figured we could go back to the market and give them out with the bottled water that came in today.”
“Islamic colouring books?” Connor’s expression brightened enough to do strange things to Nat’s heart. “Where did you source those?”
“I know a woman at UNICEF. They’ve got a base at the airport.”
“A woman, eh? Is she pretty?”
Nat chuckled. “Can’t say I’ve noticed. Anyway . . .what do you say? Wanna come and give these out with me?”
“Hell, yeah.” Connor retrieved one of the books and flipped through it. “Be straight with me, though. What’s your motive? Are you canvassing the place again? Using me for cover?”
“I’d give them out whether you were there or not. The locals need the water, and the kids deserve a little kindness, but, yeah, having you with your press hat on will probably help. Me and the hairies stomping around with machine guns ain’t exactly child-friendly.”
“And what are you hoping the kids will tell you, if they come to us, that is?”
Nat met Connor’s steady gaze head-on. Connor had proved himself no fool, and he’d seen and heard enough to have a pretty good idea of the intelligence Nat needed. “We need to find out where those weapons are coming from, and who they’re being delivered to. Who’s coordinating it, and how.”
“Behrouz? Have you heard anything while you’ve been out?”
“Whispers. Nothing concrete.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Nat thought back to the last few days. Pictured the few insurgents they’d managed to take alive and transport to the prisoner holding facility at Camp Bucca. Some of them had been barely out of their teens. “Nope.”
“When do you want to go? Today?”
Nat took in the fatigue on Connor’s face. He was used to active deployments draining the life from him, but seeing the inevitable exhaustion mirrored in Connor felt so much worse. He shelved his plans to hustle him downstairs and head straight off base to revisit the market square. The aid drop was overdue to the point where one more day couldn’t make much difference. “Nah. Rest up. We’ll head out in the morning.”
There wasn’t much else to say. Connor wandered off, leaving Nat to report to the OC and make plans for the next day’s excursion. With that done and the required kit and personnel in place, he was at a loose end.
He went upstairs and found Wedge and Bobs divvying up a pile of gear they’d pinched from the RMPs stationed at the airport. Craving solitude, or at least some peace and quiet, he swiped Connor’s laptop and clambered onto the roof.
A little while later, he shut Connor’s laptop and lay back on the sleeping bag he’d brought up a couple of nights ago. He shuddered and closed his eyes as his mind swam. Seeing life with Charlie-3 through Connor’s eyes was something else. Christ, the bloke could write. Colourful, emotive, and as painstakingly accurate as the restrictions imposed on him allowed, the account of the IED explosions was like living through it all over again. Connor’s narrative voice felt familiar, the syntax, the rhythm. The story was new, but even the parts that made his heartbeat quicken seemed like an old friend. “These blokes really know their onions . . .” Nat allowed himself a wistful smile. It had been a long time since he’d last heard that phrase.
“Thought you SAS blokes had superfly hearing?”
Nat opened his eyes to see Connor slither clumsily over the ledge. “Superfly? Who says shit like that? And what the hell are you doing?”
Connor rolled the rest of the way onto the roof and wound up at Nat’s feet. “Not all of us were mountain cats in our past lives, you know.”
“Calling me a pussy?”
Connor grunted and crawled on his stomach until he was beside Nat, mirroring his pose and staring up at the sky. He didn’t offer any further answer, so Nat let the silence hang awhile. Anyone else interrupting his downtime would’ve irritated the hell out of him, but Connor’s quiet company was a much-needed balm for his tired bones.
“You look knackered,” Connor said suddenly, like he’d heard Nat’s thoughts. “The others are all fast asleep. Why aren’t you?”
“You and your fucking questi
ons.”
“You and your fucking deflections.”
Nat let him have that. He stretched his arms over his head and rotated his shoulder, which, despite Marc’s attention a few days ago, had started to ache. “Might sleep up here. Wedge’s snoring is getting on my tits.”
Connor laughed. “Yeah, it’s something else, eh? Though, for me, all of it is. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time with so many people.”
“Bet you’re dying to go home, aren’t you?”
“Not really.” Connor tore his gaze from the sky and shot Nat a sideways look that made his skin tingle. “I’ve hardly thought about it. Why? Fed up of me?”
If only. The thought of Connor leaving felt like a lead-laden shadow descending over every fibre of Nat’s being. He gave himself an internal shake. He’d only known Connor a few weeks. How the fuck was it that he couldn’t imagine life at the palace without him? “No. I just reckon there’s a lot more for you to see.”
“You gonna show me?”
Nat turned to face Connor, placing himself almost nose to nose. “I’ll try.”
“I know. I just can’t imagine when it stops. You all must have been through so much before you even came here. It’s scary, really.”
“Don’t let our ghosts scare you. Most of them aren’t worth it.”
“Every ghost means something, Nat.”
Nat said nothing. Below them, the relentless activity of the base went on. Nat listened to the men call out and the vehicles come and go. Though he often craved quiet, tonight the noise was comforting . . . soothing, and together with Connor’s gently enthralling company, he felt more content than he had for a while.
He closed his eyes as Connor touched his face, a fingertip tracing his jaw at first, and then Connor’s smooth, warm palm cupped his chin, softly stroking his scruffy cheek with the pad of a thumb. Nat sucked in a shaky breath. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
“I reckon I do. It’s pretty amazing at this end.”
Nat didn’t argue, but as he drifted into a hazy place where he could feel little but Connor’s touch, he knew that Connor was wrong.
Then Connor kissed him and conscious thought abandoned Nat. Connor’s lips were soft at first, but then harder as Nat responded to his tentative kiss with a heat he could barely contain. He’d kissed men before, too many to count, but not like this . . . not with every sense and nerve, every part of his body straining to get closer to Connor.
It seemed like no time at all had passed before Nat found himself crawling over Connor and wrapping his arms around him so tight it felt like he’d never let go. Felt like he’d done nothing in his life that mattered more than holding Connor against him.
Deep down he knew it wasn’t true. Violence and death had become monotonous and grey, but beneath it all he remembered the colour and life of the village children in Sierra Leone, dancing in the dirt as he’d handed them sweets, and the resilience of the elderly women tending burned-out farms in Kosovo, showing British troops how to mend fences with fallen tree branches. Trouble was, those conflicts had held a purpose, an endgame, but this war? Fuck, he’d been fighting it so long and lost so much, the only end he could see with any clarity was his own.
“Nat.” Connor bit Nat’s neck, hard enough to meld pleasure with pain until it became almost too much to bear. “Nat.”
Nat growled and rolled over, taking Connor with him. The buzz of the base below faded away, leaving only the thundering beat of his heart and Connor’s harsh, panting breaths.
Too tight, too tight.
Nat loosened his grip on Connor and opened his eyes to find Connor staring at him, his gaze a mix of heat and concern.
“Okay?” Connor punctuated the whisper by pressing their foreheads together.
Nat shivered, exposed and laid bare, but for the first time in his life he didn’t give a shit. “I’m okay. It’s just being with you, like this, I can’t hide . . . from you, from anything.”
It made little sense to his own ears, but Connor’s soft, knowing smile said he understood. Connor kissed Nat again, and the air shifted. The balmy night closed in on them, and Nat gasped. He slid his hands under Connor’s thin T-shirt. Connor’s skin was as smooth and heated as he’d dreamed, his muscles knotted and hard, coiled like wire around his slim frame.
Connor fumbled with Nat’s fly, shoving his trousers down his hips until Nat’s cock sprang back and slapped his abdomen. Nat reached for Connor, but Connor batted his hands away. He said nothing, but his gaze was persuasive enough for Nat to let him have his way.
Nat lay back as Connor’s mouth closed around him. The sky was black, punctuated by just a handful of stars. They’d seemed dull when he’d first come up here—marred by clouds he couldn’t see—but Connor’s magic tongue and fuck his teeth . . . Jesus Christ, Connor’s touch chased the shadows away.
Orgasm crashed over Nat, fast and hard. He clenched his fists, ramming them into the warm stone beneath him, and shot in Connor’s mouth. His back arched, and he let out a strangled groan. He’d come like a motherfucker last time, but this . . . shit, this was something else, and for a long, wonderful, consuming moment, the weight of it dragged him under.
Too soon, his vision cleared. He tried to draw back, but Connor held him firm with surprising strength. Though, Nat didn’t know why he was surprised. Lean Connor might be, but Nat sensed a fortitude in him he’d yet to quite decipher. A resilience behind the subtle sadness that often clouded his gaze. Yeah, Connor Regan was strong, perhaps stronger than all of them.
“Come here, Nat.”
Nat focussed enough to find Connor had pulled his trousers up and moved away to sit against the wall. “What are you doing over there?”
“Waiting for you.” Connor held out his hand. “Come here.”
As if Nat could refuse. Common sense—and the rockets lighting the night sky—told him whatever was brewing between them was a bad idea—a bad idea with no future, except a shit-ton of heartache—but Connor’s eyes drew him in, like they always did. Life was too short to ignore a moment as perfect as this.
Ten
Despite Nat’s promises, it was a day or two before he found time to take Connor out on their humanitarian mission. Before then, despite clearance from the OC, there didn’t seem to be a moment when Charlie-3 wasn’t in demand, though once again, Nat didn’t seem keen on sharing what they’d been up to.
Just after dawn, they hitched a ride with a routine patrol and took Marc along for company, while the others took advantage of some downtime.
“Want to ride shotgun?” a friendly Marine asked.
“Seriously?” Connor eyed the passenger seat of the armoured Mastiff fighting vehicle. “Doesn’t your navigator need to sit up front?”
The Marine shrugged. “I am the navigator, but even if I wasn’t, we’re at the back of a convoy. Think I can manage a game of follow the leader.”
Connor should’ve felt like an idiot, but the excitement of getting off base for a while was too strong. It seemed like months had passed since that first, eventful patrol, and he hadn’t been anywhere more exciting than a brief excursion to a destroyed launch site since.
He climbed into the Mastiff and tried to contain his grin. Failed. Nat punched his arm as he slid into the seat behind. “Don’t fuck with anything and do as you’re told.”
A shiver ran through Connor. Nat’s touch had always had that effect on him, but recently, his voice had begun to rattle him too. “Yes, sir.”
Marc cleared his throat. “Are we going, or what? I want to get back for my lunchtime snooze.”
The Mastiff rumbled to life. Connor gazed around, taking in the hi-tech interior and huge gun, manned by a cheerful Marine who was whistling his way through Duran Duran’s back catalogue. The vehicle was cramped and smelly, as he’d become used to with any mode of military transport, but this time its odour was something Connor couldn’t place until he spotted the blood splatters on the dashboard.
His imagination
ran wild, flooding his mind with possible scenarios that could’ve painted the vehicle with blood, only to be replaced by the burning bodies left behind by the IEDs and, worse, James lying dead in the dirt, riddled with bullets. He swallowed and tried to focus on the grinning Marine beside him, Mr. Whistler above, and the low murmur of Nat and Marc talking behind him. Get a bloody grip.
Nat leaned over him and flipped a switch on the dashboard. Connor’s senses filled with sweat and diesel, and the cotton-type scent that was uniquely Nat’s. It was enough to pull him back. Nat returned to his seat, and Connor listened to him discuss various theories on the insurgents’ weapon supply, but instead of the curiosity that usually gripped him when Nat talked, the words washed over him, and he pictured Nat’s face when he’d come in Connor’s mouth three nights ago. Eyes screwed shut and teeth biting into his bottom lip, it was the hottest thing Connor had ever seen. Only thing hotter was the throaty groan Nat had let fly, the groan Connor heard every time he closed his eyes.
Damn it. Connor shifted in his seat. That night, with eyes only for Nat, he hadn’t considered getting himself off, but with no privacy to sort himself out later, he’d regretted it ever since. Sort of. Maybe. There’d been something magical about seeing—feeling Nat release so hard, then watching him fall asleep. Though Connor was sure Nat never truly found rest, he was different when he slept—softer, younger, perhaps as vulnerable as it was possible for a man like Nat to be. Connor hadn’t looked away for hours, not until Nat had awoken just before dawn and sent him back to his bed.
“Connor? You coming?”
“Hmm?” Whoops. Somehow he’d missed the entire journey from the palace to the rundown neighbourhood they’d visited before.
Nat shot Connor an odd glare. “Move yourself. We need to check out this mosque before we set up shop.”
By “check out,” Nat meant lead the patrol onto the right street so he could monitor the comings and goings and get an idea whether it was still being used for worship. Despite his distractingly dirty daydreams, Connor remembered that much.
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