“What do you need, Nat?”
The question was whispered, and Nat’s reply muttered so softly Connor hardly heard it. He grasped Nat’s face and forced him to meet his gaze, searching for any trace of doubt or uncertainty. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Say it like you mean it, and I’ll do anything you want.”
Nat didn’t blink. “Fuck me, Connor.”
It had been a long time since Nat had let a man fuck him. Over the years, he’d learned he had little preference, but Army life meant he’d rarely had the opportunity to bond with a man enough to want him that way.
He’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted Connor.
Connor slid down the bed and took Nat’s cock in his mouth. He grazed his teeth on the sensitive skin and blew warm air over the tip. “Roll over.”
Nat obeyed, and a shot of nerves ran through him. It felt wrong to turn his back on Connor, but as Connor parted Nat’s legs and gently worked him open with slick fingers, his apprehension faded away. Perhaps he’d been waiting for Connor all this time. Who knew? Not Nat. In that moment, he knew nothing but the magical sensation of Connor covering him with his body, arms tight around him.
Connor slid in gently. Nat gritted his teeth and blew out a shaky breath. He’d forgotten this part, the thrill of pleasure so deeply entwined with the best kind of pain. Connor rubbed his back and danced his fingers up Nat’s spine until he came to his shoulders. He traced the old wound and then the new. Nat closed his eyes and pictured them, two bullet scars that were three years apart and almost symmetrical.
“One for each brother,” Connor whispered.
Nat shuddered. “I would’ve taken those bullets for him.”
“You did,” Connor said. “You took his patrol. Put yourself in the path of an ambush. You were shot because you loved him.”
Nat’s answering sob was cut off by a plaintive moan as Connor began to circle his hips in a sweet, hypnotic rhythm that made Nat’s eyes roll. Heat pooled in his belly. He pressed his face into the pillow, fisting the sheets. Jesus Christ, Connor set him on fire.
“That’s it,” Connor murmured. “Let it go, Nat. Let all of it go.”
So Nat did. He pushed back against Connor and gave himself up to the hypnotic friction that was fast consuming him. Connor’s soft groans seeped into him, warming his blood, and soothing his tired bones. He’d been cold ever since he’d come to in that barren Kuwaiti hospital. Cold without Connor’s wry smile and molten gaze. Cold for six fucking years.
He didn’t feel cold anymore.
Nat fell apart, and a painful tenderness lanced his heart as Connor gasped and trembled and came with a plaintive cry. Connor had fucked him so good he couldn’t move, but he needed to see Connor’s face, his eyes . . . just Connor.
Like he’d heard Nat’s call, Connor eased out and fumbled around with the condom. Then he grasped Nat’s shoulder and gently helped him roll over. “All right?”
Nat nodded, too dazed to speak. Connor smiled and produced a thick, dark blanket from nowhere. “Let it go, Nat. I’ll be here when you wake.”
Nat woke sometime later to Connor snoring softly beside him. He raised his head and stared in awe. He’d hauled himself out of bed that morning feeling like the world could end and he wouldn’t much care, but now? Right now? Damn, he felt like the luckiest bloke in the world.
Shame he needed a piss and couldn’t gaze at Connor for long.
He crept out of bed and found the bathroom. It was clean but cluttered, like the rest of Connor’s home. Nat relieved himself and then took a wander round. A photo of Pogo—James—caught his eye, but he didn’t linger. The time for ghosts had passed. Instead he found himself fixated on the various articles Connor had framed on his kitchen wall. Film reviews. Book reviews, and then, dated more recently, an open letter to Western leaders, urging them to rethink their flawed strategy in the Middle East.
Damn. Connor’s assignment in Basra might’ve become the stuff of nightmares, but it was clear he’d come home with even more to say about the pointless vortex of violence and death he’d lived through, and, judging by the certificate framed by his most recent letter, people were listening. The Paul Foot Award for investigative and campaigning journalism. Nat had never heard of it, but his heart swelled with pride all the same.
“Having fun?”
Nat turned. Connor stood behind him, hair sticking up in every direction. “Just having a butchers. Forgot how good you are.”
Connor pulled a face that made him look like a teenager. “If you say so.” He wound his arms around Nat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Not one of your interrogations, is it?”
“Not if you can resist being an evasive twat.”
Nat rolled his eyes. “Go on, then.”
“Your injuries,” Connor said. “Are you okay now? Last time I saw you . . .” Connor shuddered. “You’d lost so much blood.”
“And the rest,” Nat said. “They found out I’d picked up some weird bug when they tested my blood in Kuwait, probably from that pukey lurgy I had. Explains a lot. I never felt right after that.”
“But you’re okay now?”
“Getting there,” Nat said. “My shoulders are fucked, or they will be as I get old and decrepit, but I’m doing all right. How about you? That’s a funky scar you’ve got on your belly.”
Connor’s hand drifted to his stomach. “It wasn’t that bad. Didn’t hit anything major. I had thirty stitches, a concussion, and some nasty dehydration. The rest was just bumps and bruises.”
A wave of nausea swept over Nat. Connor was playing him at his own game and making light of injuries that could’ve killed him. “I saw the video, Connor. Wedge picked it up from that shack.”
“So?”
“So I know how fucked up you were. Jesus, watching it, watching you tell the world they were going to kill you unless . . . Jesus, I’ve never felt so—” Nat clamped his hand over his mouth.
Connor kissed his shoulder. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. It was my biggest fear, the whole time. I didn’t want you to see me die.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew I loved you.”
Nat closed his eyes. “And you knew I loved you too.”
“I did. I do.” Connor buried his face in Nat’s neck. “I love you, Nat. Think I have since the moment I saw you.”
They stood silent and still for a little while. Nat counted Connor’s steady heartbeat, marvelling at how easy it was to be with him again, until Connor pulled back.
“What are you going to do now? Do you have to go back to Iraq?”
“Fuck no,” Nat said. “I’m done with active service. I’m still on sick leave at the moment, but there’s a job for me in Hereford if I want it, putting knobbers who’ve just passed selection back together.”
“What about the others?”
“Wedge and Chris are already gone. They shipped out a month ago to finish what we started.”
“The tunnels?”
“And the MSR. We shut most of it down, but it’s all gone to shit again now. You know how it is.”
Connor shrugged. “I did for a little while. What about Marc?”
“He’s done too, like me. Got a job at a local hospital, showing those civvie quacks how it’s done. Not sure how long he’ll last, though. He’s Regiment to the bone.”
Connor chuckled. “Sounds like Marc. I liked him. I liked them all.”
“Me too,” Nat echoed absently. Being with Connor felt right, but he missed his friends . . . missed the constant motion of Army life. The job in Hereford was a cushty number, but he already knew it wouldn’t be enough. The buzz of the battlefield was long gone, and he was learning not to mourn it, but something else was missing too, something he hadn’t quite understood until he’d found himself alone in his empty house. A piece of his soul he’d left in the dirt of a dusty hamlet. He stepped away from Connor and moved to the window by the sink, staring out at the hustle and bustle of the capital. “What
about you? Life back in London all that you dreamed?”
Connor’s grunt was noncommittal. “I thought it would be, but it feels kinda empty, you know?”
“You still miss Pogo?”
“Yes,” Connor said. “Death is harder on the living, eh?”
“Sometimes, but it reminds us that we are living.”
“If you say so.”
Nat scowled over his shoulder. “Smart-arse. Okay, fair enough. What about work? How’s that going?”
Connor shrugged. “I’m kinda freelance these days.”
“So you can work anywhere?”
“I guess. Why?”
Nat turned back to the window and observed a gaggle of Chinese women causing havoc on a zebra crossing, juggling supermarket trollies that seemed to be full of lychees. “’Cause this city life is mayhem. Come and live with me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Connor appeared in front of Nat, inserting himself between Nat and the sink. He took Nat’s face in his hands and kissed his cheek so sweetly Nat wanted to weep. “Say it again. Mean it.”
“I mean it, Connor. Live with me. Please?”
Connor furrowed his brow. “On one condition.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell me how my brother got that stupid fucking nickname.”
Nat grinned. “You never knew?”
“Nope. No idea.”
“So you never saw him dance in the shitty clubs in Manchester?”
Connor frowned. “Course I did. He was a fucker for getting right in the middle and jumping around like a—”
“Pogo stick,” Nat finished. “Get it?”
Connor burst out laughing. “Bloody hell. That’s awful.”
“Yeah, well,” Nat said. “I’ve heard worse.”
“You’ll have to tell me sometime.”
“And I will,” Nat said. “Now go pack your bags. I’m taking you home.”
Appendix
Charlie-3
Sergeant Nathan “Nat” Thompson – 1 i/c
Corporal Gavin “Wedge” Richie – 2 i/c (navigator)
Lance-Corporal Robert “Bobs” Wood – Weapons
Trooper Marcus “Marc” Ramsey – Medic
Trooper Christopher “Chris” Morris – Scaley
* * *
Echo-4
Sergeant John Brown
Corporal Richard “Dick” Jones
Trooper Henry “Harry” Smith
Trooper Thomas “Tom” Williams
* * *
Connor’s Code
Nat: Q
Wedge: Z
Bobs: E
Marc: P
Chris: F
* * *
Military Glossary
MOD: Ministry of Defence
SAS: Special Air Service
SBS: Special Boat Service
FOB: Forward Operating Base
OC: Officer Commanding
RPG: Rocket propelled grenade
IED: Improvised explosive device
MSR: Main supply route
ARV: Armoured recovery vehicle
RMP: Royal Military Police
HMG: Heavy machine gun
LMG: Light machine gun
AK-47: Kalashnikov assault rifle
i/c: in command
PATREON
Not ready to let go of Nat and Connor? Or looking for sneak peeks at future books in the series? Alternative POVs, outtakes, and missing moments from all Garrett’s books can be found on her Patreon site. Misfits, Slide, Strays…the works. Because you know what? Garrett wasn’t ready to let her boys go either.
Pledges start from as little as $2, and all content is available at the lowest tier.
SOUL TO KEEP — a SHORT excerpt
(Featuring Marc from Between Ghosts)
Soul to Keep (Rented Heart 2)
Marc drove home through rush hour, late as always, but night shifts were like that, even when no one died and the day team arrived right on time. Paperwork was a bitch, and he could’ve done without sitting in traffic. His brain was wide-awake, but his body was tired and achy—particularly the parts of it that were no longer there. Irony was a bitch too.
At a green light, Marc drove off, grimacing as a bolt of phantom pain lanced his imaginary leg. It was excruciating, but paled in comparison to when it had set in the previous day—ten minutes after Jamie had finally left the house.
The possibility of the two happenings being connected had tickled his mind all night long. The notion was ridiculous, but Marc turned it over and over just the same. Not that he’d come to any sensible conclusions, and he drove into Matlock Bath certain of only one thing: he couldn’t wait to get home to Jamie.
Marc pulled up at the house with a contradictory lightness he couldn’t describe. The breakfast Jamie had promised called his name, but before that, he needed to hold Jamie in his arms. The twenty-four hours they’d spent in bed together was etched on Marc’s soul, but the cold reality of a painful day alone and then a long night at work had made that blissful time seem like another life. Marc had never been with someone so consuming, and he needed to know it was real.
He wrestled with the front door and kicked it open. The scent of chilli and garlic that typically greeted him whatever time he came home was noticeably absent, but Marc traced his usual route to the kitchen anyway. It was Jamie’s favourite room in the house, and he always holed up there when he’d had enough of the draughty rooms upstairs—pottering at the stove, or sitting at the table making lists of every piece of junk he’d come across that day.
He was never on the couch.
He was never asleep.
Frowning, Marc dropped his bag in the doorway and crossed the kitchen in two strides. He crouched by Jamie’s side, reaching to shake him, but Jamie jumped awake before Marc touched him, his eyes too sharp for someone who’d just woken up.
“Shit.” Jamie’s hand flew to his chest, and for a horrifying moment looked like he might throw up on Marc’s feet. “What are you doing creeping up on me like a serial killer? You scared the crap out of me.”
Is he kidding me? But there was no way Marc was about to admit that seeing Jamie asleep had provoked a wave of panic that he couldn’t explain. He helped Jamie sit up and noted his clammy palms. “You’re sweating. What’s up? Bad dream?”
“Actually, yeah. Weird, huh? I’m sure it wasn’t long ago that I told you I never had them.”
“You told me you didn’t sleep much either, but it’s pretty much all I’ve seen you do these last few days.”
“Easily fixed, mate.”
Jamie’s smirk broke the tension, for Marc, at least. Jamie still seemed shaken, though. Marc squeezed his hands. “What were you dreaming about?”
“I don’t know, but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? My mum told me the dreams that you can remember come true.”
“What else did your mum tell you?”
“That God would punish me for liking dick. I don’t think she’d counted on me doing that all by myself. Ugh. I don’t want to talk about my mother.” Jamie reclaimed one of his hands to scrub over his face. “I didn’t even mean to fall asleep. Are you hungry? I promised you breakfast.”
“I can do it.” Marc started to stand. His knees wobbled and needles danced behind the shinbone that was no longer there. He’d become a master at disguising his pain, but Jamie apparently saw something in Marc’s face that gave him away.
He curled his hand around Marc’s scarred thigh, the light pressure just enough to turn the throbbing in his leg into something else entirely. “Go grab a shower, then get in bed. I’ll bring you breakfast, okay?”
Marc wasn’t a fan of eating in bed, but then, he hadn’t been a fan of his bed at all until Jamie had graced it with his addictive presence. “You’re staying, right? Knackered as I am, I think I’d chase you down the road if you tried to leave.”
Jamie smiled shyly. “I’m not going anywhere, for as long as you want me here.”
>
MISFITS — a SHORT excerpt
Misfits
Jake took some persuading, but eventually Tom managed to coax him into a nearby café.
“You’re not buying me lunch, though. I can buy my own.” Jake stomped up to the counter and came back with tea and bacon sandwiches. “This posh enough for you?”
You sound like Cass. “Do I look too posh for a bacon sandwich?”
“Not today.”
Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d woken up in Berkhamsted to find Cass had hidden all his smart-casual business attire in protest at their Monday apart. Tom had retaliated by stealing Cass’s only clean jeans and his favourite leather jacket. “Okay, so if you think I’m such a dickhead, why are you buying me lunch?”
“I spat in it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I wanted—wankers—I wanted to.”
Tom chanced a grin. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
Jake picked up the pot of tea. His hand shook. He put it down again. “What the fuck is an open relationship?”
“You want me to define it?” Tom leaned forwards. “Or tell you what it means to me and Cass?”
“What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know, because we don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
Jake finally poured his tea, eyes down, his concentration clear. “Then why tell me? What makes you think I care?”
“I’m not forcing you to stay.”
With a low growl, Jake put his elbows on the table and glowered. “Go on, then. Enlighten me.”
Tom picked up his sandwich. The bread was plastic, soggy, and soaked in bacon grease. His mouth watered. “Cass is my partner. We live together, own a business together, and we’re totally committed to each other.” Jake snorted as he picked up his own sandwich, but Tom held up his hand. “Let me finish.”
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