Between Ghosts

by Garrett Leigh

  “Your stepdad?”

  Damn. Connor had forgotten he’d let that slip. How the fuck had that happened? “Something like that. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds, though. The bloke was a cunt, but we lived to tell the tale.”

  “We?”

  Connor snorted. “Look at you with your questions. I’m supposed to be the hack here.”

  “And I’m the one who’s supposed to be evasive. What’s your story?”

  “Nothing particularly interesting. My dad worked for BP in Egypt. I was born there, before he got posted to Dubai. We moved to Manchester after he died and my mum remarried.”

  “Remarried a cunt?”

  “Yup. They both liked a drink, her and him, you know? Brought out the worst in each other. My, er, siblings and I, we moved away as soon as my brother was old enough to look after us. Then, when I turned eighteen, I looked after my sister so he could get on with his life.” Or not.

  Nat stretched out his legs. “Do you ever see your mum now?”

  “Nope. Don’t even know where she is. Don’t care.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got every right not to.”

  “Yeah? Sounds like you’ve got a story all of your own.”

  Nat said nothing, and his silence reminded Connor of the conversation that had led them up to the roof in the first place. “Know the feeling.” Did Connor dare ask? And, really, what did Nat’s answer—whatever it was—mean? Contrary to popular belief, two gay men in one place didn’t always—

  “Fuck’s sake, Connor. Just ask, before you think yourself into a bloody seizure.”

  Connor turned his head to find Nat watching him with an expression that seemed an odd mix of amusement and defiance. “Are you gay?”

  “No.”

  Oh. Well, that solved that mystery, then. Embarrassment burned Connor’s cheeks, and he was glad that, hidden away from the bright lights of the base, the Iraqi night was one of the darkest he’d ever seen.

  Nat nudged him. “I’m not gay, Connor. I like birds too much to call myself that, but I’m into blokes too. Fuck, I like it all.”

  Relief swept over Connor. “How does that work for you on the job?”

  “Same as it does for anyone else, I suppose. Don’t think anyone’s getting laid around here.”

  Connor could believe that. There’d been plenty of women on the Turkish air base, but the palace was an all-male affair. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Dunno. Wedge says I get chatty when I’m knackered. Not writing this shit down, are you?”

  “No, your secret’s safe with me.”

  “It’s not a secret, mate. Just no other fucker’s business.”

  It was on the tip of Connor’s tongue to ask just how not secret Nat’s sexuality was, but in the time it took to find the balls, Nat fell asleep, or at least gave a convincing impersonation of someone who had. Damn. Now what? Connor didn’t have a clue, and lacking any better ideas, he settled for flitting between gauging the distance between the palace and the sporadic explosions, and counting Nat’s breaths.

  He’d been lost in the hypnotic sound for forty-six breaths when a small explosion hit the palace’s perimeter wall.

  Connor jumped a mile, his guts in his throat, hand clamped tight around Nat’s wrist.

  Nat merely grunted and covered Connor with his body in a leisurely roll that would have felt more suited to a lazy Sunday morning, were it not for Connor’s thundering heartbeat.

  “It’s just a rocket,” Nat muttered around a yawn. “They can’t reach this far.”

  Connor wondered if there was a “yet” Nat wasn’t saying, but with Nat’s body pressed against him, the answer didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did, except Nat’s strong arms and the smoky, masculine scent of his skin.

  Connor’s pulse slowed, and his breathing fell into line with the gentle rise of Nat’s chest. He waited for Nat to let go, preemptively mourning the loss of his arms.

  But Nat didn’t move, and for a long moment, time seemed to stop just for them.

  Then another rocket boomed and broke the spell. Nat peered over his shoulder. “Little buggers are getting braver.”

  Connor sat up. “How so?”

  “Two in quick succession means they’re not worried about wasting their firepower. If there’s a third, I’d bet on them having a stockpile.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  Nat shrugged. “Where they’re getting them from bothers me more. We have checkpoints on every road in and out of the city, and too many patrols over land for much to get through.”

  “What about the port?”

  “Nope. The SBS boys have got that covered.” Nat looked down and finally seemed to notice he was lying on top of Connor. “It’s okay to be scared of this shit, you know. Fear keeps you alive.”

  “You don’t seem scared.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m dead inside.”

  “Are you?” Connor reached out before he knew what he was doing, and touched Nat’s face. “How long have you felt like that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Of course it fucking matters. Connor couldn’t find the words to explain why, though. Another rocket fell, but this time he hardly noticed. Instead, he replaced his fingers on Nat’s scruffy cheek with the palm of his hand, and pulled Nat down so they were inches apart. “It matters.”

  Nat exhaled a low, gravely puff of air that seemed to say far more than Connor’s misplaced words ever could. He stared at Connor for a moment before he dropped his head and claimed Connor’s mouth in a rough kiss that took his breath away.

  Connor fell back on the cool stone of the palace roof, taking Nat with him, and retaliated with a biting kiss of his own, pulling Nat so tight against him their teeth clashed.

  Nat growled and shoved his hand into Connor’s hair, tugging hard enough for that sweet point between pain and pleasure to explode in Connor’s veins. He gasped and fumbled with Nat’s military jacket, searching for skin, hair, bone—any contact with Nat’s warm body.

  He found Nat’s T-shirt and yanked it out of his trousers. His grasping hands touched Nat’s abdomen, firm and unyielding, and dusted with the fair hair Connor remembered from the shower block in Kuwait. The image of Nat’s naked body blasted into Connor’s mind with more force than any rocket ever could: His wiry, coiled muscles, and smooth skin. His broad shoulders and strong limbs.

  His cock. Yeah, because as hard as he’d tried not to, Connor had seen Nat’s dick, and he’d thought about it every time he’d let his mind wander since. Thought about how it would feel in his hand, in his mouth . . . more.

  He’d never dared imagine his snatched, dirty daydreams could become a reality, though. Why would he? Men like Nat didn’t fancy Connor.

  Nat ripped Connor’s hands from under his clothes and pinned them above his head. He found Connor’s throat and bit down as Connor saw stars and struggled against Nat’s vicelike hold, gritting his teeth as Nat gripped him tighter. “Fuck, Nat.”

  “What?” Nat released Connor’s hands and grasped his chin. “What do you want?”

  “Anything.” Connor met Nat’s eyes and absorbed the playful heat in his gaze, the warmth that belied his rough voice and hands. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Nat groaned. “Fuckin’ knew you’d be the death of me.”

  “Did you?”

  Nat dropped his weight so Connor felt the hardness between them—Connor’s and his own—and rolled his hips, groaning again. Connor moaned too, and the surreal fog of their encounter faded away. The dry, desert air caught in his chest, and Nat’s touch was hotter than ever as they kissed, grinding together, pressing their hips harder with each pass.

  Connor threw his head back, ignoring the brutal impact with the stone beneath him. He needed more, much more, but what they already had was too much—he couldn’t take it for long. His head spun and his blood boiled until he came with a low cry, stunned by the force of it, caught between the discomfort of their abrasive hideaway and the heady rush
spilling out of him.

  “Jesus.” Nat stiffened and gave a violent shudder. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Fuck yeah.” Connor wrapped his arms around Nat, wishing he could see his face. “You okay?”

  Nat’s only answer was another shudder, and it seemed a lifetime before he finally raised his head and fixed Connor with an inscrutable stare. “All right?”

  “I am. Do you need another nap?”

  “Maybe. You’re the best pillow I’ve had in years.”

  “Fucker.” Connor grinned and held Nat a little tighter. “Sleep away. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The gentle humour in Nat’s gaze faded. “We all are eventually. Can’t fight the sun, mate.”

  Seven

  Nat woke at sunrise to Connor gently shaking him. They stared at each other for a long moment before reality set in and Nat remembered he was due at a mission briefing.

  He spared Connor a quick kiss, then scrambled down the pipes and shimmied back over the balcony. The rest of Charlie-3 were already up and gone. Nat joined them in the briefing room with seconds to spare.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Wedge asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Babe, we’re used to you sacking us off at bedtime, but you could at least come back in time to make us breakfast. We’re feckin’ starving.”

  “Piss off.” Nat took his place at the table, ignoring the fact that he was once again attending a briefing without his underwear. “Everyone in one piece after yesterday?”

  Every man nodded.

  “What about you, boss?” Bobs asked.

  Nat shrugged. Getting off with Connor on the roof had distracted him to the point where he barely remembered the explosion the day before.

  Until he recalled Connor trembling, and his stomach did an uncomfortable flip. Curled around Connor, he’d slept like a baby, but he was fairly certain Connor hadn’t slept at all.

  “Nat?”

  “Hmm?”

  Marc shook his head. “You’re gonna be deaf as a post when you get old.”

  “I’m already old,” Nat said. “Now shut the fuck up. We’ve got shit to do.”

  Marc shut up, but even as Bobs spread aerial maps and photographs over the table, Nat’s mind took him back to the roof and Connor. Felt like he’d just bloody blinked when he’d opened his eyes to find Connor watching him, his expression a dark, molten mix of concern and curiosity.

  Neither emotion made much sense to Nat. The whole encounter felt like a dream.

  “Did you hear the rockets?”

  Nat returned to reality and focused on Bobs. “I counted three. You?”

  “Same,” Bobs said. “I reckon they’re toying with us. Won’t be long before they start shelling the fuck out of this place.”

  “Does it matter if they do?” Rogers, present for his wider knowledge of the area, said. “I heard they’re going to pull us out soon enough. Getting dicked on ain’t good for publicity.”

  Nat glared. Didn’t these clowns realise the increase in attacks on the palace meant the insurgents were growing in confidence and resources? That, left unchecked, a gang of young men firing rockets became a cell of hardened insurgents, shooting aircraft out of the sky?

  Fucking idiots. Nat’s brain hurt. He’d long ago grown tired of trying to educate muppets like Rogers. His crew knew the score, and that was enough. It had to be. “While we’re here, we need to do as much as we can. Bobs, have you dug up any intel on how the RPGs could be getting into the city in the first place?”

  “On it like a tramp on chips, mate.” Bobs tapped the side of his head. “Meeting with the recon guys later. See what they picked up overnight. We need to get out there again ourselves, though. Get this airport run done and have a looksee on the way.”

  Nat gestured for Wedge’s open pack of smokes. “Agreed.”

  The meeting broke up midmorning. Nat washed up, got breakfast, then took an M16 out on the firing range and put some rounds down. He’d heard a nasty rumour they were about to be hit with a shortage of Minimi links, and he didn’t want to be stuck with a weapon he hadn’t fired for more than a year. And shooting the fuck out of pretend people usually gave him head space to think over the mission at hand.

  But that didn’t happen today. Despite distracting himself with bullets, his brain was full of Connor Regan, and coming in his pants on the roof of a beat-down Arabian palace. Dickhead. Nat didn’t regret it, but knew he’d fucked up. He didn’t have time to get attached to Connor, emotionally or otherwise. As if on cue, Bobs called his name from somewhere behind. Nat turned and signalled for Bobs to join him, because there was no way he was done shooting shit yet.

  Bobs hunkered down beside him. “Recon just got back. They’ve heard whispers of a mosque downtown with a clan behind it who have a lot of clout on the streets, running the black markets and shit. Might be nothing, but if they’re into the nasty anyway, they could know something worth having.”

  “What do we know about this clan?” Nat reloaded and squinted at the target. “Are we talking Sunni or Shiite? Moderate? Fanatical? Where’s the mosque exactly?”

  “Jesus Christ, Nat. Recon only—”

  Nat drowned Bobs out with a hail of gun fire. Bobs knew better than to come to him with half-baked bullshit. What good was a bunch of bloody hearsay?

  Bobs got the hint and disappeared, presumably to find some intelligence they could actually use. Nat fired off another magazine, then called it a day. Sweating and covered in gun grime, he headed upstairs and retrieved the bergen he’d yet to properly unpack. At the bottom, he found the book he’d been lugging around since they’d got word they were bound for Iraq, way back in 2003. He’d achieved fuck all at school—life in the field had educated him more than anything else—but from time to time, it didn’t hurt to hit the books and learn something the old-fashioned way.

  He was frowning over Basra’s complex network of waterways when he sensed Connor’s presence and looked up. “Okay?”

  Connor grinned, and any fear Nat had that things might be awkward between them evaporated. “Yup, you? What are you up to? I thought you’d still be stuck in the briefing room.”

  “Nah, we sacked that off hours ago. We’re chipping off on that airport run in a bit, but I figured I’d stick my head in a book while I had the time. This place is . . . damn, what’s the word?”

  “Vexing you? I can see you’re not quite comfortable here.”

  “Vexing me” wasn’t a phrase Nat could imagine himself ever using, but Connor had a way of saying clever shit that didn’t make him sound like a pompous git. “Yeah, I s’pose. It just feels like I’m missing something.”

  “Is this about the weapons smuggling?”

  Was it? Nat wasn’t sure. “Maybe. But I think it’s more than that. Up north, we had better support . . . the rest of the squadron, the Americans. Feels like we’re on our own here, with naff all gear to work with.”

  Connor nodded and took a seat on Wedge’s bed. “Do you think you’ll go back up north when you’re done here? Back to Mosul?”

  Nat suppressed a shudder. “Sod that. Have to drag my dead fucking bones back to that hell hole.”

  “That bad, eh?” Connor reclined and turned his gaze on the ceiling. “Sounds like the place of nightmares.”

  Far worse than that, but Nat didn’t say it. Instead he brought his attention back to the book and wondered if he’d imagined the subtle pain clouding Connor’s features.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Hmm?” Nat glanced up and found Connor watching him again, the grief gone from his eyes like it had never been there at all. “Oh, um, not really. Just trying to figure out if these canals pass under any mosques.”

  “Why?”

  “Always with the ‘Why?’ eh?”

  Connor grinned. “That’s my job. Besides, you lot don’t waste your words. It’s hard to glean anything without asking a bazillion questions.”

  He had Nat there.
Need to know was the Regiment way. “Recon spotted a mosque downtown that could be facilitating the weapons coming into the insurgents.”

  “The rockets?”

  “Yep. We need to cut off the supply before they get their hands on bigger launchers and shells—the kind of shells that could pound this place to dust.”

  To his credit, Connor didn’t flinch, and Nat saw no sign of the disquiet that had prompted him to hustle Connor up to the roof last night. Show me what you’ve got.

  Connor cleared his throat. “Is this mosque near the river?”

  “No idea. Bobs is looking into it.” Nat took in Connor’s frown. “Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Doubt it,” Connor said, but his dark brows remained knitted together.

  Nat passed the book over. “Try me.”

  “Just a whisper I heard that young girl say to her brother when you let them take their grandmother home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Connor flipped absently through the book. “She was telling him what you said to her about keeping up with her studies and staying indoors after dark. She said it wouldn’t do her much good if you couldn’t keep the demons from under the river.”

  Under. Damn. Nat’s own translation had missed a word. He retrieved the map of Basra he’d tucked into his back pocket and unfolded it.

  Connor got up and dropped down beside him, peering over his shoulder at the neighbourhood they’d visited the day before. “Here’s the closest mosque. I can’t see any rivers nearby.”

  “That mosque isn’t there anymore. It got bombed during the invasion.”

  “Ah. I thought I heard rumblings about that, but I lost track when that old dear came over.”

  “I heard what you heard,” Nat said around a yawn that took him by surprise. “That particular neighbourhood lost their mosque and most of their schools when the invasion happened. The men pray outside now, a few streets away from the market.”

  “What about the children? Where do they go to school?”

  Nat shot Connor a sideways look. “Perhaps that’s a question for your next article.”

  “Hmm, might be better than trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours.”