Page 15 of 72 Hours

It didn’t work that way, of course. By then, I knew how I really felt about him. Not just his body, fit and lean and deliciously demanding as that was. No, I knew how I felt about all of him; how he dressed, how he laughed, how he puzzled, how he wrote, how he smiled... yeah, all of him. But he rarely gave me any opportunity—or encouragement—to tell him so.

Guess he didn’t want to know.

I don’t think either of us had realised the Team work would be its own kind of trial, as well as an unbelievably exciting challenge. Ridiculously long hours, reams of paperwork, and the need to have a portion of your brain concentrated on the mission and the other Team members at all times. Great successes, but some horrible, terrible failures, too, where decent people suffered. And throughout it all, a constant exposure to people whose motivation would probably remain incomprehensible for the whole of your conscious life and whose lack of humanity was often staggering.

How we coped with this? That’s where most of the differences lay. The arguments followed, far too close on the heels of the passion.

“You’re going out again tonight?” Niall had watched me gel my hair, pull on my jacket and collect up my keys. From the look on his face, he was pissed.

“Out. The club. Whatever.”

“Why not stay in for a change?” The edge to his voice belied the casual query.

I raised an eyebrow. “No way. Not after the week I’ve had. Two missions back to back, extra hours planning the embassy job. I’ve had enough.” I’d earned a couple of free days, and I was damned well going to make the most of them. “Come with me.”

He shook his head; he didn’t do clubs, I knew. But it felt like he’d been quietly disapproving all evening. When I turned the music up, he’d gone to the bedroom to read. When I served up some dinner, he ate half of it, then said he wasn’t hungry any longer.

“You need to relax,” I said. “Seems to me, you don’t know how to wind down.” I felt particularly provocative that night. “Sometimes it’s hell to live with, I know. But we have to find ways of getting through it.”

“Hell to live with, eh?”

“The job. The job’s hell to live with.” I stared at him, challenging him. “Or do you want to make that something else?”

He glared back at me, just as steadily. Anger flickered like a tiny blue flame in his eyes. His quietness annoyed the shit out of me, and when I was tired and frustrated, I’d start to push him to open up. And sometimes, that was exactly what he did. He could give as good as he got, you know. He was no shrinking violet.

“Seems to me, you’ve found your way of winding down, Tanner. Every damned night.”

“Huh?” I was damned tired; all I wanted was a dance and a few drinks and some mindless fun. And now I was on the defence. “Why don’t you stop scowling at me and chill out? There’s nothing wrong with letting loose. It helps.”

“Not for me. I don’t see how clubbing all night and drinking yourself insensible can help.” That sharp tone to his voice really pissed me off. “Can’t you see? You’re surely not that stupid. It’s just running and hiding—”

“Hiding?” You’re surely not that stupid? My personal fuse got way shorter. “But you’d know all about hiding, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t want to talk about me—”

“You sure as hell don’t!” I snapped. “But all I’ve got is one guy’s point of view, so that guy’s entertainment rocks my boat, okay?”

I left the apartment soon after. I didn’t come back until the small hours of the next morning.

Expectations were high: from the Project Team, from my own ambitions, from a new and demanding relationship. I wasn’t used to being so screwed up all the time, so tired, so tense. I didn’t have time to look at things any more closely; any more tolerantly. Pity that it took argument to draw Niall out of his shell, but after a while, that became an end in itself. In some warped kind of way, the arguments were exciting. They were fierce and fast, and often finished up with grabbing hands and clothes torn off. And despite the raised voices and harsh words, I reckoned I had control over it all, that there was a foundation underneath us that made the friction nothing more than lively sex play.

It was a new, unfamiliar time for everyone, right? Perhaps it was all too much, too soon. It was what I wanted, though. He was what I wanted. And I had him too.

But I guess, being brutally honest, I was never sure for how long.

​​​Chapter 7 – Tuesday 08:30

The trailer creaked as I turned on my bed and bumped carelessly against the outside wall. I bit back a groan.

The morning light sneaked in through the blinds of my tiny bedroom, throwing zigzags across my covers. I peeled a grudging eye open and let consciousness creep in. What time was it? My watch lay on the nightstand and it was winking past eight o’clock at me. I groaned again and spent a couple of minutes trying to re-orient myself. I was lying on the top of my bed, fully dressed. My jeans had bunched up awkwardly into the backs of my knees, and my shirt felt as rough as cardboard on my skin. I remembered dozing off on the floor of the lounge in the small hours of the morning before finally dragging myself in here to try to get some proper sleep. I also recalled nightmares about exploding buildings and barking dogs. And sundry other bedtime memories that had blessed me with an aching, not-so-good-morning hard-on. I considered the specific characteristics of a cold shower with vindictive thoroughness until my body calmed down again.

Then I remembered who else was at home.

I reckoned if I got up swiftly, I might avoid my new houseguest for a bit longer. I stumbled in and out of a tepid shower as best I could without making a hell of a racket. I dragged on some soft grey-fabric sweatpants and a tee shirt that had missed this week’s ironing duties. But by the time I got to the kettle—my particular Holy Grail—he was there before me. I’d obviously missed him rising from the couch. The blanket was folded neatly on the cushion, and the coffeepot was warmed already. There was the smell of toast in the small, ill-ventilated room, to say nothing of the smell of freshly washed, clean-clothed Niall Sutherland. Despite his whole life having been demolished within the last forty-eight hours, he had clean jeans and tee shirt on, and was managing to look as fresh as a chain of daisies.

“Unhh,” I managed. Thought I ought at least to be civil, though I felt nothing like it. He looked way too good for the time of day. The tee shirt was attractively tight across his muscled torso and slightly caught up at one side; there was a sliver of dusky skin showing above the low waist of his jeans. I tugged at the sweats that hung casually around my hips, feeling less than sparkling in return. I’d lost weight since I moved in here, and nothing seemed to fit quite the way it used to.

He put the mug of coffee into my hand, and I blanched at the suddenly familiar gesture.