Page 138 of The Unlikely Spare
On second thought, making Eoin laugh might not be the best way to achieve emotional distance. The rumble of his laughter vibrates through him and into me.
Because we have to wait ten minutes for the peroxide to do its thing, I then have the opposite torture of being the one who has to touch Eoin.
I massage the muddy brown color into his roots, pretending my gloved hands aren’t memorizing the shape of his skull, the soft spot behind his ears where his hair grows finest.
I try to avoid his eyes in the mirror.
Yes, it appears amateur hairdressing is optimally designed to put you in close proximity to the person you’re trying to avoid.
After I’ve pasted his hair with thick goo, we swap places again so he can wash the chemicals out of my hair.
When he’s finished, my perfectly maintained dark locks have turned into an aggressive shade of butter-gone-wrong.Combine that with the thick-rimmed glasses Eoin procured from a chemist, and I look like I’m about to lecture someone about sustainable kombucha brewing.
Meanwhile, after rinsing Eoin’s hair, his lovely auburn is now the color of wet soil.
“You might have a future in hairdressing,” I say as we leave the public toilets. “Although I use the term ‘hairdressing’ in its loosest possible sense. This is more like follicular vandalism.”
Eoin’s expression stays benign. “Who knows what career I’ll have after this. Maybe I should consider hairdressing.”
The magnitude of everything Eoin is sacrificing for me crashes into me.
Scotland Yard has him down as a rogue agent. The terrorists want his head on a spike.
For me. Because of me. And yet I still can’t acknowledge all the feelings throbbing between us.
It’s probably best not to dwell on that particular emotional quicksand when we have more pressing criminal activities to attend to, like changing getaway vehicles yet again.
It’s almost comical how stealing cars has become just another item on my daily agenda, right betweenavoid captureandtry not to die.
Though I must say, for someone raised to never take so much as an extra biscuit at tea, I’m becoming disturbingly proficient at identifying cars with poor security systems.
The universe provides us with a dusty station wagon at a scenic overlook, the keys helpfully left in the ignition while its owners have wandered off to commune with nature. We liberate it, cramming our stolen camping supplies into the back like the world’s worst Tetris game.
The road takes us up a windy hill to the Tongariro plateau, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by volcanoes. The map app identifies Ngauruhoe, which juts up like somethingout of a geography textbook. Tongariro sits beside it, somehow managing to look both ancient and vaguely judgmental, while Ruapehu hulks in the distance.
I should be appreciating the scenic volcanic splendor. Or perhaps focusing on our rather dire circumstances and how to stay alive. Instead, Eoin’s words keep replaying in my head.
I sneak a glance at him. Even sporting hair that looks like it lost a fight with a bottle of shoe polish, he manages to radiate that particular brand of competent masculinity that makes my higher brain functions surrender without a fight.
I have to look away before I start composing terrible poetry about dangerous men with questionable hair choices.
“Do you think you’ll get fired after all of this?” I ask quietly.
Eoin hesitates before he replies. “I don’t know. I’m sure I can prove that I didn’t have any knowledge of Pierce and Malachy’s plot. But I did remove you from the protection team without higher orders. And I crossed all lines of professionalism with you. It’s definitely going to be a fun one for the Scotland Yard ethics team to untangle.” He flashes me a tight grin. “And that’s assuming the best-case scenario, that we somehow manage to pull this thing off.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“What for?”
I struggle to find the words. “If I hadn’t flirted with you…”
He fixes me with a look. “Trust me, Nicholas, it wasn’t your flirting that made me cross my professional boundaries.”
My breath catches so sharply I nearly choke.
“What was it then?” It feels like a dangerous question to ask right now, but I can’t stop myself.
His gray eyes capture mine. “It’s your multitudes,” he says softly.
