Breaking His Code (Away From Keyboard Book 1)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  I follow Royce into his office. Coffee cups litter his desk, and the scent of stale take-out lingers. A stack of files next to his computer leans precariously, so unlike the organized lieutenant I served with.

  Royce leaves a message for Al, then he sinks back in his chair. “Lucas can help with cabling. I’ll find a way to pull in a few more guys. Al might know of some, and if not, I’ll bring in some temps first thing Monday morning.”

  I turn to go, but Royce calls after me. “We can’t mess this one up, Cam.”

  No shit. “We won’t. But you’ve got to keep me in the loop.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. Not today. I can’t go there today. “I’m headed home. I’ll check with Lucas tomorrow. Maybe he can get started after brunch.”

  “They’ll be a couple of comp days in it for both of you.” Royce’s shoulders hunch as he reaches for his keyboard.

  He looked better crawling through the Afghan desert at three in the morning than he does right now. I swallow around the lump in my throat. “You okay?”

  Royce opens his mouth, then seems to think better of his words and nods his head before returning his focus to his computer. Whatever moment we’d been about to share slips through my grasp, like so many others since that hot day in April ten years ago.

  HuskyFan1988: How did you know about the flower?

  HuskyFan’s message brings a smile after this trying day. Two texts from West headline my inbox, but I ignore them and reply to HuskyFan instead. At least this I can’t screw up.

  FlashPoint: Most women don’t want to be given the world. They want to know that their partners think about them during the day. That no matter what else is going on, they matter. When you pick her a flower, you’re giving her a piece of your heart. Not your paycheck, your health insurance, or even your ability to lift heavy objects. Surprise her with a flower or a little Post-It note or even just a kiss whenever she’s down. I hope things turn around for you soon, buddy.

  Seconds later, a new message waits for me.

  HuskyFan1988: Sounds like you’ve been on the receiving end of more than one flower.

  If only…

  FlashPoint: My father used to pick daisies for my mother. Probably still does. I didn’t inherit his romantic instincts. Couldn’t even manage a first date this morning without screwing things up.

  I don’t know why I shared that failure with someone I don’t even know, but a small wisp of the black cloud over my head fades a little with the admission.

  HuskyFan1988: You probably didn’t screw up as badly as you think. What happened?

  FlashPoint: I dumped coffee down my shirt and then landed on my ass trying to pick up the shattered pieces of the mug off the floor.

  HuskyFan1988: So?

  FlashPoint: He…

  I stare at the blinking cursor. What the hell can I say? He tried to help me up? I can’t look him in the eyes because I’m scared he only sees the broken parts of me? West didn’t do anything wrong. I did.

  HuskyFan1988: You helped me, so let me give you some advice. Us guys spend most of our lives convinced women are goddesses and we’re not worthy. A woman who swears, breaks coffee mugs, and can laugh off an embarrassing stain? You can probably do no wrong in his book. Be honest. Tell him you screwed up and give him another chance.

  Score two for me. Unfortunately, I failed at the honesty part. Miserably.

  Without the promise of West as my companion in the alien-laden game land, the evening drags on. This morning’s cowardice leaves a bad taste in my mouth—or perhaps that’s the rubbery noodles and pasty cheese from my over-nuked lasagna. My eyes burn the longer I work, and a little after ten, I yield to the growing heaviness of my lids and trudge to the bedroom.

  After some yoga stretching to alleviate the tightness in my hip, I curl under the blankets with a book—an old science fiction paperback with weathered pages and a cracked spine that’s seen better days. Two chapters in, my buzzing phone pulls me from the vortex of deep space.

  You weren’t online tonight. Talk to me, Cam. It was just coffee. Not a marriage proposal.

  I can’t. Not now. Not when the memory of his hands on me is still so vivid. My attempts to return to my book fail miserably as his words echo. “Fuck, Cam. I’ve got you.”

  No one “gets me.” I can “get myself,” thank you very much.

  4

  CAM

  Sunday morning dawns clear and warm, and the outdoor deck at Ray’s buzzes with conversation. I drop into a chair across from Lucas. We have a standing brunch date once a month—open to the whole company, though Lucas and I are the only constants.

  The clatter of silverware overshadows the conversations around us as it seems half of Seattle decided to dine outside this morning. Lucas slumps in his seat. “I ordered you the usual.”

  Maybe a bloody mary will smooth away the regrets that haunted me all night. Otherwise, this is going to be a long brunch. “Luc, I’ve got a…” My jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

  Royce weaves between the tables, a dour expression etched on his face.

  “Haven’t seen you at one of these in a while, Rol—Royce.”

  “I’m tired of the two of you riding my ass on Monday mornings. This should earn me at least a year’s peace.” Royce opens his menu with a snap. “You give me shit, and I’m out of here.”

  Lucas and I exchange glances, and I shrug. For two weeks, I’ve waited for Royce to get over his latest dark mood, but Mr. Prickly appears to be here to stay. “Fair enough.”

  Royce doesn’t look up from his menu, and the thick paper crumples in his grip as the server arrives to take his order.

  Well, this is awkward. Lucas and I stare at one another, and we both shrug at the same time.

  Royce doesn’t seem to notice the tension as he pulls out his phone. Whatever’s on the screen is a hell of a lot more interesting than anything at the table, and I clench my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. Only the drink delivery saves me from cracking a molar.

  “Hooah.” We toast, and I almost choke from the spice. “All right. Hand over my ‘no heat’ mary, Luc.”

  Lucas shudders and passes me his glass. “How do you drink them like this? That’s straight tomato juice.”

  “Wimp, remember?” I point to myself and smile, then glance at Royce. He’s staring out over the glittering waters of Elliot Bay, his phone still in his hand, oblivious to our exchange. “Earth to Royce. Come in, Lieutenant.” He barely acknowledges me, and I snap. “Dammit, Royce. What the hell is up with you?” A little old lady with snow-white hair shushes me from the next table, and I lower my voice. “Everyone in the office has noticed. You’re coming in late, leaving early, and you never say more than two or three words to anyone unless you’re riding their asses for something. Take that stick out of your ass and talk to me.”

  Lucas sucks down his bloody mary and motions for another. I’m tempted to do the same, but I’m worried. Despite Royce’s determination to keep me at arm’s length since I got blown up, serving together forged a bond that can’t be broken. I’ve let him push me away for too long, and every time, he tears another chunk from my armor. No more.

  “You’re on thin ice, Cam.” Royce twists his napkin, and the edge to his voice should warn me away, but after my awful weekend, I’m in the mood for a fight.

  “You built a damn fine company. One we’re all proud to be a part of. But if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose everything. Orion said you laid into him on Tuesday because he didn’t refill the coffee pot. And Abbie caught you kicking the vending machine. You know that shit triggers her. I love you, Royce. But you’ve been an asshole for two weeks.”

  Royce stares down at his hands, the napkin shredded on the table in front of him. For a moment, I think I see his fingers tremble. “I know.”

  “Are you going to talk to me?” I lean closer, reaching for his hand.

  He yanks his arm away. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out his wallet. The twenty floats onto the table as he stands and glowers dow
n at me.

  “I got us a contract with ZoomWare.” As I gasp, he gives me a curt nod. “Exactly. I’m making you lead. But they won’t sign until the Coana job’s done and Phillip LaCosta is happy. You want to know why I’m pissed off? Stressed out all the time? Because if we fuck up Coana, this company’s through. You have no idea how hard it is to have everyone’s future in my hands. I don’t come to these meetups because I spend all my time trying to keep the firm afloat. Give me a break and do your damn job.” And with that, he turns on his heel and strides away, nearly bowling over the server with our food.

  Lucas takes a long pull on his second drink, and I join him. “I knew he had a client meeting on Thursday, but ZoomWare?”

  “Doesn’t explain the past two weeks. Dude needs medication. Or something. I know you love the guy, Cam, but he’s going to implode soon, and I worry we’re all going to be sucked down with him.”

  Lucas isn’t wrong. I run a hand through my dark locks, trying to come up with a response that doesn’t sound like an excuse. “He’s hurting. I don’t know why, or what triggered it, but he’s dealing with something heavy.”

  “You served with him. What’s his deal?”

  “Hell if I know. Once I got hurt, Royce joined a new squad. He’s never talked about what happened on his last tour. Never talked about anything after that, really. This isn’t the Royce I knew.”

  I dig into my stack of pancakes, and Lucas reaches for Royce’s untouched plate of bacon to add to his already impressive omelet. As he shakes hot sauce onto his eggs, he glances over at me. “I could say the same about you.”

  “What?” I pause with a forkful of pancakes dripping syrup onto my plate.

  “Something about you feels off. And don’t tell me you slept like shit. I can see that. You need some heavy-duty concealer to cover up those suitcases under your eyes. What’s wrong?”

  The problem with knowing someone for six years? Working with them every day? It’s almost impossible to bullshit them. “Bad date yesterday.”

  “Camilla Maria Delgado, why didn’t you tell me?” He nudges my shoulder before he returns to his massive plate of food.

  “Because of this reaction. We had coffee. Hell, it was barely a date. And given how it ended, there won’t be a repeat performance.” I dredge a forkful of pancake through a lake of maple syrup, wishing I hadn’t dropped that mug, hadn’t run out on West without any explanation. “Leave it alone. I’m moving on.”

  “Nope. You’ve got that ‘I fucked up’ look, and I want to know why.” He rests his elbows on the table, folds his hands, and cradles his chin. “Talk.”

  I can’t resist Lucas when he’s in therapist mode. And deep down, I need to tell someone. When I finish recounting the whole morning—and the emails and text messages West sent me afterwards, all of them as yet unanswered—Lucas clucks his tongue.

  “Honey, you fucked up big time. The poor man mopped up a macchiato, offered to buy you another, and you think he doesn’t like you because you made a mess?”

  “Well, when you put it that way…” I shove the half-full plate of pancakes away. “We’ve known each other almost two months, game together most nights. But five minutes sitting across a table from him, and I felt like I was back in high school, going to Denny’s on a first date, all nervous optimism and anticipation. He’s hot. Did I mention that? And he can quote Firefly. And Doctor Who.”

  I drop my gaze to my lap when I realize I’m gushing, which only makes Lucas chuckle.

  “You need to call that man back ASAP.” He rests a hand on his hip and arches a brow. “Don’t make me steal your phone and text him myself.”

  I shake my head. “Dating a man who looks like he belongs on the cover of Men’s Health isn’t my speed. The last three guys I dated were vets with serious injuries: a prosthetic arm, a missing leg, and, hell, Efron got burned in a Humvee crash. We matched, you know?”

  Lucas nods, then sighs—a mother hen disappointed in his chick. “Honey, I’ve seen you do things with code that shouldn’t be possible. For all your loner bravado, you’ll do anything for the people you’re close to. And you’re gorgeous.” He waves his hand at me. “All that hair, your perfect skin, those tats… You’re a catch for any man. If I didn’t bat for the other team, I’d be all over you.”

  I can’t help laughing, and I feel lighter than I have since I ruined the “of-course-it-was-a-date” yesterday morning. “I love you too, Lucas. Sometimes, I think you’re the only one who gets me.”

  “I’ve got your back.” He jabs my arm. “Even when you're being an idiot. Lighten up on yourself, Cam. Have some fun. I doubt your hot marine wanted to propose marriage. Call him back. Apologize.”

  Lucas is right. He’s always right—at least where other people’s relationships are concerned. As I sip the last of my bloody mary—sans Tabasco—I stare out over the water. I missed chatting with West last night. And I have only myself to blame.

  Unlike yesterday, Broadcast’s lonely tables beg for patrons this afternoon. A single barista leans against the counter, a book in her hand.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream? One of my favorites.” I smile, then glance up at the board listing the various coffee offerings. Espressos, lattes, the illustrious macchiato, and the coffee tasting “experience.” I’m used to Siren Coffee’s menu, full of overly sweet drinks: pumpkin pie lattes, s’mores mochas and the like. This place might just grow on me. Assuming I fix things with West.

  Barista girl stows the book in her apron, smiling. “What’ll you have?”

  “One macchiato to go, please. Almond milk.”

  She turns to the grinder, pulls a handle four times, and sets the espresso shot to brew. “Good choice. We make the best in town.”

  As the espresso brews, I stare at the table we shared and remember the feel of his fingers on mine, the heat of his skin as he steadied me when I tried to run, and the disappointment on his face as I walked out the door.

  Her foot taps to the beat of the reggae blasting through the speakers, and as Third World belts out the lyrics to “Now That We Found Love,” I pull out my phone to read West’s messages again.

  Why didn’t we stick to our online flirting? Something shifted between us when we met, and I don’t know if we can go back to what we were—to the friendship we’d formed over geeky television shows and gaming. My stomach flips when I realize I don’t want to. Sitting across from him, seeing the possibility for something more…something real…

  A dull ache settles in my thigh. Brunch and three errands in one day? Not smart. Though I can’t wait to go home and lie down with my leg up, I have one thing to do first. I snap a photo of the macchiato and spend a full five minutes trying to come up with an eloquent apology. After a lot of backspacing, I go for short and simple.

  I screwed up. I’m sorry.

  West didn’t lie: the macchiato isn’t sweet. The milk lends a gentleness, a comforting depth to the espresso that I didn’t expect, and though I’m strangling my phone, hoping he’ll reply, I smile.

  But the phone mocks me with silence the whole way home. Not until I settle in my recliner with a pain pill dulling the edges of the world does the phone start to vibrate off the table.

  “I’m an idiot.” I say as I settle back against the cushions with a wince. “I panicked.”

  “No shit. I didn’t think you were the type.”

  Right to the point. I can’t say I blame him. Closing my eyes, I search for my next words. I’ve had this conversation in my head a dozen times in the past hour, but every time, it ends with us never speaking to one another again.

  Give me an IED or a land mine, and I do fine. But put me in front of a man I like, and I turn into an insecure mess. “I’m not. But I saw how you looked at me when I dropped the macchiato. I don’t want your pity, West.”

  His frustration carries over the line. “Pity? You were in pain. On the floor. Was I supposed to just leave you there?”

  I don’t have a smart reply. Or any reply.


  “You don’t know me well enough yet to judge whether I’m pitying you or was simply worried that you landed on your ass when I know you have a bad hip. I didn’t give a shit about the macchiato. Life is full of broken mugs.

  “You bolted after fifteen minutes. And then you ignored my messages, didn’t log on to play Halo last night. Avoidance isn’t your style. At least not the Cam I’ve gotten to know the past few weeks.”

  Score another point for West. If I don’t level up in my apology skill, this conversation is over. “I’m sorry, okay? Can we go back to being friends? Playing Xbox in the evenings and complaining about the wait for the next gen console?”

  “I want more.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I stammer, “M-more?”

  “I like you, Cam. And yesterday, right before it all went to hell, I met someone I want to know better. Someone I want to date. And I think you felt the same. Am I wrong?”

  I want to answer him. But my cowardice gets in the way, and he loses patience.

  “I won’t chase you, angel. I’m not that kind of guy. If you want to run away, that’s your choice. I’m glad you finally got to have a macchiato. I hope it didn’t disappoint you like I did.”

  As the line falls silent, I tally up the score. And the big, fat goose egg in my column doesn’t surprise me. I don’t do charming. Obviously, I don’t do apologies very well either.

  5

  WEST

  I need to hit something. Stripping out of my t-shirt, I eye the heavy bags. Eight of them line the far wall of the studio. Once upon a time, I had students in here twelve hours a day, training, working out, laughing and sparring with one another. These days, we might as well be closed on Sundays. And Saturdays. And some Thursdays.

  A heavy bass beat thunders from the CrossFit studio across the street. I recognize some of the cars in their lot. Former students of mine. Using my teeth to tighten the velcro strap on my second glove, I glare at their sign. Cross Your Fit blazes in red letters with silhouettes of two of the fittest people on the planet behind the words.