Breaking His Code (Away From Keyboard Book 1)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Thwack. The first hit sends the bag swinging, and I wait for its arc to stabilize before I go back in for a combo. “Fucking spin classes.” CYF’s latest offering tempted another four of my regulars to jump ship. Sure, they still pay for the occasional one-off class here and there, but those sweet membership fees are long gone. Frustration spurs me to punch harder, faster, and soon, I’m in the zone.

  “Hi, boss,” Vasquez calls as he bounds through the front door. “Dead again?”

  I turn and arch a brow. “Hey, Captain Obvious. Make yourself useful.” Another hard set of combos send vibrations up my arms, and sweat beads down the center of my back as Vasquez takes his spot behind the bag, providing me some much needed stability so I can push myself harder. “Don’t know…if you’ll have…a full class.”

  I’ve slacked on my bag skills lately. Too much paperwork. My biceps start to burn, my thighs tremble as I reach the half-hour mark, and my abs shake from the exertion. When Vasquez pops his head to the side and then nods towards the clock on the wall, I drop my hands.

  “You all right, boss?” He picks up a spray bottle and towel and then starts to wipe down the bag as I pull off my gloves.

  “Never better.” The lie slips out easily, though I doubt I’m convincing. The dojo’s in trouble, I can’t keep up with the bills, and the most interesting woman I’ve met in years doesn’t know how to talk to me. “I’m headed home for the day. Have a good class.”

  “Get some rest, boss. You look like shit.”

  Beer and shutout baseball should distract me, but in the silent spaces between pitches, there’s only Cam—or a sharp, witty, and gorgeous Cam-shaped hole. We should be chatting on VetNet or blasting hostiles online while the game plays on the radio. I didn’t realize how much she’d come to mean to me in six short weeks, or how often we’d text one another for no reason at all, then end up chatting for hours. I close my eyes, letting the droning of the announcers lull me into the space between asleep and awake.

  Blood. The scent fills my nose, so thick and cloying I can’t breathe. My shoulder’s on fire, and try as I might, I can’t move my arm. Smitty stares from a few feet away, his skull dented, his eyes dilated in the shock of sudden death. Screams bounce off the clay and stone walls until I can’t think, can’t do anything but pray someone will get us out before the next missile hits.

  My throat burns when I jerk awake, the screams in my nightmare echoing in the here and now. Sweat plasters my t-shirt to my chest, and my eyes feel hollow, my cheeks wet and clammy.

  “Fuck.” Every time I think I’ve beaten the nightmares, they shock me into humility. Losing most of my team, the grandmother and infant girl who perished alongside us, and my own weakness haunt me, and though my therapist tells me I’m doing fine, there are days I think he’s full of shit.

  My phone’s in my hand before I even realize what I’m doing, and I have a message from Cam starting back at me—along with her address.

  You didn’t disappoint me—I disappointed myself. I’d like to apologize in person. Maybe then I won’t screw it up.

  CAM

  By 5 p.m., I still haven’t heard from him, and I’m contemplating dinner options and an early bedtime. At least asleep I won’t have to keep staring at my silent phone. But the doorbell rings as I’m thumbing through takeout menus. “Hang on!”

  My hunger—at least for food—takes a back seat when I open the door. West’s t-shirt—green this time—turns his eyes a brilliant aquamarine, and a hint of aftershave reminds me of hiking through the Sierra Nevada foothills after a rainstorm—back before the bombs when I was free and whole. He holds up a bag from my favorite Thai restaurant, and in his other hand, he’s got a six-pack of beer.

  Nervousness settles in my belly. He’s here, with food. But the serious expression etched on his face doesn’t say “you’re forgiven.” I try for a smile. “How’d you know about Thai Ocean?”

  He looks baffled. “I pay attention. You talked about this place last week. Can I come in?”

  I nod, unable to come up with anything eloquent to say, and step aside.

  He heads for my kitchen. While he arranges the takeout containers, I slide past him, intending to retrieve plates and glasses. But the narrow galley leaves little room, and he turns to face me, the heat in his gaze rooting me to the spot.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper and lift a tentative hand to cup the back of his neck. I might not get another chance for this, and I have to know. Pulling him closer, I kiss him, and he wraps his arms around my waist. His tongue teases against the seam of my lips, and I open for him, heat flooding my core. As his hands roam upwards, his fingers tangling in my hair, I let him take, and I surrender to arousal so strong, I’d rip his clothes off if I thought he’d let me.

  When he pulls away, his voice is strained. “Sit down. I’ll get this.”

  If he’s trying to punish me, he’s doing a damn good job. I grab a beer to stop from licking my lips, to taste him lingering there because I’ll only want more. The microbrew washes down my longing, and I stare out the window, the glittering diamonds of Puget Sound duller now that we’re at odds. I can’t help watching him as he sets the plates down and makes a production of separating his chopsticks.

  “All right. I’m here. Talk.” He examines a fresh roll as I push the pad thai around on my plate.

  The warm breeze from my open patio door tickles my cheek, and I drag my fork through crumbled peanuts, searching for the right words.

  Frantic to fill the silence, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “We’ve spent almost every night together since we met—virtually. And every day, I’m glued to the clock, anticipating our next gaming session, but while Halo’s a blast, you’re the real reason I log on. To talk to someone who understands me, who laughs at my stupid jokes, and who brings over takeout and beer because he ‘pays attention.’”

  “So why can’t we see where this goes? What about me is so scary you won’t even consider it?”

  Desperate for a minute to think, to come up with something worthy of this man in front of me, I shove a large bite of noodles into my mouth. And with it, a pepper. As the spice hits the back of my throat, I start to gag, and the battle to swallow brings tears to my eyes.

  “Breathe, angel.” West springs from his chair and slides his arm around me, his palm resting flat against my stomach. “Can you answer me?”

  My nose is running now, and I can only manage short noisy breaths. But I nod, swallow after another exhale, and reach for my beer. He’s still so close, his heat branding my back, and as he releases me, the absence of his touch leaves me with a shudder. “Sorry.” The word rasps over my raw throat, and my cheeks catch fire as I push the plate away. “Give me a minute.”

  I lurch to my feet, and after a few awkward steps, I lean against the kitchen counter and try to compose myself. Will we ever have an easy conversation? Once I’ve stopped sniffling, I take a moment to study him from the door jamb. He’s tense, his hands balled into fists at his sides. I rejoin him at the table. “I’m probably the only Mexican you’ll ever meet who hates spicy food.”

  His eyes widen, and he slaps his hand over his heart. “Way to wound a guy, Cam. Now you’ll never go to Szechuan Noodle House with me.”

  The promise of another date coaxes a smile as I shake my head. “Never. Lucas took me there for my birthday two years ago. I spent the whole meal crying into my ma po tofu. Even their one-star spice is too much for me. I haven’t let him pick a restaurant since.”

  West chuckles. Despite my reservations about starting something, the fact that we can share a light moment despite recent disasters says a lot about his personality. Something’s shifted between us, and my next words are easier, lighter.

  “I didn’t know how to explain.” I turn my right hand palm up on the table. The deep, jagged scar that runs up my wrist doesn’t hurt, but I feel the repercussions every day. “I don’t have any sensation in my last two fingers. Sometimes, they have a mind of their own. Then
when I couldn’t even keep my ass in the chair…”

  West takes my hand and squeezes. “That’s all you had to say. Or hell, accidents happen. You didn’t have to explain at all. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you run away?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowns, and I rush to fix yet another foible. “Maybe because it was easier to run away than have to watch another guy decide I’m too much trouble—too broken or too slow or too...me. I didn’t understand that we couldn’t go back to being just friends. Or that…I didn’t want to.”

  West rises and moves to stare out the patio doors. His shoulders hike up around his ears, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I overreacted on the phone today.”

  “Maybe we both did.”

  With a sigh, he turns back to me. Small lines of strain bracket his lips, and his eyes darken. “My last girlfriend broke up with me after two years together. She said I’d disappointed her one too many times. But…I didn’t understand what I’d done—or hadn’t done. I’m a guy. We fuck up. Something on the Y-chromosome makes us oblivious to what’s right in front of us. So when I heard that same tone in your voice, I got defensive.”

  I hold out my hand, and West links his fingers with mine. “Why don’t we start over? You wanted to have dinner. We’re having dinner. The rest…let’s just see where things go.”

  “I’d like that.” He tugs me against him, and for several seconds, I’m not the broken girl, the awkward girl, I’m the girl I used to be.

  Before long, we’re joking our way through our mango sticky rice. He tells me about his older brother, Clay, and the teasing Clay suffered at the hands of the other kids.

  “Our parents wanted us to be ‘distinguished.’ So his full name is Barclay Ulysses Sampson. Try surviving fifth grade as ‘Barclay.’ After the third bloody nose—on the other kid, not Clay—Mom and Dad sent us to another school where he got to be Clay, and I went by West.”

  “Wait. What’s your real name, then?” I polish off my beer, and he pops the top on another, but doesn’t hand the bottle over.

  “If you laugh, I’m keeping this beer.” Once I promise I won’t, he pins me with a hard stare. “Westley Filbert Sampson.”

  My chuckle escapes before I can clap my hand over my mouth, and he takes a swig of the beer—my beer—as I fight for control.

  “Filbert?” I snort. “Your parents must have hated you.”

  “That’s Clay’s theory. I’m pretty sure they were just rebelling against their own parents. At least my mom’s. My grandmother named her Radiance Pearl. She legally changed her name to Rachel after college.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “the Princess Bride was one of my favorite movies growing up.” I wiggle my fingers, demanding my beer, and he makes a show over debating whether or not I deserve the bottle.

  “As you wish,” he says as he presses the beer into my palm, then rises and picks up our plates. “Your turn. What embarrassing stories do you have from your childhood?”

  “When I was eight, my best friend and I discovered Wonder Woman. We used to ‘fly’ around the neighborhood in our invisible jet with our magic bracelets made out of cardboard. I think we ‘saved’ all the boys at least once before they got tired of us and started running in the other direction. My parents grounded the invisible jet after we yelled at Mrs. Henderson for not seeing the plane and crushing it with her car.”

  With a fresh beer in his hand, West leans against the door jamb. “Are you close? To your parents?”

  I press my lips together, then sigh. “No. Not anymore.” He waits for me to explain, and I scramble to shut his questions down. “Things got…complicated around the time I joined the army. Still are. Not something I like to talk about.”

  For a few seconds, only the traffic noises filtering up from the street break the silence. Then West clears his throat. “We made it through dinner. What’s next?”

  Thankful for the reprieve, I gesture to the couch. “How about some Halo?”

  We play through a couple of campaigns, and it’s like yesterday never happened—except for his warmth at my side and the high fives that sting my palm most deliciously when we defeat a foe. After a particularly hard-fought battle, I cup his cheek, then brush a gentle, tentative kiss to his lips. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

  “I’m a SEAL, angel. We don’t give up on anyone.”

  We’re well into our third campaign when West’s phone buzzes on the coffee table. He curses as he glances at the screen. “I have to take this. It’s my weekend manager.”

  “Bedroom’s back that way.” I gesture down the hall. “If you want some privacy.”

  He shakes his head. After a gruff greeting, West’s whole body stills. “How many?” A pause and then he’s on his feet, stalking to the open balcony door. “We’re not teaching to a fad, Vasquez. And even if we did, the customers we’d gain by converting the locker rooms to a spin theater wouldn’t offset the construction costs.”

  West runs a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “I know. See if you can talk Yasmin into giving me another month. Everyone loves her. The rest…I’ll figure something out. The Horizon program should generate enough interest to keep us going.”

  As night bruises the sky and the first stars twinkle over Elliot Bay, West turns back to me. Frustration gathers between his brows and in the set of his shoulders. “I should go. I’ve got to be at the dojo for the 7:00 a.m. class.”

  The reluctance edging his tone spurs me into action, and I limp over to him, slide my hands down his arms, and then link our fingers. “What’s wrong?”

  “People think gyms rake in the dough. Truth is, I’m barely hanging on. People want the latest fitness craze. CrossFit, Spin, Barre, some shit where you pretend you’re drumming with these weighted sticks—they call it ‘Pound.’ There’s a new one every year. Krav Maga is different. Fitness is a side benefit. We teach self-defense, how to appreciate your body—no matter its size or shape—honor your abilities and then push through them. Yet I still get a dozen calls a week asking if we offer Pilates or worse—Zumba.” He rolls his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “We lost three more members this weekend to the new CrossFit place across the street, and one of my best instructors is threatening to quit because she sees her class size dwindling and worries she’ll be out of a job soon anyway.”

  “How bad is it?”

  As he stares past me, out over the city, he frowns. “Bad enough that I don’t know that we’ll be in business next summer. Not without a miracle.”

  In his moment of vulnerability, I realize what I refused to admit before: we’d moved beyond gaming buddies before ever I set foot in that coffee shop. I care for this man—enough to hurt when he hurts and care that he might lose something so important to him.

  I can’t help him with his customers or his staff, but I can offer him comfort. Sliding my arms around his neck, I use him for leverage so I can brush my lips against his. His short layer of stubble tickles as he pulls me closer and deepens the kiss. When he presses for more, I yield, my knees going weak as he drops his hands to cup my ass.

  Too soon, he breaks off the kiss to stare down at me, his eyes shining with flecks of gold amid the blue. “What happens now?”

  All night, I’ve been pondering that same question, but I didn’t have an answer.

  Until now. “Sleep is overrated, don’t you think?”

  With his fingers splayed against my back, he claims my mouth, and rational thought flees. His low rumble of agreement accompanies him sweeping me off my feet, and he carries me into the bedroom as if I weigh nothing at all.

  Panic sets in after he deposits me on the bed. I push up on an elbow. “West, I’m—” What? Broken? Scarred? Crippled? He’s seen me walk. He knows all of that. The reality of my injuries can’t be ignored, but I shake my head as he pulls off his t-shirt, blinded by the sheer beauty of him. Ink covers his chest, down his right arm, his ribs. Names in a flowing script, the SEAL insignia, and
lilies decorate his skin, and I want to trace every line. His jeans fall to the floor, leaving him in a pair of tight red briefs that do little to contain his arousal.

  “What are you, angel? Smart? Sexy? Gorgeous?” He’s next to me before I can answer, brushing the hair away from my neck. Goosebumps prickle along my bare arms as he kisses me again, the heat of him setting me ablaze like I haven’t felt in years. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he says as he slides his hands under my t-shirt to skim my waist.

  “Let no one ever say I don’t fight fair.” I lift my arms as he tugs my shirt over my head, and the catch of his breath gives me a little thrill when he sweeps a hungry gaze over my black lace bra. Yoga pants quickly follow the t-shirt’s path, and I’m already soaked with need.

  His hand hovers inches from the worst of the scars along my hip. “I won’t hurt you, will I?”

  “No.”

  The rough pads of his fingers scrape against my sides. “You’re beautiful, Cam.”

  “You’re blind.” Heat rushes to my cheeks—and elsewhere—as he explores my body, teasing kisses along the thin straps of lace at my hips, a lingering touch along my thigh. Then he traps me between his legs so he can stare up at me.

  “Tell me about these.” He traces the ink on my arm. The birds soar over my bicep amid the pockmarked divots and ridges from the fire and the shrapnel. Ivy winds around my wrist, all the way up to my elbow.

  “Therapy,” I whisper, so desperate for more I don’t want to talk. He won’t let me wriggle free, though, and I sag against the firm hold he has on my hips. “Long story.”

  I’ve said the wrong thing, and he releases me and leans back on the bed. “I meant what I said earlier.” He continues when I raise my brows, “I want to know you.” With a quick glance down at his erection, he chuckles. “Yes, I want more than conversation. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to rip those panties off and ravish you right now. If all I wanted was sex, though, I could get that on Tinder. Or hell, go down to any bar in Pioneer Square on a Friday night.