Breaking His Code (Away From Keyboard Book 1)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  I wrestle with the code for another two hours, unable to figure out why every time I compile, the whole system crashes. The software has been stable for months. All I’m doing now is making the tweaks we’ll need to make for every customer: file storage locations, employee accounts, and some of the optional bits, like HVAC controls and emergency lighting overrides. Around me, the office stills as one person, and then another, and another heads home. Soon, Royce and I are the only two left, and he’s back in his office with the door closed.

  As I’m packing up, he pokes his head out. “Can I talk to you?”

  I manage to contain my scowl, but it’s touch-and-go there for a moment. “If you’re not going to jump down my throat, sure.”

  His expression goes from unsure to pained as he steps aside so I can pass. “I deserved that.”

  I steel myself as I shut the door behind me.

  “I need you to handle the interviews on Thursday.” Royce collapses back into his chair, and before his words sink in, I think I see a wince deepen the lines around his eyes. My anger flares, along with a thread of concern.

  “And when am I supposed to finish the damn code? You kept the specs from us for too long, and now you can’t even hire the help we might not have needed if you’d been here?”

  “Look, I know I fucked up—“

  “Royce, you need to tell me what’s going on.” I jerk my head back towards the bullpen. “You’ve got a team of people out there who’d move virtual mountains for you—all because you gave them a chance. And—“ I can’t stop myself, but my voice fades to a whisper. “—you’ve got me.”

  Royce slams his hand down on his desk before I finish speaking. Pens jump, and a stress ball topples onto the floor. Rather fitting. “I’m trying to fix things!”

  “You’re doing a piss poor job of it.” I take a step closer, but something in his expression stops me. His gaze hardens, and the reinforced steel wall between us gains another layer. Blinking quickly, I try to stop the burning tear that threatens.

  “Jesus, Cam. I’m sorry, okay?”

  “No.” Through sheer force of will, I keep the tremor from my voice. “I’m exhausted. I’m working twelve hour days on this project. With Lucas overseeing the hardware, I’m stretched thin. I don’t need your attitude on top of everything.”

  I turn to leave, fed up with this conversation and with Royce. But he rounds his desk and touches my arm. “Cam, I know I haven’t been the easiest person to work with lately. Running this company…I love what I do, but the pressure can be intense.” He frowns, the lines around his eyes deepening with the motion. “Diffusing bombs didn’t leave me this fucked at the end of the day. Juggling projects, paying the bills, hustling for new clients…everything I do is to protect this team. Everything. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. It won’t happen again. I’ll get Abby to handle the interviews.”

  We haven’t been this close in ten years—he smells like the cloves from his cigarettes. His apology hangs in the space between us, and as I search his gaze, I wonder what, exactly, he’s apologizing for.

  Say something. Anything. Honest conversation isn’t our strong suit anymore, and I chicken out, giving his forearm a squeeze. “Get some rest, Royce. Cut the staff some slack. Maybe bring in doughnuts tomorrow.

  “We won’t let you down. This job? ZoomWare? We want Emerald City to succeed as much as you do. You just have to trust us a little more.” If I stay a minute longer, I’ll say something I regret, so I slip out of the office, and I think I hear him whisper, “I’ll try.”

  7

  WEST

  With his head bowed so his black hair hangs over his eyes, the sullen kid across from me fidgets. Picking at his Mariner’s t-shirt, scratching an itch that can’t be there on his prosthetic forearm, and occasionally glancing over to the mats to watch the afternoon advanced class going through their moves, he’s obviously trying to play it cool in front of his mom.

  “How safe is it?” His mother leans forward and drops her voice. As if the kid can’t hear from a foot away.

  “Very.” I pass her a handout. “All four instructors, including me, have been through extensive training with the country’s best rehabilitation specialists. Jack Maneli is based out of Seattle Children’s Hospital, and he’s—“

  “Manny?” The kid’s interest piqued, he shoves his swath of greasy hair away from his brown eyes.

  I try to hide my chuckle. Jack “Manny” Maneli has a reputation for being the coolest physical therapist in Seattle, and his work with young amputees has put him on the map. “Yep. Manny trained me personally. Said I wasn’t in bad shape. Then he made me fight him. I lost.”

  The kid’s eyes widen. “Mom, please.”

  “Will there be a doctor on site?”

  “Manny’s going to attend the first class, and after that, we’ll have one of his interns at every session. As part of the certification process, all of our instructors go through extensive CPR, injury assessment, and emergency response lessons that we repeat every four years.”

  Uncertainty swims in the woman’s eyes, but when she glances down at her son, who now sits up straight with a grin spreading across lips I bet usually wear a permanent frown, she nods. “Okay. Where do we sign up?”

  For the fifth time in half an hour, I try to loosen my tie. The young man across the desk from me, who probably graduated college last year, enters all of my information into the bank’s computer. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Sampson.”

  Everything I’ve worked for comes down to a computer algorithm. Yes or no. A good candidate for a loan or a poor one. A business with potential or one that’ll be gone within the year. How can a computer answer those questions when I can’t?

  I see the faces of the eighteen kids waiting to start the new Horizon program. The hope in their parents’ eyes convinced me this is the right thing to do. Hell, I’ve got a dozen men and women from VetNet ready to sign up for classes—if I can afford the goddamn insurance.

  The computer beeps, and my hope fades in an instant.

  “You have excellent credit, Mr. Sampson. But with the decline in your income over the past six months, Sound Trust can’t extend a loan to you at this time. We do offer a credit card with a ten-thousand-dollar cash advance and an annual percentage rate of twenty-nine-point-seven percent.” He ends his spiel with a smile, and it takes everything I have not to snatch the file folder from his hands and introduce him to some of the more colorful phrases I learned in the navy.

  “No, thank you.” The words struggle to escape through gritted teeth. “Can I talk to your manager? Plead my case? I know my membership numbers haven’t been the greatest lately, but the Horizon program will attract an entirely new set of customers—one that can’t find the classes they need anywhere else.”

  Sympathy swims in the young man’s gaze. “The computer’s decision is final, sir. I’m very sorry.”

  Garrett slides the frosty pint glass across the bar. “On the house. You look like someone stole your puppy.”

  “Another day, another bank telling me I’m not worth the risk.” The icy lager soothes my raw nerves. “They’ll let me take out a cash advance on a credit card, though.”

  “Let me guess? Thirty percent interest?” He shakes his head. “Fuckers. By the time I got the money to buy this place, a couple of the bank managers knew me on sight.”

  “How’d you finally pull it off?” Though half of Libations’ tables sit empty, most of the locals aren’t off work yet. By 7:00 p.m., the hostess will have to turn people away.

  With a dry laugh, Garrett slams a glass down on a cocktail shaker. “I came up with half of the down payment on my own. Saved every fucking penny. Stopped going out, ate ramen a couple times a week, taught a few craft cocktail classes for the local grocery co-op, took odd jobs whenever I could.”

  Ryker’s visit still weighs on me. “One of the guys I…helped…get out of Afghanistan offered me a job last week. Five large for a few days’ work.”

 
Garrett whistles. “What’s the problem, then?” He sets the drink on a tray for one of his servers, then leans a hip against the back wall and rubs his thigh. Most people would never guess that he lost a leg in Afghanistan, but on his bad days, the limp is obvious.

  “It’s K&R work on foreign soil. High value targets, high risk. That’s not my world anymore.” Even as I finish the sentence, I know I don’t have a choice. Two jobs and I’d have enough to pay for the insurance on the Horizon program for kids and for adults. Half a dozen missions and I could open in a new location far away from that fucking CrossFit studio.

  “Listen,” Garret says as he braces his hands on the bar. “If I’d had the chance—and the ability—to make that kind of money that fast before I got the loan for Libations, I would have jumped at it.”

  “Hey, stranger!” Lilah, Garrett’s fiancé, lays a delicate hand on my shoulder as she leans in to kiss my cheek. “Where’ve you been? We haven’t seen you since the engagement party.”

  “Playing a lot of Halo.”

  “Huh?” She yelps then laughs as Garrett swoops in from behind her, grabs her around the waist, and spins her before capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

  “Explain,” she says once she’s seated next to me with a Long Wet Kiss—the drink Garrett invented for her long before they fell in love. “What’s Halo? Or…who’s Halo?”

  “Halo’s an Xbox game. Though I did meet someone.” Longing stirs inside me as memories of Cam laughing, Cam sipping espresso, Cam naked and moaning rise to the surface.

  Lilah quirks a brow and waits for me to explain.

  “Cam is…” As I try to come up with words worthy of Cam, Garrett twines his fingers with Lilah’s across the bar for just a moment before he starts on another drink order. The tender gesture is probably an unconscious one on his part, and their love shines brighter than the spotlights on the multi-colored bottles that line the bar. “Lilah, hang on a sec.” I lean forward. “Garrett, would you take that job now?”

  He meets my gaze, a bottle of bourbon held aloft. “No. Not a chance.”

  CAM

  As I dig into my chicken piccata, I replay the day’s events, and anger and frustration simmer. Sure, Royce apologized. But he didn’t say anything. Not really.

  What’s worse? I let him get away with it.

  Sometimes I think I’m more of a coward than he is. He opened the door. Why didn’t I take that time to push—delicately—about his mood the past few weeks? Or all the other crap between us that’s been unsaid for so long?

  Answer: because I might have lost him completely. And I’m afraid that would break me, yet again.

  At least West is waiting for me, and once I sign in to Xbox Live and take my first sip of wine, I relax. “Ready to submit to my superior alien-fighting prowess?”

  West chuckles. “Bring it, angel.”

  “Oh, you’ll regret that. I’ve had a shitty day, and I’m ready to take my frustrations out on your Spartan.” I cut down his character with my first shot. “You’ll be begging for mercy by the end of the night.”

  “What happened today?”

  A volley sails toward my soldier, and I roll to the side, then come up firing. Another hit, another curse, and we’re set upon by a horde of aliens. “The Coana job is getting to me.” I fill him in on today’s events as I decimate another group of hostiles, and when I’ve secured a tidy victory, I drop the controller in my lap and close my eyes. “Do you ever feel like it’s you against the world?”

  Silence greets me, and I wrack my brain for something light, fun, easy. Desperate to fill the void between us, I pick up my controller, but he saves me from my awkwardness before I can respawn my character.

  “All the time. Ten people depend on me for their paychecks. And when things go wrong, I have no one to blame but myself.” His voice roughens. “I’ve got a great team. But at the end of the day, my ass is on the line for every decision I make. The pressure never lets up.”

  “How do you handle it?”

  His strained laugh belies his easy words. “I take my frustrations out on the punching bag or one of my sparring partners. Blow shit up with you at night.”

  “Did you convince your instructor to stay?”

  “For a while.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Soon, we’re back to shooting aliens on screen and talking about movies. Well, I’m talking. He’s mostly giving me one- or two-word answers. By the end of the night, I feel worse than when we started.

  “You’re upset. Talk to me.”

  A heavy sigh carries over the line. “I want to launch this new program. No one else offers anything like it outside of New York City and Los Angeles. Once I get it off the ground, the CrossFit place becomes just a blip on the radar. But if I can’t get a loan for the extra insurance costs, though, it’s dead in the water. The bank didn’t look kindly at my books today.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, West.”

  Ice clinks in a glass. “I’ve had to take on some private security work. Rent-a-cop shit. I won’t be around tomorrow night. Some corporate party where the CEO ‘only wants the best.’ It’s at a country club for fuck’s sake. The most excitement I’m going to see is an entitled board member puking on the golf course.”

  More ice rattles and his voice takes on a very different tone. Deeper. Guttural. Sensual. “If I call you when I get home…will you tell me what you’re wearing?”

  Before I head for bed, I pop on VetNet. I’ve been neglecting them, and though we both fought sleep for as long as we could, West lost the battle and started snoring over his headset a few minutes ago. I’m still wired, so I start a new thread, hoping for some levity.

  FlashPoint: The meds are kicking in, and I’m a little loopy. Anyone got a funny story to share? I’ll start. I’m working this killer job right now. Long hours. I order a grilled cheese and fries for lunch today on my way back from the client, and when the waiter delivers the meal, he trips over my laptop bag. The sandwich flies apart, both pieces of bread landing cheese side down on the floor, and fries pelt me. One fell down my shirt and settled in my bra. No big deal, accidents happen. But three hours later, when I’m meeting with my boss, he finds a French fry in my hair.

  I should really shower. I think there’s still French fry grease between my breasts. Royce looked so uncomfortable fishing the fry out of my dark locks, but to his credit, he said nothing. Just tossed the offending shoestring into the trash.

  Soon, the thread is full of replies. Everything from poorly-fitting prosthetics falling off in the middle of sex to walking in on coworkers kissing in the supply closet to attending a client meeting with an open fly or a pair of panties clinging to a sweater. I’m laughing so hard tears are threatening, and the bone-deep ache in my hip has faded to an uncomfortable burn.

  Relaxed now, I take a few minutes to poke around some of the other threads, commiserating with LT4Life on the Chronic Pain board, sending BlueBayone a list of good physical therapists in Tacoma, and posting cute baby animal pics on the Light and Fluffy board. Hey, everyone needs a baby panda now and again.

  Over on the Vents and Rants board, HuskyFan has a new post.

  HuskyFan: We got the bill for our temporary insurance today. We don’t have enough money in the bank. My new job pays well—for what it is—but not well enough. Even if I cancel my own coverage and just take care of my wife and the boy, I don’t know that we’ll make it. I had to take on some work for a buddy on the side. I’m already working overtime at the day job, and now I need to work nights as well. I’m not sleeping, and my son started crying when I left for work today. Someone tell me it’ll be worth it in the end?

  I can’t reassure him—not the way he needs—but I send him a private message, hoping that maybe taking his mind off his troubles will help.

  FlashPoint: Hey. I thought you’d like to know that I patched things up with first-date guy. We’re seeing each other again on Friday night. I haven’t been this excited about someone in a long time.

  A few min
utes later, he replies.

  HuskyFan: Tell me about him. Distract me. I’m killing time at the second job waiting for someone else, and it’s hard not to wallow.

  For the next half an hour, we trade messages, and though I don’t kiss and tell—much—dishing a little about West with a semi-anonymous stranger helps me process why I feel the way I do, even though the relationship is still new. West and I share experiences, despite serving in two different branches of the military. That common thread runs through our lives, and so when West talks about letting his employees down, I don’t see just a business owner, but a commanding officer. And when I talk about all the extra work I’m doing to launch Oversight on time, he doesn’t see dedication. He sees me taking command of my own team, doing my best under orders from on high. He listens, and asks questions, and when we talk, I feel like he truly understands me.

  When HuskyFan fails to respond to my last message, I send him some final words of encouragement before signing off.

  FlashPoint: I hope things get better for you, HF. I’ll check in with you in a few days. Don’t give up. When I got blown up, I thought my life was over. But now, even on the days the pain’s the worst, I’m happy. You’ll get there too.

  8

  CAM

  I ’d like to take this day and shove it up Lucas's ass. Dude bailed this morning, leaving Al and the rest of the crew scrambling. Now I’m on the fifth floor, trying to make sense of Lucas's shorthand.

  “We’ll manage, ma’am.” Al takes the notes from me, squints, and shrugs. “The first few days were rough, but everyone knows their shit—um, sorry—stuff now, and we can make up the time.”

  “You can drop the ‘ma’am.’ We’re all in this together. Camilla or Cam is fine. Lucas says you’re doing great work. All of you. But we can’t afford any screw-ups on this job.”