Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  “Follow me, then. I’m Marjorie, by the way,” she says and smiles. “If you change your mind, just holler.”

  I don’t plan on being here long enough to need something to drink. Dax’s message implied his company—Second Sight—could help me. They can’t. If he hadn’t dropped Austin’s name, I would have ignored the email completely.

  Marjorie leads me down a hall and past several closed doors until she reaches the last office on the right. She knocks once, waits a beat, and raps again before she turns the knob.

  “Go on in, Mr. Hargrove.”

  “Griff,” I say, but she’s already gone. The man behind the desk rises, tugging at the sleeves of his light blue button down as he stares at me.

  He doesn’t smile—the eyes behind his pair of tinted glasses remain cold. From his expression, I’m not sure he knows how. “Austin told me about the attack in Islamabad. I’m assuming you can read lips or understand ASL, but I’d feel better if you confirmed that for me.”

  “I can understand some ASL, but I can read lips well enough. As long as you don’t talk too fast.” I hold out my hand, but Dax doesn’t return the gesture.

  Asshole. It’s my left arm that’s fucked, not my right. I can still shake hands.

  “I haven’t heard from Austin in six months. Are you going to tell me where he is and why the hell he won’t respond to any of my emails?”

  Dax’s lips twitch, and he rubs the back of his neck as he returns to the seat behind his desk. “Not sure exactly what he’s gotten himself into, but he’s in Edgewater with someone he met on his ‘walkabout.’ Got back from Mexico last night.”

  “And he called you. Not me. Did the man forget how to type down there? Or FaceTime?”

  Dax’s shoulders straighten, and he presses his hands flat on the desk in front of him. “He didn’t call me. I sent two of my guys down to Edgewater to help him out with a problem, and he gave me an update. Now are you going to sit down?”

  “Fine.” I drop into a chair and rub my left shoulder. It’s humid as fuck today, and the socket is chafing my residual limb something fierce. I shouldn’t have bothered with it, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to meet new people when I look normal. My left hand is covered in a layer of silicone that almost looks like skin—if you’re not paying close attention. “Why am I here?”

  “Because Second Sight does a lot of things, Griff. We’re known as a security and protection firm, but we also work with two companies on the west coast specializing in adaptive tech.”

  “In what?”

  As if he mumbled the last two words on purpose, Dax passes me a tablet with the words “specializing in adaptive tech” on the screen.

  “So, you put your own speech-to-text program on an iPad. Big deal. Siri already does that.”

  “You’re not looking at just any speech-to-text-program,” he says, and the words appear in front of me with almost no delay. “It learns. All those words unique to you? It’ll catch.”

  I don’t look up. I’ve watched YouTube videos night after night after night working on my lipreading skills, but the mental load of always translating in my head? It can be exhausting.

  “Prove it.”

  My own words appear on the screen, but unlike Dax’s speech, which is in black, my words are in blue.

  “Prove it yourself.” He sits back and skims his fingers toward a cup of coffee. The movement’s odd, like he’s worried he’s going to knock it over.

  “I don’t need a fucking tablet to help me communicate with the rest of the world, Holloway. Austin doesn’t know a damn thing about my life these days, but as you can see, I’m managing just fine.”

  His head snaps up, and his entire body goes rigid. “As I can see?”

  “Yeah.” I gesture to my prosthetic arm, then catch sight of the tablet screen. Dax isn’t wrong about the software. It even italicized the words we emphasized. And it didn’t change fucking to ducking.

  Dax sets his mug down carefully, then removes his glasses to reveal scarring all around his eyes. Without the tinted lenses, his irises are pale as the morning sky. “You don’t know me, kid. But choose your next words very carefully. I’m blind.”

  Fuck me. Of all the stupid presumptions… I should know better. Anger, shock, and a hell of a lot of shame clog my throat, and I swallow hard before I can reply. “Dammit. No one told me.”

  “No shit. Austin says you’ve got the best damn instincts of anyone he’s ever met—besides me and my ODA team. Those of us who are still alive, anyway. But you’re so caught up in your own shit, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” He lunges over the desk and holds out his hand. “Give me the goddamned tablet.”

  Thrusting it at him, I shove the chair back and stand. “I’m sorry for my shitty choice of words. But the rest of it? I don’t need your help. I’m managing just fine on my own.”

  I’m out the door before he can say another word, and when Marjorie waves at me, trying to get me to stop, I ignore her too.

  Staying in a hotel room? It makes me feel…normal. I turned down the accessible room. It was on the ground floor, and that’s just too much risk when you can’t hear anyone breaking in.

  Even though I didn’t lose all my hearing in Islamabad, my world’s been reduced to low rumbling noises most people would consider annoying. Semi trucks. Trains. And the elevator car as it travels up and down the shaft right next to my room. Strange how what used to be just noise now almost makes me smile.

  Alone in the dimly lit room, I sit with my back against the headboard watching the Red Sox on TV. Sports are one of the few things I can follow without closed captioning, and I don’t want any more of the broken pieces of my life thrown back in my face right now.

  Then why am I emailing Austin?

  Pritchard,

  When you said you were going off the grid, I didn’t think you meant completely. Couldn’t have given me a heads up? And what’s with sending me to Boston to meet with a blind guy? In case you didn’t know, I’m mostly deaf, not blind. Don’t try to tell me I can still live a full life. Not until you’re walking around without your fucking arm too.

  Don’t contact me again.

  -Griff

  Austin and I were never close. I was part of his security detail. We had beers once a week. At the occasional lunch together. But after the attack, he was there for me. At least for a few days. Until they transferred us from Bagram to separate hospitals in the States. Me in McClean and Austin up in New England somewhere. That’s when he went dark, and I tried to ignore how much his silence hurt.

  My watch buzzes on my right wrist, and I glance down at the text message.

  Open the door.

  -Dax

  The hell? I didn’t tell Holloway where I was staying. And I sure as shit would have noticed someone following me back here.

  Sliding off the bed, I check the peephole. Despite being mostly blind, he’s staring right at me—or so it seems—so I open the door.

  “Want to explain how you found me?” I ask as I step aside to let him in. His cane sweeps back and forth across the garish carpet, and I add, “There’s a chair at your four o’clock.”

  “So, you’re not a complete dick, then.” Finding the chair, he sinks down with a grimace and rubs his thigh. “Just angry as fuck.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Closing the door and taking a seat on the bed across from him, I lean forward so I can watch his lips. Why is hotel lighting always so awful?

  Dax reaches into his jacket pocket for an eyeglass case and tosses it to me.

  “I don’t need glasses.”

  “You do now. Put them on.”

  There’s no arguing with a man like him. He carries himself with a presence that fills the room, and despite his lack of sight, I have a feeling he could still kick my ass. So I do it.

  The black frames aren’t particularly stylish. Or prescription.

  “They’re on. Happy now—holy fuck.”

  Across the top of the lens
es, my own words appear.

  “They’re a prototype,” Dax says. Just like on the tablet, his reply is in a different color. “The software’s glitchy, the glasses weigh a ton, and right about now, there’s probably too much text on the lenses for you to read—or see.”

  I don’t register that he’s stopped speaking because seeing the words appear right in front of my eyes with almost no delay is like fucking magic.

  “Griff?”

  Everything else scrolls away, and my name snaps me back to the present. “This… How?”

  “Told you. I work with some of the best in adaptive tech. You got a notepad around?”

  I scramble for the pad of hotel stationery and a pen. “Yeah.”

  “Write something. Anything. Doesn’t have to make sense. And hand it to me.” He scoots to the edge of the seat and holds out his hand.

  I scribble my childhood phone number followed by a handful of random words: cheeseburger, plane, cat, Venus—then pass him the note.

  Dax taps the frame of his own glasses, and in under a minute, reads every single number and word back to me.

  “How the fuck did you do that?”

  His laugh is rough and seems to surprise him. Pulling an earbud from his right ear, he shrugs. “Optical character recognition. Lets me read menus, documents. Slow as fuck, but better than relying on someone else to do all that shit for me.”

  For the next hour, Dax peppers me with questions. I’m using the tablet now, as the glasses quickly became overwhelming, but this is the easiest I’ve been able to communicate with anyone since the bombs went off, and I’m talking to a blind man.

  “We’re done,” he says, finally. “Keep the tablet for now. Any software updates my team makes can be delivered wirelessly. Royce—he’s our hardware guy—is working on the scroll rate and battery life for the glasses. Pretty sure he even has a couple of frame styles you can choose from. If you can pull that two-by-four out of your ass, come to Second Sight in three days and maybe we can help you get back part of what you lost.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Or how to thank you. But…y-yeah. I’ll be there.” Dax nods once, and as soon as he leaves, I pick up my laptop and send Austin one last email.

  Austin,

  I owe you an apology. I don’t know how he found me, but Dax Holloway knocked on the door of my hotel room a couple of hours after I stormed out of his office. The dude is…intense. Asked me questions for-fucking-ever, then told me to show up at Second Sight in three days without the massive stick up my ass.

  I guess I’m going. Not like I have anything better to do.

  -Griff

  Chapter Three

  Sloane

  “Are you sure I can’t keep my hair down for this shoot?”

  The bright lights make the room ten degrees hotter than it should be, and the silk robe sticks to my back. Marina, the makeup artist for all the Beauty and Style photo shoots in New York, rests her hands on my shoulders and leans down so we’re at the same level. I meet her gaze in the mirror and chew on my lower lip—something I seem to do more and more these days.

  “The photographer requested an up-do, sweetie. And come on. I outdid myself today.”

  She’s not wrong. My golden hair shines, with wisps curling along my cheeks to my collarbones. It’s organized chaos—Marina’s term—and took her more than two hours.

  Beauty and Style—a multi-million-dollar print and online fashion empire—wanted a sophisticated, fancy, and whimsical look for their spring campaign, and Marina delivered. But when she holds up the mirror so I can examine her work, all I see is the cluster of faded dots where once, my neck bore the tattoo of a crown over a series of numbers. The evidence of my sordid past, erased for everyone but me.

  I brush my fingers over the skin, shuddering at the uneven texture, the lack of sensation.

  The alarm on Marina’s phone beeps, and she checks the screen. “Twenty minutes until showtime. How do you feel?”

  She knows me. Not the real me. The old me. But I’m closer to her than anyone else in my life. “Like I’m about to come out of my skin. I need a pill.”

  My lips roll together, pressing and pursing, and I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair over and over again. The unconscious movements are getting worse—a side effect of the meds I take for anxiety and depression—but I can’t risk switching up my prescriptions now.

  Just another couple of shoots, then a potential trip to Zurich for Beauty and Style’s Christmas Book press junket. After that, I can relax. Take a week or two at a “spa” that’s really a mental health and wellness retreat and fix this.

  Tardive dyskinesia.

  At least my psychiatrist could diagnose me over a video call. One look at me at my worst, and she leaned forward, her brows drawn together, to ask me how long I’d been like this. Admitting the truth—six months or more—had me bawling to her for half an hour, but at the end of the session, at least we had a plan.

  Marina hands me a small, plastic case and a bottle of water with a straw. “Once the lip dye goes on, you can’t chew it off, okay?”

  “I’ll try.” Fishing out one of the Xanax, I wash it down with the chilled mountain spring water and close my eyes. Marina touches up my cheeks, then starts on my lips.

  The second the primer wand touches me, I struggle to stay still. While TD movements are technically involuntary, I can control them for a short time if I pour all my focus into the effort.

  Ten minutes later, I’m barely holding on. The amount of energy it takes to stop chewing off the lip dye is exhausting.

  “You’re done. Head to wardrobe,” Marina says, smoothing her hands down my arms and giving me a quick squeeze. “You have never looked more stunning, Sloane.”

  “You’re biased,” I say, rising and giving her an air kiss—can’t mess up the lip dye after all.

  “Maybe. But I’ve been in this business for twenty years. Your exclusive contract with Beauty and Style? No one and nothing else could steal me away from Vogue.”

  I pull her in for a quick, tight hug. We only met because Beauty and Style pays her to make me look my best—and help keep me calm—but after working together for five years, Marina is one of my closest friends. Maybe my only friend. She sees me at my worst, and other than Max, she’s the only one who knows my eyes aren’t ice blue, but brown.

  “You know I love you, right?” she asks, her voice whisper quiet in my ear.

  I nod, though my insecurities rear up and choke any hope of a reply. Everyone wants a piece of me. Max, the Beauty and Style marketing department, fans—whenever I go out all made up, anyway. And with my stellar history of choosing the wrong people to trust, I worry, even though I know I shouldn’t. Not with her.

  Marina doesn’t ask for more than I can give—most of the time. I’ll chew off this lip dye before we’re halfway done with the shoot.

  “Four outfit changes today, Sloane,” a sweet, matronly woman says as she holds out her hand for my robe.

  I don’t remember her name, but she’s quick and efficient, so less than ten minutes later, I’m zipped, taped, and strapped into a shimmering golden evening gown that plunges deep between my breasts. Every step exposes my waxed, moisturized, and body-painted thigh through one slit or another, and though I hate wearing heels, I have to admit…this get-up makes me feel like royalty.

  Gliding through the door to the set, I plaster on a fake smile.

  “All right, people,” the photographer shouts as he snaps his fingers. “Let’s see if we can get Ms. Sanders out of here in under four hours, shall we?”

  Everyone leaps into action, and within minutes, I’m in another world. One where fantasies exist, and every little girl can grow up to be a princess.

  Four hours my ass. It’s closer to six by the time I pull on the ultra-soft tunic dress I wore to the shoot—designed not to leave a single mark or crease on my skin—and am safely ensconced in the back of the agency’s town car.

  Here, I can relax. Darius, my driver wheneve
r I’m in New York, knows how exhausting long shoots are, and though he always asks me how I am, he doesn’t do small talk.

  “Any stops tonight, Ms. Sanders?”

  “No, thank you. All I want is some time on the stair master, dinner, and a little peace and quiet.” Forcing a smile, I meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

  “Gotcha. I’ll have you back to the St. Regis in half an hour.”

  Despite my words, the idea of spending the entire night locked in my hotel room or at the gym makes my chest tight. I need to get out. To walk. Breathe fresh air. Blend in among the crowds.

  Not more than ten minutes after Darius drops me off, I’m back on the street. Dark glasses dim the beauty of the city, but the energy that is New York makes up for it. Disappearing is easy here. A pair of tight jeans, a soft black sweater, running shoes…I look like any other tourist.

  If Max knew I was wandering around alone, he’d pitch a fit. Which is exactly why I escape into the crowds whenever I can.

  The first time I came to New York after Max saved me, I was twenty-three, and though I believed most of the world was a horrible, terrifying place, Times Square awed me. It still does. There’s a rhythm to this city. A heartbeat I feel deep in my soul.

  Maybe it’s because I came from such a small town in Russia. Or because in New York, you can be anyone you want to be. Right now, I’m just an ordinary tourist with my scuffed, broken-in Sketchers, a cheap canvas bag, and a freshly scrubbed face free of all makeup.

  This is freedom. As much as I ever have since my life belongs to the Ulstrum Agency. At least for another eight months.

  Max slides the contract across the table, and though my eyes are puffy from crying through some of the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, I squint at the text until he starts reading it to me. “In public, you’ll always wear your contact lenses, and you won’t speak Russian ever again. You’ll stick to the agreed upon script about your past, how you got into modeling, the loss of your family.”