“That asshole could have killed you.” She shakes her head, and messy curls tumble around her heart-shaped face. “The drunk drivers on this street have been getting worse and worse the past few months. There’s an illegal bar that moves around the ridge—mostly out of people’s garages—and they keep serving until 6:00 a.m.”
“Fuckers.” I can’t manage anything more complex yet, but I let Corrine help me to my feet and walk me over to the coffee shop. She sits me down, gets her coat from the back, and wraps the fleece around my shoulders.
“I’ll call the police and then get you a coffee, okay?”
I nod, my heart still racing. Closing my eyes, I let Corrine’s murmur lull me into a semi-trance as I pull my mantra from the depths of my mind. Breathe, believe, act. Breathe, believe, act. Breathe, believe act. By the time the coffee grinder starts, I can no longer hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears, but that might be worse. Now, I’m wondering why it took me so long to move, why I spent so long just staring at the vehicle speeding towards me.
The scent of my usual drink calms me, and I force my eyes open to meet Corrine’s concerned gaze. “How’re you doing, hon?”
She slides an orange cranberry scone in front of me, and I try to force a smile in thanks.
“Been better. I was in the army for ten years. You’d think I could handle a crisis a little better.” I take a sip of the dark brew and shudder as I try to stop my tears from spilling over.
“You can’t prepare for something like that. It’s just so random.”
Another customer pushes through the door, and I nod towards the coffee bar. “I’m okay. How long 'til the cops show up?”
“Ten minutes or so. You just relax.”
With my coffee and comforting carbs within reach, I let my head rest against the wall behind me. Relax. Sure. Because I’ve always been so good at that.
By the time I deal with the police, my hip goes from numb to screaming pain. Thank God for car-sharing. The four-block walk to my tiny rental house would have taken me all fucking day. A handful of ibuprofen should get me through work—after all, I don’t have to do much more than sit at my desk, but the thought of one of Ryker’s grueling workout sessions makes me shudder.
A hot shower helps, though catching sight of the blooming purple bruise covering my left hip makes me cringe, and I start to tremble again. I’ve had bombs dropped so close to my location I had to open my mouth before impact or my lungs would have burst from the percussive force, and one drunk driver is reducing me to a quivering mess. I sink down to the floor and let the hot water rush over me as I drop my head into my hands.
In war, there’s an element of control. Or…at least convention. No, the enemy doesn’t always play fair. But armies have habits and routines you can anticipate. This? One step in the wrong direction, one extra second of delay, and I would have died. Or ended up in the hospital with serious injuries. I was lucky. Someone without my training wouldn’t have been.
On my way to work, I engage the hands-free and call Royce. I wish I could see him, feel his arms around me. We ended last night in bed—on the phone of course—trading suggestions of what we wanted to do to one another. A little of that might take the edge off my raw mood.
“‘Morning,” he says with just a hint of a Texas drawl. Sleep still lingers in his voice, and I kick myself as I realize it’s not even eight yet.
“Oh shit. I woke you up, didn’t I?” A city bus cuts me off, and I swear and lay on the horn.
A yawn stretches over the line. “Maybe. But I can only think of one better way to wake up, and you’re not here, so…”
“Pretend I am.”
“I’d open my eyes to see you straddling me. Your hands sliding down my chest. Oh, and you’re naked. I wrap my hands around your hips, and your scent...”
My eyelids flutter, and as the stoplight turns green, I clear my throat. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m going to run off the road.”
“There are some advantages to taking a car service everywhere.” His throaty laugh is infectious, and as I try to maneuver the rental car down one of Seattle’s narrower side streets, I think maybe he’s right. I miss my coupe.
“Doing anything fun today?” We’re still in the early stages of this “thing” between us, and while I could listen to his voice all day, I’ve never been very good at small talk.
“Working on my app. I have a meeting with Cam on Monday, and I want everything polished so she can decide if it’s something she wants to integrate into Oversight.”
“Isn’t that your decision? You still own Emerald City, don’t you?”
“For now.” A hint of strain darkens his voice. “I’m seeing my lawyer next week. He’ll draw up the sale paperwork. Cam’s done a kick-ass job, and she deserves to run the place. Permanently. If she wants, I’ll take an advisory position, draw a small salary. But almost dying helps you see what’s important. I ran a good business. Hired great people. Even worked some killer deals. But Cam…she’s a natural. And this app…it has real potential to help people.”
Turning down Seneca, I sigh as the sparkling waters of Puget Sound stretch out before me. Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is.
“You okay?” Movement carries over the line, and I think I hear a coffee grinder in the background.
“Almost at work. Parking sucks down by the water, but at least I get to see Puget Sound every morning. Kind of wish you were here with me.”
“Are you okay, baby?”
My breath hitches at the term of endearment and the care I hear in his voice. Am I? Probably not, but he’s there, and I’m here, and what’s wrong with me he can’t fix.
“Fine. I…just didn’t sleep well. I swear, I’m not usually this…needy.”
“Tomorrow night, I plan on needing you multiple times.” His husky tone sends my heart racing and almost makes me forget about the drunk driver and Coop’s death.
We chat about the weather, about how awesome my mechanic is to have my car ready for me this afternoon, and where we want to eat tomorrow night. “I should go,” I say as I park and throw my door open. Standing, though, proves more difficult than I’d anticipated, and I hiss out a breath when my hip protests the movement. Damn. Sitting for half an hour didn’t do me any favors.
“Inara? What’s wrong?”
I should tell him, but he’ll worry, and there’s nothing he can do. So I hedge.
“I fell on my run this morning. I’m fine. Just a little banged up. Getting out of the car hurt more than I expected.”
“Why don’t we stay in tomorrow? I’ll cook. Come over at seven.”
A single bruise won’t keep me down, but I’m still jetlagged, and a quiet dinner with Royce—followed by some not-so-quiet sex is what the doctor would order. “Deal. I’ll bring the wine. Red or white?”
“Red.” After a pause, he clears his throat. “I hope you like spicy.”
The rough edge to his tone hints at more than food, and I chuckle. “Bring it on, soldier. I can handle spicy.”
Royce
Waves of heat shimmer above the sand, and I rub the back of my neck with my gloved hand. My back aches, and my stomach roils. I should have put an end to the drinking before 2:00 a.m., but no one’s had a break in weeks.
A thousand yards away, Cam crouches in front of a bomb strapped to a piece of playground equipment. “Come on, baby,” she says quietly over comms. “Tell me all your secrets.”
“Rolls.” Yanko kneels next to me. We’re crouched behind a concrete wall, our six-man team—well, five men and Cam—all exhausted. We weren’t even supposed to be on duty today, but the other ordinance unit has food poisoning. All of them. Fucking luck of the draw.
“What?” I hiss. “She’s almost done. Don’t distract her.”
“Something’s wrong. That burned out car next to her? It wasn’t there yesterday. SAT scans—”
“Almost got her,” Cam says.
“Sergeant, listen. Special Forces lost a three-man team l
ast week. Same sort of deal. A pile of debris that wasn’t there the day before…bombs hidden under pressure plates and too much sand and metal to be detected by our equipment.”
Yanko’s a worrier, and Cam’s about done, so I hold up my hand in dismissal.
Cam brushes her hands on her suit. “I have the detonator; headed for you.”
“You’re clear,” I say even as Yanko grabs my arm. I’m ready to tear him a new one until I see his face. That’s not worry. That’s pure terror. “Pint, stop!”
The first explosion sends my heart into my throat. The second tears a scream free, and the third sends Cam’s slight frame flying. The rest of the bombs detonate in slow motion, but I don’t see or hear them. I’m focused on her. She isn’t moving.
Ignoring Yanko trying to hold me back, I vault over the wall and race for her. I don’t care if there are more bombs. Once I hear her choked cry, I’m unstoppable.
“Call for evac!” I scream as I climb over the mangled playground equipment to reach her. “Cam, don’t move!”
Her suit’s burned, the thick material melting into her skin. Shrapnel’s shredded her arm, and her left leg is broken in at least two places. Blood gushes from her side, and I press my hands to the wound. I can’t see her face. Her helmet still covers her face, though there’s a massive dent in one side. Yanko reaches us and tears the helmet off before I can stop him.
“What the fuck? She could have a spinal cord injury!” One look at her face, though, and I know she can feel every burn, break, and gash. “Pint, hold on. MEDEVAC is on their way.” With a quick glance up at Yanko, I confirm he’s called them, and the rest of the team gathers around us.
“Rolls,” she whispers as her eyelids flutter. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’ve got you. But you have to hold on, Cam. It’s not that bad. Once they patch up your side and your leg, you’ll be fine.”
“Don’t…lie.” A drop of blood escapes her lips. When she coughs, her entire body spasms. “Tell…my family…find…them…so sorry…love…”
“Shut up, soldier. That’s an order. You are not going to die. Do you hear me? Keep those eyes open and focus on me.”
The whoop, whoop, whoop of the MEDEVAC sounds like it’s miles away, and I press my hands harder against Cam’s stomach. “Fight. Please, fight.”
I land on the floor with a bone-jarring thud, and when I open my eyes, I’m in my living room staring up at my couch.
After yoga, I wanted to dive right into my app, but then the Alzheimer’s Association of Seattle called. I have to be at my best to meet with them this afternoon, so I’d stretched out on the sofa with some meditative music streaming from my phone.
I’m luckier than most. My nightmares and PTSD aren’t that bad. But whenever I dream—and remember—it’s always that terrible day when Cam almost died because I hesitated.
I drive the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to force away the sight of all the blood, her suit melting into her arm, and her mangled leg. I tried to stop the bleeding, kept her alive her until the MEDEVAC touched down, then held her hand the whole flight to the military hospital. Talked to her. Made her answer me.
And then…I left her. Sure, I waited around long enough for the doctors to tell me that she’d live, but after that, I left Yanko in charge, got piss drunk, and didn’t leave the barracks for three days.
My team took shifts at her bedside. I didn’t even ask about her. I couldn’t. Between finding more bourbon—not the good stuff—and wondering how the hell I could live with myself after that mistake, let alone face her again, I retreated into a shell, ignored everyone who came to check on me, and didn’t emerge until I went to my CO a week later to beg for reassignment.
I stumble into the shower, my head pounding. I thought I’d moved past the worst of the guilt. Or…at least shoved it so deep down inside me that it couldn’t affect me. After all, Cam and I are talking again. Though since I only opened up to her a few weeks before my surgery, the conversation was largely one-sided for a while. Hard to explain yourself when you can’t talk.
She forgave me—though I still don’t know why. But seeing her the other day when West was gone…it was clear the damage I caused with my cowardice hasn’t healed. In fact, if West is getting ready to propose or ask her to move in with him again, it’s going to hit her all over again.
Dammit. We have to have a serious talk. Soon.
My tie itches. This is Seattle, for fuck’s sake. The only people wearing ties in this city are bankers and hotel desk clerks. But I need this meeting to go well, so I dug out the power-blue noose and fumbled through tying it for half an hour. Post-stroke Royce might need to invest in clip-ons.
“Mr. Nadiri?” The woman standing in front of me looks like a cross between my grandmother and Maggie Smith in the Harry Potter movies. Dressed to the nines, a high-necked blouse buttoned all the way up, with her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. But her smile welcomes me, and her eyes crinkle with warmth as she shakes my hand. “I’m Minerva.”
Of course.
“A pleasure, Minerva. Thanks for seeing me this afternoon.”
She gestures to a small conference room off the lobby of the Alzheimer’s Association’s Seattle headquarters. “We’re in here. I’m very excited to see how Loc8tion works and hear about your plans for the future. Can I get you some coffee while you set up?”
“That would be great. Thank you.” I pull out my laptop as Minerva clips out of the room on high-heeled lace-up boots.
By the time she returns with two steaming cups of coffee, I have my presentation ready to go.
“I hope you don’t mind. I invited my CIO to join us,” she says as a tall, severe man in a crisp black suit joins us.
“Leo Haight,” he says as we shake hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Loc8tion is a GPS-enabled app designed to help those who struggle with directions, memory, or distances. In its current version, it allows the administrative user to track any other users on the system with a few keystrokes. If a user gets lost, the admin can scroll through their last eight stops and Loc8tion will give them directions.”
As I run through the demo, Leo and Minerva nod at all of the appropriate places, asking intelligent questions about the app’s functionality, and exchanging what I think are impressed glances.
“Currently, the app requires an iPhone or Android device and a smartwatch, but I’m working with hardware manufacturers to see if the tracker can be embedded in a pendant, belt buckle, or bracelet. I hope in the future, I can work with the Medic-Alert company to create a bracelet or pendant or medallion that would combine a user’s Medic-Alert status and my transmitter.”
“That’s wonderful,” Minerva says. “And the cost per user?”
“Retail, the software alone will go for $3.99. But that’s just for the standalone version. Administrative capabilities are $49.99 for up to ten users. Additional users can be added in packages of ten for $9.99.”
“And the devices?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a cost for those yet. But the initial estimates are coming in at around fifty dollars if I order under a thousand, twenty-five dollars if I order more than five thousand.”
Minerva nods, her enthusiasm growing. “So for approximately one hundred dollars, a family could have peace of mind that their loved one could always be found.”
“Well, as long as the loved one was somewhere with a GPS signal. But even if they wandered into the bus tunnel, the system would record the last known GPS tower ping, so they’d have a reasonable idea.”
“What do you need from us?” She folds her hands on the table, leaning forward.
“Honestly, at the moment, I’d love to have you test the system and potentially give Loc8tion an endorsement when we launch. I’m not asking for money—not that I’d turn it down.”
We all chuckle, and Minerva nods. “I’d be happy to give it a trial run. Do you know when you’ll have a non-watch receiver ready for testing?”
“Potentially within the next month. My first test units came last week, and I have several others from different companies arriving tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I’d like to try both the watch version and the receiver version before we commit to endorsing, but I’m very impressed with the possibilities and peace of mind this could give our families.”
“If you wouldn’t mind signing this non-disclosure agreement,” I say as I withdraw a folder from my briefcase, “I can walk you through the installation and configuration of the basic app right now.”
“I’ll take those,” Leo says. “Just want to give them a quick once-over. I’m sure you understand.”
I nod. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
While he reads, Minerva takes me on a tour of their offices. “Most of the people who work here have had Alzheimer’s touch their lives in some way. My husband was diagnosed four years ago. He’s done well. I have a caregiver, but he’s still at home, and we have nights where it doesn’t seem like he’s sick at all. Others…I live with a stranger.”
“I’m sorry.” I shove my hands into my pockets as she shows me the course for their next charity 5k race.
“Why did you develop this app, Mr. Nadiri?”
“Royce, please.” Shit. She had to ask. After a deep breath, I force myself to meet her gaze. “I had a stroke three months ago. I was lucky. It didn’t affect my memory. But during rehab, I met several other men and women who were fighting their way back. One in particular, an older guy, avid runner, lost his short-term memory completely. Probably for good. He’d had to stop running outside because he kept getting lost.
“When I served in the army, I knew too many guys with traumatic brain injuries who had the same sort of issues. They’d get confused. Leave their homes, head to the grocery store, then forget how to get back again. I spent a solid month barely able to walk. But, I could use the computer. Decided to do something more productive than just binge on Netflix. Once I started coding, I couldn’t stop.”
Minerva looks me up and down. “You seem to have made a full recovery.”
In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2) Page 7