Breaking His Code (Away From Keyboard Book 1) Page 2

He coughs in disapproval. “Excuse me? I thought we were friends. Now you have to come. Just so you can taste what you’re missing. Give me one cup of coffee to change your mind. If you don’t have a good time, I’ll never ask again.”

  Dammit. Coffee with a friend. That’s not a date, right?

  “I’ll be there.”

  2

  CAM

  C affeine-desperate patrons fill Broadcast Coffee. Conversations carry over the whir of the burr grinders, and the hiss of the steamer wands punctuate the grunge tunes on the speakers. I don't see an open table anywhere, and the idea of doing this “not-a-date” at the standing coffee bar has me glancing towards the exit. Then I notice a god in a blue t-shirt, and I try—unsuccessfully—to pick my chin up off the floor.

  West holds up his hand, and the movement highlights the stars and stripes inked around his bicep. Praying I look more composed than I feel, I weave between the tables as he stands to greet me.

  “Cam?” His lopsided grin almost puts me at ease. Except for the whole Adonis vibe he’s got going on. Well over six feet tall, he’s perfection in his Levi’s and snug tee emphasizing his flat abs and broad chest. The kind of guy who can wink at a girl, and she’ll melt at his feet.

  His warm hand envelops mine, and dammit if I don’t hold on a moment too long. He leans closer, as if he’s going to kiss me, and I jerk back. But he’s only reaching for my chair, and a blush heats my cheeks. “Thanks.”

  “No trouble finding the place?” Skimming a hand down my arm as he pulls away, he smiles again, and I try not to lose my words completely when he sits across from me.

  “I only live a few blocks east. You come here often?”

  “One of the guys from my dojo owns the place. He gave me shit for months when he saw a Siren to-go cup on my desk. Now I’m here every weekend.” He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair, and I wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.

  “So…what’s good? What should I order?”

  “Do you trust me?” Azure eyes, a layer of stubble along an angular jaw, and a single scar that bisects his eyebrow are probably at the top of most women’s fantasy scorecards. When my gaze lands on his lips, I force a deep breath. This man should be a model…and it's been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.

  “Um…sure?” I dig a twenty out of my wallet, but he shakes his head.

  “My treat.”

  Before I can protest, he ambles off, and I can’t resist watching his ass and the way his back muscles shift under the t-shirt as he leans against the counter. Though my daily swims keep me reasonably fit, West is in another league. One that runs, lifts weights, and probably does CrossFit. On most days, I can’t manage without my cane.

  My right hand starts to tingle, and I curse. Not now. Stealing another glance at West, who’s smiling and charming the barista, I squeeze my forearm. The thick scar from a white-hot piece of shrapnel has no sensation, but underneath, the muscle spasms painfully until I find the trigger point. Ink surrounds the worst of the troughs from the shrapnel, but no amount of flowers, stars, and doves can mask what happened.

  By the time West returns, my hand’s steady again, and as he deposits the tray between us, I gawk. “I love coffee, but two espressos and a latte? Each? Are you trying to keep me up all night?”

  He winks, and my stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe.”

  When will I learn to think before I open my mouth? Then again, it’s not like I’ve had a lot of practice flirting lately. “So…uh…what is all this?”

  “Two different espressos—one from Guatemala and one from Indonesia. That’s the coffee tasting.”

  “And the latte?” I quirk an eyebrow.

  “That’s not a latte.”

  “Then what is it?” I eye the “latte,” suddenly unsure I have any right to call myself a coffee addict. A dark brown heart drawn in the foam slowly spreads as the tiny bubbles burst.

  “Delicious.” He nudges a glass of water towards me. “There’s a whole ritual around the tasting. Adam, the guy who owns the place, walked me through it my first time. Before we start, cleanse your palate with the sparkling water.”

  “Okay.” I lift the glass to my lips, and he mirrors my movement. The bubbles burst over my tongue, and I can’t look away from his intense gaze. Squirming in my seat, I wonder what he’d taste like—or look like without that t-shirt. Stop it, Delgado. This isn’t a date.

  Even I don’t believe my own bullshit anymore.

  “The best flavors are at the bottom of the cup.” He picks up a spoon the size of his pinky and gives the first shot of espresso a little stir.

  Desperate for any distraction, I try to follow along, but maneuvering this tiny utensil in a cup the size of a golf ball proves a devilish task, and as I slosh espresso over the rim, my embarrassment rises, threatening to bubble over. How the hell is he so graceful?

  “Now slurp the espresso.” My face must show my disbelief because he chuckles. “You said you trusted me, remember?”

  I did.

  When West lifts his espresso cup, I do the same, and I’m surprised at the strong chocolaty scent that wafts from the dark brew. Though I feel ridiculous slurping coffee like a two-year-old, the taste shocks me. Far from just coffee, I pick out several distinct flavors.

  “This is really good.”

  His lips twitch into a half-smile, and his shoulders relax. “What did you taste?”

  “Orange, chocolate, and…butterscotch.”

  He nods. “Try the other cup?”

  I have a harder time with this one, only able to give him a vague “candy” description when I’m done, and as he reads off the flavor notes he got from the barista, I’m drawn to his lips, how they move, wondering how that stubble would rasp against my skin.

  He finishes his second espresso and leans back in his chair. “How long have you lived in Seattle?”

  “Eight years. I moved up here after I got out of rehab down in Los Angeles. I couldn’t stand the idea of going back to Modesto—and my family—but that’s a long story.”

  He cocks his head, and the movement highlights his broad shoulders. “I’ve got time.”

  No one needs to hear about my foolish teenage years or the shit that went down right before I joined the army. Especially not on a first…whatever the hell this is. I shake my head. “I’d need alcohol. A lot of alcohol.”

  “Does that mean you’ll have dinner with me soon?”

  If my mouth is full of coffee, I won’t have to answer, right? I down the rest of the espresso like a shot of vodka, but he’s leaning forward now, waiting for my reply.

  Distraction. I need a distraction, right now. “So, uh…you own your dojo, right? How many classes a week do you teach?”

  Tiny lines tighten around his lips for a second before he clears his throat. “Not so many these days. I spend most of my time on paperwork and advertising.”

  “Do you miss it—the teaching?”

  “Every damn day.” Longing deepens his twang, and he rubs the back of his neck. I’ve touched a nerve, and I don’t know how to soothe the raw spot.

  “West—“

  He shifts his gaze to the “not-a-latte” in front of me. “Broadcast is famous for their macchiatos. Try it.”

  “I don’t like sweet drinks.” He frowns, and I try to stifle my cringe. Sometimes, I don’t even realize what’s coming out of my mouth until the words emerge and I’ve offended someone. This probably-a-date may prove to be disastrous at the rate I’m going.

  “This isn’t sweet.” His tone carries an edge. “It’s a shot of espresso and just enough steamed milk to mellow the bitterness.”

  The mug rests heavy in my hand. Before I can take a sip, a guy a few tables away knocks over his chair, and the loud crack makes me jump. My fingers spasm and the cup crashes to the floor, sending pieces of ceramic skittering across the hardwood. Hot coffee splatters my shirt, my jeans, and my right shoe. “Dammit!” I lean down to try to pick up the broken cup handle, but off balance a
nd flustered, I slip off the chair and onto my ass.

  “Fuck, Cam.” West leaps out of his own chair, then slides his hands under my arms, which only serves to deepen my embarrassment, and when he lifts me, I try to twist away. “Relax, angel. I’ve got you.” He helps me back into my chair. “Are you okay?”

  The pity swirling in his eyes raises my defenses. “Fine.”

  West pauses for a beat before he mutters something about napkins and rushes off to the counter.

  “Dammit.” Coffee squishes as I wiggle my toes, and as I glance down, the brown stain just below my breast makes me want to take a backhoe to the now-stained floor and dig a hole big enough to crawl into.

  The barista rushes over, and she and West clean up the mess. I wrestle my phone out of my bag and then fiddle with the screen, engaging my backup plan—a work emergency.

  West wipes his hands on his jeans and then stands. “I’ll get you another macchiato.”

  “I have to go. Work…needs me.” Offering what I hope is an apologetic smile, I slide my cane off the back of the chair. “Thank you for the coffee, but—“

  West reaches for my hand. “Stay. Please. At least for another cup of coffee.”

  “I can’t, West. I’m sorry. I’m a mess—literally.”

  “You’re beau—“

  “Some people are just better online. We should stick with fighting aliens and binge watching Doctor Who.” In the tight space, I brush the table with my hip as I stand, the empty espresso cups rattling in their saucers, West’s untouched macchiato sloshing over the ceramic rim, leaving a milky stain on the dark wood. He steadies me, his hands on my hips. His uncertain expression tempts me to stay, to wipe the slate clean and start over.

  But if I do, I’ll spend every minute self-conscious, tugging at my stained shirt, and he’ll ogle—what man wouldn’t?—until I can’t face him ever again. I won’t be able to salvage the friendship we’ve formed, and while I can tell he wants more, I can’t even get through coffee; there’s no way I could make it through an actual date.

  “I’m sorry.” Slipping out of his grasp, I weave my way around the tables, and when I pause steps from the exit, I can feel his stare. I can’t look back. I won’t. And yet, as the heavy glass door closes between us, I relent and meet his gaze.

  The confusion etched on his face almost sends me back inside, but I made my choice. I shake my head as a final apology and then head for home.

  WEST

  The barista meets my gaze across the crowded shop and mouths “I’m sorry.” Yeah, darlin’. So am I. Replaying the date in my head, I try to figure out where I went wrong. Pushing for dinner? Cam’s an army explosives specialist—or was. A dinner invite shouldn’t have sent her scurrying. We’ve spent almost every damn night talking, gaming, and flirting since I discovered VetNet six weeks ago.

  A splash of coffee mars the table next to my macchiato. The broken mug? She wouldn’t look me in the eyes after that.

  “Do what I do. Hold tight and pretend it’s a plan.” One of her favorite Doctor Who quotes. Well, I had a plan. Get her to agree to dinner. For weeks now, she’s driven me half-crazy with her irreverent mouth and her uncanny ability to predict right when we’re going to be ambushed by a horde of aliens.

  The week we binge-watched Firefly together while conquering Mass Effect did me in. I had to meet her. Had to know if I’d feel a spark. Now, I’m on fire, and she’s gone. Despite her insistence that we stick to gaming, I can’t walk away, so I pull out my phone.

  Cam, whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please call me.

  My macchiato’s lukewarm now, so I carry the tray to the counter and then unload it with a little more force than strictly necessary. A few hours on the heavy bag will erase the memory of the morning, right? And put out these flames? Yeah, even I don’t believe that.

  “Holy shit.”

  The man leaning against the corner of Lakeview Krav Maga wears an expression somewhere between boredom and irritation, but at my curse, he breaks into a wide smile.

  “About fucking time, Sampson. You’ve heard of this thing called ‘work’?” He pushes off the wall, then claps me on the back hard enough to make me cough. “Your website said you were teaching the morning advanced session. I’ve been out here for two hours.”

  “Yeah, well the Saturday morning sessions are on hold indefinitely. What the hell are you doing here, Rye?” I’m wound tight enough to snap without warning, and given the look in Ryker’s grey eyes, this isn’t a social call.

  “There somewhere private we can talk?”

  Ryker McCabe, the only man to bust out of Hell Mountain—the system of caves east of Fallujah where the most valuable POWs were hidden and tortured—has more in common with a piece of granite than a man, but he saved my life twice in a matter of hours, so I overlook the fact that the last time we saw each other, I told him to fuck off. Jerking my thumb towards the dojo door, I mutter, “My office.”

  He’s too big to comfortably settle into the guest chair—six-foot-eight, at least two-fifty, and solid muscle under his scars. Insurgents tortured him within an inch of his life for two years, and there’s not a patch of skin unmarked except the left side of his face. Fuckers wanted him to remember he’d been a good looking guy once. He leans against my closed door, and I slide a hip onto my desk. “You’d better not be here on a recruiting mission.”

  “West, you’re the best damn infiltration specialist I’ve ever seen. Coop’s got great reflexes, but he doesn’t have your instincts, and Inara’s too valuable as a sharpshooter. That leaves me.” He gestures towards the scarred side of his face. “My undercover days ended in Hell.”

  “What about Landow?”

  “Dead.” Ryker stares down at his polished Doc Martins. “Goddamn fucking drunk driver cut him down outside of HQ three days before we were supposed to head to the Sudan. We need you.”

  “There are dozens of former SEALs, Rangers—“

  “None of them have your skills. Two missions a month—tops. Base rate is five large, just for getting on the plane. Hazard pay for anything in a war zone.” Ryker rubs his meaty palm over his bald head. His right eye droops—nerve damage—and the mangled lid makes him look perpetually sad. “At least come meet the team.”

  “No.” The word catches in my throat. Five thousand dollars for a couple days’ work is hard to turn down, and as I look away from Ryker’s hard stare, I catch sight of the loan paperwork sitting on the corner of my desk. I left that life eight years ago, and I still wake in a cold sweat more nights than not, the scent of blood in my nose, my team’s screams in my ears, and the image of the broken body of an innocent Afghan grandmother burned into the inside of my eyelids.

  “West?” Ryker’s voice drops. “You’d be saving innocent lives.”

  Shaking my head to banish the memories, I clear my throat. “I’ll make some calls. I’ve got a couple of buddies who’d be good at K&R.”

  Ryker grunts what might be another curse, then yanks my door open. As he crosses the threshold, he pauses but doesn’t turn around. “You change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  3

  CAM

  A lone in the office, I turn up the music. P!nk never fails to raise my spirits, but today, Pandora favors love songs.

  “Get over it,” I mutter as I load up one of Oversight’s modules. “You don’t have time for this sappy bullshit. You don’t even like him in that way.” Jabbing my phone screen—and completely ignoring the text message waiting there—I switch the music to an instrumental dance station. Pandora should really have a “bad date” setting.

  “Come on, baby,” I whisper to my code. “Let’s see if you can cheer me up.”

  Two hours later, my mood hasn’t improved. I made the mistake of looking at the schematics for the camera wiring LaCosta’s head of security sent over—and to my shock, discovered Royce had picked up a copy last week. Their old system ran on Wi-Fi. Ours is hard-wired. We’ll have to run all new cable. They’ve got a relay switch th
at’ll mess with our electrical plans, and some of the conduits are too damn small. With the accelerated schedule, installing two hundred and fifteen state-of-the-art hookups with battery backups is going to run us well over deadline. Once I send an emergency text to Royce, I head for the conference room.

  On the white board, I start to sketch out a revised schedule. Every date I ink on the wall ratchets my stress level more. Royce is going to have to do something. Oversight’'s my baby, but he’s the one who took this commission—and then stuck me in LaCosta’s office alone knowing we needed to cable the whole damn hotel.

  He lumbers in as I cap the dry erase marker and survey my work. “This couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  If I beat him with my cane, I’ll be out of a job. Still, I find myself tightening my grip on the handle, relying on the familiar curves and grooves to settle my nerves. When I force my gaze up, Royce’s exhaustion shocks me. “You okay, Rolls?”

  “We agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

  “We also agreed you’d show up to the meeting yesterday. Instead, you leave me alone to deal with the change in schedule and don’t return my calls. I picked up a copy of the schematics this morning—and then found out you’ve had them for a week and didn’t say anything. You backed me—and this whole company—against a wall. Had I known the parking garage was six levels with no CAT-5, I never would have agreed to the accelerated date. There’s no way we can get the work done before Labor Day. We’ve got two people to cable twenty floors, the parking garage, and the rooftop deck.”

  Royce runs a hand through his messy brown hair. “How many people do you need?”

  I shrug. “This job is at least twice the size of anything we’ve done before. My best guess? Six. Ask the installer you hired. What’s his name?”

  “Al. I’ll call him. Pretty sure he was finishing up one of the residential jobs today.”