In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2) Page 5

  I don’t hear pity in her voice. Only regret. “I can reschedule that Netflix binge for another night.”

  “Are you sure? She’s a cruel mistress. Always asking me if I’m still there. Judging me for parking my ass in one spot for three hours,” Inara says, and we’re almost steady again.

  “Can you talk about the mission? Or is it a ‘top-secret-I’d-have-to-kill-you’ thing?”

  Her laugh makes my heart race. “If I kill you, I’ll be drinking alone tomorrow night. And that’s no fun. We had to extract a businessman from a terrorist cell in Uzbekistan. Routine, except for our new recruit getting caught in his own belay line. The target’s got a long recovery ahead of him, but he’s alive, and his family only had to pay Hidden Agenda twenty thousand rather than send two million to the terrorists.”

  “No wonder Cam was worried.” I strip off my shirt. “Uzbekistan’s not an easy place to get in and out of.”

  “Cam didn’t know where we were. Ryker’s rules. No discussing the mission until it’s over. No phones. No communication with family or friends. Too easy for a signal to get out. I hate it, but he’s right to insist. What we do…one mistake, and we’re all dead.”

  “How long have you worked for him?” Inara’s voice does things to me I haven’t felt in years. My shorts tent just listening to her, and I’d give any randy teenager a run for his money right now.

  “Six years. I was part of the unit that rescued him from Hell. Or rather, the unit that escorted him back to base. Fucking tank broke himself out.”

  “Fuck. Really?” If you were deployed anytime in the past fifteen years, you know about Hell. I lost friends there. “How come that’s not more widely known? ComSat should have shouted that from the heavens. The big, bad Hell Mountain vulnerable? That would have been huge news.”

  “The brass insisted. Way above my pay grade, but I think they wanted to try to lull the bastards into a false sense of security. Worked, too. Once he’d recovered enough to shoot straight, Ryker went back in and took ‘em all down.”

  “He what?” I sputter on my water, spraying droplets down my chest. “Alone?”

  That sexy chuckle floats over the line. “Definitely not. He brought West and his SEAL team. A whole contingent of Rangers. I wanted in on that mission so badly. But I’d taken a knife to the thigh getting Ryker back to Bagram, and my PT took longer than I wanted.” Her voice lowers. “That’s what you get for being stubborn and trying to do too much too soon.”

  As I try to sit up straighter, only to have my abs shake so much I fall back against the pillows, I sigh. “Know that feeling.”

  “I should go,” she says, yawning. “I’m about to hit that pumpkin stage right now. But tomorrow? Six at Libations?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Despite my exhaustion, I smile as I head for the shower. But doubts start to creep in as I sink into my recliner and boot up my laptop. She didn’t know about the stroke. Stands to reason she doesn’t know about the brain tumor either.

  Seizures, stuttering, and aphasia don’t make for fun first date conversations. And fuck. What if I lose my words in the middle of appetizers? Or trip and fall on the way into the bar?

  Lines of code blur on the screen, and I can’t shake the worry that tomorrow is either going to be the start of something—or the end of everything.

  4

  Inara

  Sonia waves at me from the coffee cart as I slip through the doors of the Seattle’s World Trade Center building. “Hey, love. How was your vacation?”

  Plastering on a fake smile, I give her a quick, one-arm hug. “Not exactly a vacation. A friend needed a translator for an overseas business meeting. I did get to see Istanbul, though. Great food.”

  We all have cover stories. K&R isn’t exactly…legal. The government frowns on vets sneaking into foreign countries, interfering where we don’t belong, and sometimes—when it’s unavoidable—killing people.

  The best lies have a shade of truth to them. I usually try to pick a country or city a flight or two away from our destination and make something up. And hell, we did fly over Istanbul. Sometime in the middle of the night. While I was sketching Royce’s eyes.

  Conveniently, most of the world’s large businesses need translators, which provides me ample cover. And my boss doesn’t care where I do my job as long as it gets done.

  “You’re so lucky. Always getting to go to these exotic locations,” she says, a hint of wistfulness to her tone. “Mr. Williams never sends me anywhere.”

  Sonia’s a genius with contracts. A lawyer with the Port of Seattle, she works her ass off for a fraction of what she could make at one of the big law firms in the city.

  “So go on your own. Live a little.” She looks unsure. After a long sip of my quad-shot latte, I purse my lips. “Tell you what. Make sure your passport’s up to date. Next time I have to go somewhere fun, fly out and meet me for a couple of days after I finish with the business shit. We’ll have a little fun. Full warning, though. It’ll likely be a last-minute sort of trip. I’ve got a friend who works for British Air. He can probably get you a deal on a ticket.”

  “Oh, Inara!” Sonia throws her arms around me, and I stumble back, nearly losing my coffee. “That would be awesome.”

  Laughing—since I saved the coffee—I pat her back. A little awkwardly. I don’t have a lot of friends. Army buddies I keep in touch with over email and FaceTime. Yasmin, who bit me our first day of pre-school and was my best friend well through college, West, and Ryker. I suppose Cam’s a friend now too—or will be since we’ve only had three meals together. But I like her.

  My shrink keeps telling me I need to put myself out there more. Take risks. I laughed. Full-on belly laugh with tears rolling down my cheeks. I have one of the riskiest jobs in the world. But when you keep your emotions locked up tight, people notice. And they tend to pull away—or avoid getting close in the first place.

  But Dr. Jeffries is right. I don’t trust anyone with my heart. Or my safety. Sonia’s sweet, and a girls’ trip? I might be able to handle that. For a couple of days anyway.

  “Wanna hit up Ivar’s for dinner?” Sonia asks as she releases me and punches the elevator call button.

  “Can’t.” My cheeks flame, and I’m lucky my mixed heritage—an Iranian mother and a British diplomat father—doesn’t reveal my blush. “I’m…wiped, hon. Jet lag for a three-day trip is brutal. Raincheck? Maybe next week?”

  I’m not ready to tell her about Royce. After my gaffe on the phone, I don’t even know if we’ll hit it off.

  “You got it,” Sonia says with only a hint of disappointment. “But maybe a movie, too?”

  Sonia’s all alone. Her mom lives in town, but their relationship is strained at best. Her ex-husband beat her, and though she’s one of the strongest women I know, on rare days like this, I can see the vulnerability in her eyes. “Definitely. And come get me when you take a break this afternoon. We’ll go grab a coffee. My treat.”

  The day crawls by. I love what I do. Speaking six languages—reading two others—makes for an interesting variety of projects, and I’m halfway through translating a legal brief from Russian to English for the local branch of the Red Cross when my phone buzzes.

  I haven’t been able to concentrate all day. The clock is mocking me. Pretty sure it’s moving backwards.

  My chuckle reverberates in my small, solitary office.

  Only another four hours. Besides, anticipation makes everything taste better.

  I can’t believe I’m flirting like this.

  Everything?

  My fingers tremble as I type out my reply, hoping I don’t scare him off before we even have a chance to find out where this is going. He’s taken everything else I’ve thrown at him.

  Everything.

  The little dots under my message dance for so long, my screen goes dark and hold my breath.

  Well, I hope you’re hungry.

  Oh no. I’m not scaring him off. Thank fuck.

  R
oyce

  I hope you’re hungry? That’s the best you could do?

  Kicking myself for my very rusty sexting skills—the last time I dated regularly, this wasn’t a thing—I head into the Capitol Hill Yoga Center.

  After my phone call with Inara yesterday, I held myself to a very strict schedule. Work on Loc8tion, rest, work, rest, work, rest, plenty of water, no alcohol, a vegetarian dinner, and an early bedtime. Some days, control is all that gets me through.

  Now, I’m standing outside my yoga class, hoping it’ll center me.

  I used to think yoga was for hippies who liked to pretend to exercise while getting in touch with their inner gods and goddesses, but during rehab, when I couldn’t walk more than a few steps at a time, Manny dragged me to a beginner’s class.

  Thirty minutes later, sweat pouring down my face, panting, and feeling like a wet noodle, the son-of-a-bitch I nicknamed Sergeant Diabolical wheeled me out of there with a wide smile plastered across his “I told you so” face. I never made fun of yoga again.

  Turns out, I even like the classes. They help my balance, and on my bad days, my regular instructor gives me seated modifications for all of the poses.

  A little after four, I find myself trembling my way through a backbend with my mind on Inara. Bad idea. I crash to the ground with a muttered oof—no cursing in yoga—and lie there staring at the flickering candles for long enough that Basha, the instructor, rushes over to me.

  “You okay?” He reaches for my arm to help me up, and when I’m seated, my cheeks flaming, I wave him away. “You haven’t fallen in a month,” he whispers.

  “After class,” I say. Basha nods and returns to the front of the room where he instructs us in malasanna, a balancing squat, and my muscles protest one of the few poses I’ve never mastered.

  The rest of the class passes with a growing knot in my stomach. In the final pose, savasanna, where we’re all supposed to thank our bodies for supporting us and meditate on the intention we set at the beginning of class, I’m going through code in my head, checking off all of the bugs I fixed last week. It’s either that or obsess over my upcoming date. I’m so focused, I don’t even notice the other students pick up their mats and walk out of the studio until Basha clears his throat.

  “Royce?”

  I open my eyes, staring at one of the soft lights overhead. The emptiness of the space surrounds me, and I sigh. “I guess it’s after class.”

  “Need to talk?” Basha grabs a mop from a small closet and starts wiping down the floor as I roll up to sitting. “Most of your practice was flawless, so I assume your distractions are in your mind.”

  My legs shake as I get to my feet, and I drag my mat over to the door before half-collapsing onto one of the benches. “You could say that. I’m close to releasing that app I told you about. And…” I run a hand through my hair, stifling my wince as my fingers trail over my scar. “I have a date tonight.”

  Basha grins as he curves the mop in an arc and heads back in my direction. “Ah. So that’s why you’re off balance.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t dated in…three years at least. Not since I started having seizures.” The sweat drying on my skin sends a shudder through me, or…perhaps I’ve hit upon my real worry—what if something happens when I’m with Inara? “When she agreed to go out with me, she didn’t know about the ssstroke.”

  As the yogi drops down onto the bench next to me, balancing the mop handle against his knee, he sighs. “No man—or woman—is perfect. Yoga teaches us this. You’ve seen me fall out of tree pose, and I’ve been teaching for ten years. That’s why we call what we do ‘practice.’”

  He glances over at me, a serene smile on his face. His scraggly beard is gathered at his chin, a red band encircling the wiry black hair. “In life, we must accept everything. Happiness, grief, elation, guilt, joy, sorrow, chaos, and peace. We honor and embrace our emotions, and this is how we learn tolerance for others and for ourselves.”

  The Royce from three years ago probably would have snorted in disbelief and walked away from anyone spouting wisdom like Basha, but deep down, I know he’s right.

  “Go, enjoy, be present in the moment. If she cannot accept you for who you are, then she is not the right woman for you.” He winks as he springs to his feet. “But even the wrong woman can be fun.”

  Fun. I’ve never been very good at fun. Between building up Emerald City and managing my health issues, I lost sight of fun. Even if we don’t make it to a second date, a night out with an intelligent, witty, and gorgeous woman should be fun.

  Half an hour later, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, doubt creeps back in.

  Turning, I flex, satisfied that my six-pack has finally returned and my delts and pecs are on their way back from their stroke-induced vacation. My doctor would be proud, but I still see a sick, pathetic weakling in the mirror.

  And tonight, I’ll have to tell Inara about the stroke. What if she runs? Or…pity swims in her stormy gray eyes?

  The one and only time I accepted Cam’s invite to Emerald City’s employee happy hour, I almost walked—or limped—out after ten minutes. No one knew what to say to me. Being a shit boss the six months before surgery didn’t help matters, but between the looks of pity when I stumbled over my words and the overly solicitous offers to help me carry my beer back from the bar set me on edge.

  Cam understood, at least. And hasn’t pressured me to come since.

  I didn’t think I’d ever date again, but when I said goodnight to Inara after dinner at Cam’s the other night, the heat in her gaze set me on fire, and I’m not sure I’ve stopped burning since. I woke up twice last night with her name on my lips. Why am I fantasizing about a woman I barely know?

  Because you haven’t dated since you learned about the tumor.

  “I am the very model of a modern major general,” I say with as much speed as I can muster. Those stupid speech exercises make me feel like a child, but they work, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to trip over my words tonight.

  “I can do this.” I meet my own gaze in the mirror, the intensity in my eyes something I’ve missed the past few years. I just hope I can make it through the evening without a fuck-up.

  Inara

  As I head for Libations, a nervous flutter in my stomach, second thoughts kick in. First dates—and that’s what this is, despite the dinner at West’s the other night—are full of minefields. Family histories, college stories, hopes and dreams…and fears. Add in my shock and inability to find my words when Royce told me he’d had a stroke, and this could be a disaster.

  At a stoplight, I scan the busy streets around me, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. A shadow flits across my rearview mirror, and I flinch. The man in the dark hoodie jaywalking behind my car sets me on edge, and I tighten my grip until my knuckles turn white.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  Despite the cool air, sweat gathers at the base of my spine. Breathe. Believe. Act. I narrow my focus, peering through my scope. One target. One shot. A scream. Help me! Coop. All that blood. His eyes.

  The car behind me honks, and I yelp as the sound drags me back to the present. I’m not on that roof in Colombia. The light’s turned green, and I’m holding up traffic.

  Making the left turn onto Yesler, I force myself to breathe. Across the street, a couple of teenagers set off fireworks for Chinese New Year. I hate fireworks.

  Once I’ve parked, I massage my temples. Put it away, Inara. Back in that box. You did your job.

  But…did I? Why don’t I know? It’s my fucking job to know. One second of hesitation, one breath, one heartbeat too many and a man died. Coop died.

  Royce is waiting. I have to pull myself together. If I can’t…then who am I?

  5

  Royce

  A light drizzle of rain coats the streets, and I turn my collar up as I stride towards Libations. You can do this. She asked you out, remember?

  Except, she didn’t know about the stroke. I can still hear her silence
on the phone. Like a physical punch to the gut, reminding me how broken I am.

  The fingers of my left hand tremble inside my jacket pocket. Sometimes, the muscles have a mind of their own, and I clench my fist, willing the tremor away.

  Right on time, I pull open Libations’ solid wood and brass door and step inside the warm glow. This early, the bar is quiet—only a handful of patrons seated on stools or chatting at small tables throughout the room. And Inara, waiting by the hostess stand, her dark hair now cropped into a messy—and sexy—bob.

  “Hey,” she says with a shy smile. I’m mesmerized by her eyes, a hint of kohl emphasizing the gray. Frozen, I don’t know how to respond. Handshake? Kiss on the cheek? Awkwardness stretches between us until she leans in, her hand splaying against my back as she pulls me close for a hug. The scents of lilies and orange blossoms waft over me, and I drink her in as soft curls brush my cheek.

  “This is new,” I say as I let a silky lock slip through my fingers. “Looks great on you.”

  Inara smiles as she drops her gaze to her boots. “Thanks. Maybe sometime food isn’t involved I’ll tell you the story behind it.”

  The bartender gestures to the half-empty restaurant, his rolled-up sleeves exposing intricate tattoos. “Sit anywhere, folks. Happy Hour menus are on the tables.”

  “How about that corner table?” Inara whispers in my ear as she tucks her hand around my elbow. “Quiet. Out of the way.”

  I let her guide me, unsure if she’s holding onto me because she’s afraid I’ll fall or because she wants to. At the last minute, I skirt around her to pull out her chair and help her off with her jacket. Her crimson blouse dips low at her back, exposing bronzed, smooth skin, and I skim my palms over her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” She glances up at me as I help scoot her chair in, and the heat in her gaze gives me a glimmer of hope.