ODA 5150 Christmas Ornament

Cam

“Come on, you sexy thing. Show me what you’ve got.” With a click of the mouse, I compile one of Oversight’s modules—the security software package I’ve spent the past year developing has twenty of the damn things—and sit back to admire my handiwork. On my second screen, a dark square sputters to life, showing me a live video feed of the office and the back of my head. Damn. The messy bun I thought looked so good when I left my condo this morning now has more in common with a rat’s nest than anything else. “Show me the still images,” I murmur as I tap the keyboard. The screen flickers, and I’m treated to a view of the front lobby, then the parking lot. “Gotcha.” 

This module’s given me fits for a week, and I pump my fist after I shut Oversight down. The office starts to sputter to life, so I grab my cane and head for the coffee machine. I don’t know why I drink this over-roasted, bitter brew, but I was up most of the night, courtesy of my lousy hip, and I’m hurting. 

Once I’ve added enough cream to turn the liquid muddy, I take a tentative sip. Bleck. But I’m desperate.

“Save some for the rest of us,” Lucas calls as he ambles up to the coffee cart. 

“I don’t know how you drink this swill every day.” I dangle his favorite mug in front of him, the one with “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” printed in a pixelated font. 

Six-foot-three with dreads that brush his shoulders, Lucas looks more like the next GQ cover model than a badass programmer. He chuckles and dumps approximately half the sugar container into his cup. “Any plans for the weekend?”

“The usual: work, VetNet, Halo. When are you going to join me?” 

“When I won’t feel bad about beating your ass?”

“I’ll have you know I’m undefeated.” I jab his shoulder, and he chuckles. 

“It’ll take more than a single punch to take down my squad. Once this job’s done, you and me, ace.” He winks. “We’ll see who comes out on top.” 

“Name the time.” I arch my brows in challenge, but before Lucas can reply, his phone beeps from inside his jacket. Coffee sloshes over the rim of his mug as he tries to extricate his phone, and I reach for a stack of napkins.

“Shit,” Lucas mutters once he’s glanced at the screen. Looking vaguely ill, he sets his mug down. “Any chance I can bail a little after three today? I can come in tomorrow to make up the time.” 

“Hot date?” He doesn’t respond, so I shift my gaze from the assignment log scrawled on the office whiteboard to his face. “Must be if you’re clamming up over it. Spill.” 

“I don’t know yet.” His tone says casual, but there’s something deeper behind his eyes. “Could be nothing. You know how it is.”

“Luc, I haven’t had a relationship in three years. For all I know, the entire dating scene’s changed. Do people still do the whole ‘getting to know you’ bit? Or have we replaced that with stalking someone on social media?” Chuckling, I wait for his response, but when he can only press his lips together, I sober. “Don’t mind me.” With a gentle pat on his arm, I try to extract my well-worn boot from my mouth. “We’re ahead of schedule thanks to your kickass debugging. I want you to be happy. You deserve a break. I hope he’s wonderful and you don’t come in tomorrow because you’re still with him.” 

His smile flashes briefly before we both amble towards our desks. “Thanks, Cam. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” 

* * *

The Coana Hotel glitters in the mid-morning sun—twenty stories of sleek glass and metal capped with a rooftop atrium that offers a view all the way to Mount Rainier. 

Royce is late. His terse text message advised me to start without him, and when I protested, he didn’t respond. Whatever. I know what needs to be done, and I can meet with LaCosta alone. He’s rumored to be a staunch conservative, both in his politics and his social views, but I clean up well enough, and my black blazer hides the tats decorating my arms. 

Inside the lobby, the scent of freesia envelopes me, and plush carpet muffles my footfalls. The concierge directs me to the fifth floor, where the rich amber walls and ornate sconces lend the hotel an old-world luxury, even though construction was completed only five years ago. 

“Camilla Delgado from Emerald City Security to see Mr. LaCosta,” I say when Phillip’s pretty blonde assistant greets me.

“Is Mr. Nadiri joining you?” She glances at her computer screen, then back at me, and I try not to squirm as I practice my lie. 

“He’s been unavoidably detained. Traffic accident in Bellevue.” I color my bullshit with a bright smile, though inwardly, I want to throttle Royce. While the actual installation and configuration are all on me, he’s supposed to handle the schmoozing. 

My phone buzzes—finally. Royce better be downstairs. A quick glance at the screen both irks me and brings a small smile. Royce is still avoiding me, but West—the former SEAL I’ve gamed with almost every night online—can always raise my spirits.

Halo tonight?

The week’s worn me out, and I’ve skipped my evening gaming sessions. I rush to reply as Phillip’s assistant gathers a small stack of files from her desk.

I hope so. Get ready to have your ass kicked.

“Right this way, Ms. Delgado.” His assistant opens the inner office door, and when I step inside, Phillip LaCosta rises to offer a firm handshake. With the formalities out of the way, I sit and fold my hands over the pewter handle of my cane, using the familiarity of the ridges and groves to calm my nerves. 

“I’m sorry Royce couldn’t make it this morning. There was an accident on the bridge from Bellevue.” There’s always an accident on the bridge. Well, almost always. I hope Phillip doesn’t pay attention to traffic reports. 

His smile highlights the lines around his mouth. Phillip is pushing seventy, from what I’ve read, but he appears much younger. “The absurdity of this city’s traffic causes no end of problems, doesn’t it?” 

“It does.” Shit.  

I worry he’s going to call me on my lie, but instead, he sighs and leans back in his chair. “Ironically, that’s the reason I’ve asked you here. I’m throwing a party over Labor Day weekend. My daughter is kicking off her campaign for the Senate. Media coverage will be high, and we’ll have several members of the City Council present, as well as colleagues from her law firm and four former state representatives. Emma wanted the party at Coana East in Bellevue, but the Department of Transportation decided that’s the perfect weekend to tear down the overpass two blocks away. I’d like folks to show up—not be stuck in a traffic nightmare for hours.”

I nod, unsure of what this has to do with me, but then he leans forward and with an earnest gaze asks, “Is there any possible way we can bump up the install date for Oversight so it’s ready for the party?” He flips through a few pages of his desktop calendar. “Say in…three weeks? 

I’d push back, but we’ve never had a contract this big. We’re close. If Lucas and I work the weekends…

“I’ll compensate your firm for any overtime,” Phillip offers as I ponder the ramifications. 

Royce’s impassioned speech to the office when we took this contract replays in my head. Our big break. Our chance to put our small firm on the map. If I say no, I’ll let everyone down. With a deep breath, I force a smile. “We’ll make it happen.” 

Oversight is solid. Wiring the entire hotel in three weeks worries me, but Royce has installers on call. We can do this. 

“Fantastic.”

* * *

Sparks of pain race up my left thigh, settling into my hip where I’m pretty sure someone’s driving a dagger directly into my pelvis. All afternoon, I kept myself going with thoughts of pizza and hard cider, then some Halo after the worst of the strain fades. Vicodin goes so well with pepperoni, after all.

Once I’ve placed the order, I sink into my recliner and open my laptop. You’d think after spending my days programming security software, I’d find something else to do at night, but the men and women I talk to online are my friends. I’m more comfortable behind a keyboard than anywhere else.

Logging onto VetNet, I post a quick greeting: Been a long day. Everything hurts, and I’m trying to hold off taking a pain pill for a while. Distract me, please.

As I poke around the various threads, my messenger dings. 

You want distraction? I just picked up Gears of War. Come join me.

West, the retired SEAL I’ve spent most of my nights with—online—ends his message with a YouTube link, and, seconds later, I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. The puppy on the screen tries to navigate stairs for the first time, and the little yips and squeals as he gives up and runs down the stairs like some Evil-Knievel-wannabe ease the knots in my shoulders and back. My shoulders quake as I type my response.

As soon as my pizza shows up. Give me an hour, and I’m all yours.

All? Don’t tease me. 

I choke on my blackberry cider, sending liquid burning down my throat. When I can breathe again, I pause with my fingers on the keyboard. How in the world am I supposed to respond to that? We’re…friends. Sort of. Gaming buddies. Though lately, something’s shifted in his tone, and my cheeks burn as I realize he’s been flirting. What’s worse, I’ve flirted back. 

What the hell do I do now? In the end, cowardice wins, and I find a clip of baby sloths swaddled in fuzzy blankets, pop the link into the chat window, and send him a quick message.

If you don’t up your game, I’m going to tease you mercilessly for being the only SEAL alive who can’t hit the broad side of an alien transpo with an assault rifle.

That should shut him up for a while and give me time to think. Or avoid. Avoidance is easier. I head over to the Family and Relationships board. Fifteen new messages await—unsurprising, as families can be stressful under the best of circumstances. Add in PTSD, paralysis, amputation, and any of the other assorted injuries our members deal with, and you ratchet the stress level up to a thousand.

A new amputee, JT893, posts about his girlfriend walking out on him, and the other members pile on, offering the predictable-but-true “you can do better than her” platitudes. I agree. Amputees with proper care can do almost anything these days with the advances in prosthetics, and if this chick doesn’t understand that, she doesn’t deserve JT. 

Over on the Rants and Vents board, a long thread catches my eye. 

HuskyFan1998: New here. I served for nine years and came back so FUBAR that I couldn’t go back to my old job. Bummed around on my pension until my wife got pregnant, and then found this sweet job I loved. Great hours, enough money for us to get by, and paid vacation. And it all went to hell a month ago. The company started this big remodel and the noise… God, I thought I was back in Iraq. Jackhammers, nail guns, power sanders. I couldn't think straight. And then this customer starts yelling at me. Sounded just like my old CO. I lost it. Started to shake, barely stopped myself from pissing down my leg. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. When my boss came over, he jabbed me in the chest, and I swung at him. Missed, thank God. If I’d hit him, I’d probably be in jail. 

Getting fired sucks ass, and my wife’s pregnant again. I can’t support us on my army pension, and she’s on bed rest. We’re going to run out of savings soon. And then I come home today to find out that I can’t borrow against my 401K because HR fucked up my paperwork. I needed that money to cover our health insurance until my new job’s coverage kicks in at the end of the month. What the hell am I going to do? My boss just had to touch me. I should sue him for all he's worth. And the company too. They can't do this to me. My wife can barely stand to look at me, and my son keeps asking why Mommy cries all the time. I don’t know what else to do.

HuskyFan1998 echoes the desperation a lot of us feel. Messed up after our tours, we try to put our lives back together, but some of us never do. I can’t fix his problems, but sometimes we just need to know someone understands. 

FlashPoint: HuskyFan, I’m one of the moderators here. Just wanted to tell you that you’re not alone. PTSD’s no joke. Sounds like your boss is damn lucky he’s never experienced it. I’ve got a list of lawyers in the greater Seattle area if that’d help. There might not be anything they can do—I know nothing about the law, really—but some of them take on pro bono work. At least they’d be able to tell you if there’s anything they can do about your 401k.

I wish I could offer more than sympathy. Stick around and get to know folks. Above all, what’s posted here, stays here. Though we let anyone join, we take privacy very seriously. So vent all you want. I learned a long time ago that the worst thing you can do is keep your pain bottled up inside. Take care of yourself. 

Oh, and go pick a fresh flower for your wife. Just one. You’d be surprised how much it helps both of you.

As I pile pizza on my plate, my right hand twinges with an electric pain—damn nerve damage stole the sensation in my last two fingers, and when I’m tired, spasms like this are common. I massage my forearm, willing the fire away, then turn on the Xbox. 

“About time,” West teases when I open the voice channel. “I’d started to worry you couldn’t handle my superior battle skills.”

I can’t help snorting. “You mean your superior dying skills? Lock and load, frogman.” 

On screen, my heavily armored character hefts her gun. Smoke swirls around her as the music thuds an ominous beat. I flex my fingers on the controller, waiting for West to engage. His character joins mine, and before long, we’re battling a horde of hostiles while we try to finish this quest. 

“Take that, you piece of shit,” West mutters an hour later as he takes out a sentry. 

“Nice.” I go after the next in the long line of foes. “You’ve been practicing. Cheating on me with another gamer? Or just lulling me into a false sense of security?”

He chuckles. “Never. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.” On screen, he takes out a particularly nasty foe. “Hooyah! Take that, you gorram scum.” 

Laughing, I launch an attack of my own. He’s almost as geeky as I am, and we’ve had a couple long discussions about the eleventh Doctor Who’s legacy and whether the final season of Buffy was awful or epic. 

I shift in my chair, and my long-forgotten plate crashes to the floor, sending crumbs everywhere. I curse, forgetting to mute my headset. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” I answer through clenched teeth. “Need a minute.” Hissing out a breath, I force my stiff muscles into action to clean up the mess. Exhaustion burns my eyes, and when I return to the game, I blink hard to focus. “I know it’s early, but I haven’t slept much lately. I’m going to call it a night.” 

“Wait.” He pauses the game, and my screen dims. “Have coffee with me tomorrow.” 

My mouth suddenly feels like the Sahara, and I tug at the neck of my t-shirt. “Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t tell me you hate coffee. My heart couldn’t take that.” His slight hint of a drawl lends a gentleness to the words, and I wonder if he’d sound as sexy in person. 

“I love coffee. My blood’s caffeinated. But…we should stick to gaming. And VetNet. Keep things casual.” 

“Angel, we’ve been gaming together for weeks now. I think we’ve moved past casual.” 

There’s no reason not to meet, other than that vague “this guy could be a serial killer” worry—and my irrational fear of having to be charming. 

I don’t do charming. 

“Let me buy you a macchiato,” he says. “Have you ever been to Broadcast Coffee?”

“Down on Pike?”

“Yep. Best coffee in Seattle. They roast their own beans and have this whole ‘coffee tasting’ experience. What do you usually drink?” The hope in his voice deepens his twang, making my insides melt just a little. 

“I make an Americano every morning. Grocery store beans, though.” 

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.”