Oliver: “Cut the guy some slack. He lost everything.”
The text scrolling across the lenses is a blessing most days. Dax Holloway and the developers at his company, Second Sight,gaveme the glasses without asking for anything in return. The software recognizes different voices, and my phone lets me assign each one a name. I can even tell the program to ignore certain voices completely.
Unfortunately, now I know exactly what the other officers think of me. I’d chuck the frames across the room, but Dax and his team have done so much for me, the guilt would eat me alive. Not to mention, Dax would kick my ass.
Tapping on the right temple, I send the text scrolling off the lenses so I can focus on the intel reports my senior SSO sent over this morning. I’m lucky. Unbelievably so. Most guys with my injuries would be out on their asses. Butsomeonevouched for me—not that I know who—and Ollie gave me a six-month probationary assignment analyzing field reports. It’s shit work, and he knows it, but putting a guy out in the field who can’t hear anything but the deepest, loudest sounds and isn’t weapons certifiable?
No one at the CIA’s that dumb.
Except maybe Terry.
My phone flashes next to my keyboard, and I glance at the screen.
SMS: Pritchard
Son of a bitch. Austin remembered how to type.
I enter my unlock code to read the full message.
I’ll be in McClean tonight. Dinner?
That’s it? Dinner? After almost eight fucking months?
Go to hell. Clearly, you’re busy with your new life. I’m doing just fine without you.
My finger hovers over the Send button. If I never hear from him again, it’ll be too soon. Even if he did convince Dax to set me up with these sweet glasses and got me approved for the best damn prosthetic that isn’t even on the market yet. Fuck. How much of an asshole am I?
Answer? The biggest. Worse than Terry if I keep acting this way. So I delete the message and start over.
Fine. Be at my apartment at 6 pm. You bring the takeout. I have beer and tequila.
He responds with nothing more than a thumbs up emoji, and I swear under my breath. Tonight is going to be a disaster.
* * *
My arm achesby the time I make it home. It usually does, even though the docs say I healed perfectly. A textbook case. Hell, they took enough photos and videos of me—and my arm—to fill adozentextbooks.
The myoelectric prosthesis, liner, and sleeve I wear over what’s left of my upper arm to keep the artificial limb in place aren’tuncomfortable. But after eight months, even though I can use my left hand to operate my computer and mouse—slowly—lift weights, and carry a bag of groceries, there are days I can’t still stand the damn thing.
Austin’s leaning against the wall next to my door with a pizza box in his hands when I get off the elevator. Tapping the right side of my glasses, I clear my throat. Most days, I don’t talk to a lot of people. My idiot coworkers seem to think since I can’t hear, I can’t speak either.
“Austin.”
“Griff.”
His hazel eyes hold an odd mix of pain and…peace. “Well, come on in. That pizza better not be cold.”
Unknown: “I’m not that much of an asshole.”
Guess I should program Austin’s voice into the speech-to-text software. Assuming this dinner doesn’t go south in a hurry.
“So Dax told you about the glasses?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. “Since, in your words, you’re ‘not that much of an asshole.’”
“Mick and I went to Boston last weekend. He filled me in.”
Dropping my keys onto the counter, I turn and stare at the man I almost died for. “Mick? Dax said you’d met someone in Mexico. He didn’t say it was a dude.”
Austin rolls his eyes, sets the pizza down, and pulls a pen from the inside pocket of his leather jacket to scribble on the box top.M-i-k-a-y-l-a. Mik.
