Release. Jo Leigh

talked to Noah. He’s going to be here in about twenty minutes, so why don’t you just lay low until he comes. When he’s done, you won’t have to worry about being recognized.”

      “Why not?”

      “He’s not your ordinary prosthetist. He used to be with the CIA, disguising agents in the field.”

      Seth felt all his muscles tighten. “You do realize that Omicron is CIA.”

      “I do. But you don’t have to worry about Noah. There’s a reason he’s not with them anymore.”

      “So you want me to wear a disguise to work here?”

      She nodded. “It’s going to be subtle, so don’t sweat it.”

      “Don’t sweat it,” he said, not understanding her cavalier attitude. “It’s not a costume party, Harper. It’s my life on the line.”

      She looked at him with her best doctor-in-charge expression. “I get that. It’s my life, too. So stop worrying about it. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

      He believed she was, but he also believed that she had no idea who she was up against. Omicron would kill every person in her precious clinic if that’s what it took.

      “Besides,” she said, “no one expects you to have only one hand.”

      He swore under his breath, knowing she was trying to bait him.

      She closed her file and stood. As she passed him she touched his shoulder, making him flinch. He didn’t think she saw.

      “You can do something good here, Seth. You can be useful and get friendly with your new body. Don’t screw it up.”

      He started to tell her exactly what she could screw, but what good would it do? Harper was Harper. “Fine. I’m assuming someone will tell me what my actual job is at some point?”

      “Get through your session with Noah, then find me. I’ll point you in the right direction.”

      He nodded, but she was already out the door, heading down the hall, her sneakers squeaking every third step on the stained linoleum.

      He thought about waiting for Noah right there, but Harper might come back. So he headed out, looking for another safe place to hide. He hated being without a weapon. Without his left hand. The vulnerability never left these days, and he wondered if it ever would.

      The blue hallway led past four different exam rooms, three of which were occupied, the doors closed. The fourth was empty and Seth walked in. There was one poster about STDs and another about HIV, both with stern warnings about always using a condom. Seth’s hand went automatically to his back pocket where he kept his handy Trojans, two at the ready no matter what. The moment of optimism fizzled as he moved his left arm, the weight of the prosthetic reminding him again that his days as a chick magnet were over. Not that he’d actually been one, but the uniform, when he’d worn one, had helped. Being with Nate helped even more. There were always women around Nate who needed comfort after being passed over.

      He looked at the plastic again—five fingers, fingernails, little hairs on the knuckles, veins. No matter how masterfully the plastic was molded, it was still fake. Like a mannequin’s hand, like a G.I. Joe. He fought the urge to smash the damn thing into the wall.

      “What can I help you with today?”

      Seth spun at the feminine voice to find a doctor standing in the doorway. She was reading an open file and chewing on the end of a pencil. She looked young, as if she’d just gotten out of medical school and her long, curly brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. When she looked up at him, he looked down, giving her a good view of his baseball cap but not his face.

      “I’m not a patient,” he said, darting a quick glance. She was pretty. Especially her eyes.

      Her gaze went right to his fake arm. “No?”

      He flushed hotly. “I’m new here. I’m an aide.”

      “That’s great,” she said. She put the file back in a pocket on the inside of the door. “I’m Karen. Dr. Eckhardt. I was the new kid, until you.”

      “Nice to meet you.”

      She moved over to the exam table and leaned against it, trim in her blue scrubs, looking him over from bottom to top.

      He needed to get the hell out of here, but he couldn’t just run. Instead he turned his side to her as he feigned interest in the supplies on the shelf. Tongue depressors, cotton balls…Yeah, this was a clever ploy. He should have just stayed in Harper’s office. What the hell was wrong with him?

      “I didn’t know we’d found someone new. What brings you to the clinic?”

      “I’m just here to lend a hand.”

      “No pun intended?”

      He wasn’t at all sure how to take that. Another quick glance found her smiling. He didn’t think she was making fun of him, so he smiled as he stepped toward the door. “Right.”

      “Well, I think it’s great. We can use all the help we can get.”

      Two women in scrubs were heading down the hall, so he stopped. “What about you?”

      “Me? I switch-hit—I get paid for working at Kaiser Permanente, at the Sunset Hospital, but I spend a lot of time volunteering here.”

      “Why here?”

      “Someone needs to do it.”

      “That’s it, huh?”

      “Well, to be honest, my attending physician looks kindly on those who give back to the community.”

      “I see.”

      “So what am I supposed to call you?”

      “Seth’ll do.”

      “Okay, Seth’ll Do. Glad to have you on board.”

      The hall was clear, so he headed out, glancing back just as he reached the hallway. Her gaze had moved down to his ass. It surprised him. Maybe he wasn’t a total turnoff. Then again, she did like charity work.

      One of the exam room doors opened, so he slipped around the corner. An older Hispanic man and a middle-aged black woman sat behind a Plexiglas barrier in a large room overrun with files. Four phones, all of which were either ringing or blinking, were within arm’s reach, as were two old computers.

      Outside that office was the waiting room. There were over a dozen people, three of whom were little kids, sitting in the ugly plastic chairs. He frowned seeing how many of the adults looked strung out and dangerous. Harper had warned him about the patient load here, but for some reason he hadn’t expected kids. Mostly that’s why the poor went to the doctor.

      He leaned against the wall to watch. Surveillance. At least he could still do a visual. Of course, if something went wrong—say, someone should happen to recognize him—he couldn’t do a thing about it except perhaps throw his fake hand at them. It might freak them out long enough for him to run like hell.

      His gaze went down again, to the weight at the end of his arm. He’d never get used to it. He’d had to carry heavy crap for years, sixty-pound packs through unrelenting heat and treacherous terrain. Nothing had ever felt this unwieldy.

      And, of course, there was that incredibly annoying phantom pain. He’d heard about that, read about it even, but it was one of those things that had to be experienced. Kind of like being shot at. If it hadn’t happened to you, you didn’t know shit.

      If the fake hand were more useful, he might have accepted the whole thing more readily. But all it did was squeeze and open. That’s it. And even though it was electric, he still had to move his shoulder to get it to do that.

      When he saw Noah, he was gonna ask him for a hook. It had to be better than this. He might be able to do something with a hook. Hurt someone. Protect