Page 12 of Crocodile Tears
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother:“Darling, how are you?Your father and I were wondering if you’ve met anyone special lately.The Patterson boy is still single, and he’s always been so nice… ”
I delete the message without responding.Tomorrow night, I won’t have to explain to anyone why I’m not interested in the Patterson boy, why my career comes first, or why I can’t just “tone down” who I am.I’m meeting someone who already knows exactly what he’s getting into, and I won’t have to apologize for any of it.
Chapter 4
Cal
Thealarmgoesoffat 0530, same as every morning for the past eighteen years unless fieldwork forced a different schedule.I roll out of bed and immediately drop into push-ups, counting off fifty before my brain fully engages.Military habits are still ingrained in me, even when there’s no mission briefing to attend or equipment to inspect.
My apartment reflects the same disciplined approach to civilian life that I bring to everything else, with minimal furniture arranged for optimal movement patterns, emergency supplies organized in clearly labeled containers, a go-bag on the hall coat rack/shoe bench, and enough weapons strategically placed to handle most threats.Dr.Martinez calls it “hypervigilance manifesting as domestic preparedness.”I call it being realistic about the world we live in.
Coffee first, black and strong enough to wake the dead.Then a review of my civilian reintegration list, which has grown from six items to eight over the past few days.Now ten with today’s additions of “9.Learn to make conversation that doesn’t involve tactical assessments” and “10.Stop automatically cataloging the weapons potential of dinner utensils.”
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m approaching psychological adjustment with the same methodical precision I once used for mission planning.Some habits transfer better than others.
The morning stretches ahead with nothing but preparation time, which is both a blessing and a curse.Too much time to think leads to overthinking, which leads to the kind of tactical planning that’s completely inappropriate for dinner dates.I distract myself with a workout routine that would make my old drill sergeant proud—two hundred push-ups, three hundred sit-ups, and a five-mile run through the neighborhood that leaves me sweating out nervous energy.
Back home, I make the mistake of checking my secure email account and find three new contract offers, each promising enough money to fund a comfortable retirement.A kidnapping extraction in Morocco, corporate security for a pharmaceutical executive in Venezuela (I guess that observation escalated to fortification), and something involving “asset protection” in the Democratic Republic of Congo that Ellis has helpfully marked as “low risk, high reward.”
The temptation is stronger than I want to admit.Those jobs represent the life I understand, where success is measured in clear objectives and concrete outcomes.Complete the mission, protect the asset, and eliminate the threat.I thrive with simple parameters that yield definitive results.
Dating Dr.Rebecca Lawson represents something far more complex and unpredictable.What if she asks questions I can’t answer honestly?What if my background horrifies her despite Red’s assurances?What if I accidentally revert to tactical protocols and ruin everything before dessert arrives?
As though he’s read my mind, my phone buzzes with a text from Ellis:“DRC job still available if you change your mind.Easy money.”
I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button.One text, and I could be back in familiar territory within twenty-four hours with professional challenges I understand, risks I can calculate, and objectives I know how to achieve.
Instead, I delete the message without responding.He means well, but he doesn’t understand that easy money often comes with complicated consequences, and I’ve had enough of both to last several lifetimes.
The decision feels significant in a way that probably requires more analysis than I’m prepared to give it.Choosing dinner with a brilliant scientist over combat pay in Africa suggests either personal growth or temporary insanity.Dr.Martinez would probably vote for personal growth.My bank account might disagree.
Instead, I pull up Dr.Martinez’s contact information and schedule an emergency session.If I’m going to survive a dinner date without reverting to tactical protocols, I need professional guidance.
Her office is in one of those converted Victorian houses that tries too hard to look welcoming with soft lighting, comfortable furniture, and the kind of carefully neutral artwork that’s supposed to promote emotional openness.I automatically note the two exits, the sight lines to the street, and the structural weak points before catching myself and deliberately focusing on the appointment instead of escape routes.
Dr.Martinez is waiting with her usual patient smile and clipboard full of notes about my psychological state.She’s a small woman with steel-gray hair and the kind of steady presence that probably makes most people feel safe.I appreciate that she doesn’t try to make me feel comfortable.She just accepts that comfort isn’t my default setting and works with what I give her.
“Calvin, you sounded urgent on the phone.What’s happening?”
I settle into the chair that faces the door—a compromise we reached after several sessions, where I spent more time monitoring the entrance than engaging in therapy.“I have a date tonight.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly.“That’s wonderful news.Tell me about her.”
“Dr.Rebecca Lawson.Crocodile shifter, research scientist, and apparently stress-alphabetizes lab specimens when she’s nervous.”
Dr.Martinez makes notes, probably documenting my first real voluntary disclosure of personal information in months.“How did you meet?”
“Dating service that specializes in shifters with complex backgrounds.”I pause, realizing how that sounds.“She’s not the one with the complex background.That would be me.”
“What makes her background less complex?”
The question catches me by surprise.“She’s a legitimate scientist doing groundbreaking research in regenerative medicine.I’m a mercenary trying to figure out how to have normal conversations without mentioning body counts.”
“Calvin, do you think her research has never involved difficult choices?Do you think scientists don’t face moral complexity in their work?”
I hadn’t considered that perspective.In my world, moral complexity usually involves decisions about who lives and who dies.Academic moral complexity seems theoretical by comparison.“It’s different.”
“Different how?”
