Rage (Benson Security 3)

“Too many people have been leaving you be.” Lake strode into the room, glass crunching underfoot. He crouched beside Callum, his forearms resting on his knees. “You’re a mess.”

That struck Callum as particularly funny, and he started giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And drunk,” Lake said in disgust.

Callum’s attention was snagged by the sound of movement in the debris that used to be his home. The women. Elle and Julia. Members of his team who smothered him with their pity.

“I’ve got his legs.” Elle waved something in the air, but all Callum could see was her shocking blue hair.

“Don’t touch those! Get out of my house!” Callum reached for something to throw at her.

A strong hand stayed him.

“Give the legs to me,” Lake said.

They were ignoring him. As if he wasn’t a person anymore. For a minute, he forgot where he was exactly. In his head, he was back in hospital being poked and prodded by the team fitting his prosthetics. A team that was more interested in the tech than the person who’d wear it. He’d felt invisible. A project. A pathetic problem to be fixed.

“Get out, get out, get out, get out!” His rage made him dizzy, and he tilted, slipping down the wall.

Strong hands pulled him upright again.

“Leave us,” Lake ordered, and the room cleared.

Of course they listened to Lake. He was whole. He wasn’t an invalid. He wasn’t half a man. Callum stared down at what remained of his legs, hating the sight of them. Hating that there was nothing but stumps where his knees used to be. Hating that he couldn’t see his feet, but could damn well feel them. That constant searing pain that never went away. That constant reminder of who he used to be.

“You get out too,” Callum spat.

“You might be able to intimidate the civilians with your bad attitude, but all it does is piss me off. Now put these legs on so I can help you get out of this mess.” Lake cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to carry you.”

“Fuck off.”

Lake stared at him in reply.

The stubborn bastard would sit there until he got his way. With a snarl, Callum snatched a prosthetic from his former friend and tried to line the cup up with his stump. It wasn’t possible. Everything kept moving. His stump kept slipping out. His hands wouldn’t work properly. And his rage grew again. He lifted the leg, ready to throw it across the room. Lake snatched it from his grasp.

“You’re too drunk to do it.” He looked behind him and yelled, “Joe. Get in here.”

“No!” Callum shoved Lake. He rocked back but didn’t topple.

Callum wished he’d remembered to bring a weapon home. He could have shot the bastard.

“And we’re all grateful you aren’t armed,” Lake said as he stood, making Callum realise he’d been thinking out loud.

“I should shoot you, you interfering bastard. You dragged me into this mess. This team. You should have known I’d be no use to them. I’m a fucking liability. I almost got them killed in Peru.”

“Almost doesn’t count.” Joe stood beside Lake. “You’re talking garbage. Which figures, because that’s what you smell like.”

“Fuck off,” Callum said again, and the American paid about as much attention to him as Lake had.

“It’s going to take the two of us to get him into bed,” Lake said to Joe. “He might need to be restrained. He’s a violent dickhead when he’s drunk.”

“Get out!”

Callum roared. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want your help. Or your pity. Leave me alone.”

The two men ignored him as, between them, they scooped Callum up. They carried him in a sitting position, their arms under his thighs and around his shoulders—as if he were a child or an old invalid.

Hell no.