Tin Man

By Ava Cuvay

Officer Adam “Lemon” Lehmann volunteered for experimental cybernetic upgrades to save his life, but the decision killed his career. Now working as a bar bouncer in a society which both fears and loathes cyborgs, Adam wants to lay low until either his aging human parts or his glitching cyborg parts end his lonely life.

Eve Myer has critical information about her employer’s corporate corruption which is killing cyborgs. But when the internet whistleblower she meets at a bar takes a fatal shot meant for her, she clings to the sexy yet reticent bouncer’s offer of safety. She finds both protection and passion in his arms even as an unknown adversary is determined to destroy her information, and her.

Adam and Eve struggle to keep their own secrets in the face of their escalating feelings and the mounting threat on their lives, even when that threat comes from each other.

Book One of the Silver Cyborg Series trilogy. This story has a romantic happy ending and a storyline continuing to book two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Cuvay
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781733482752

Ava Cuvay

Ava Cuvay writes out of this world romance featuring sassy heroines, gutsy heroes, passion, adventure, and an alcoholic beverage or two... Often set in a galaxy far, far away. She resides in central Indiana with her own scruffy-looking nerfherder, kiddos who are growing up without her permission, and two kitties that make her laugh. She believes life is too short to bother with negative people, everything is better with Champagne, and Han Solo shot first. When not writing, Ava is thinking about writing. Or wine. And she’s always thinking about bacon.

Book preview

Chapter One

Aslow start to the night promises a crazy ending… said no one ever. But, based on his years as a bouncer at the historic Vogue Bar and Music Venue, Adam Lehmann knew the saying was truth. This Saturday night shift was downright dull so far, and the tingle in his lower back—the part which didn’t have cybernetic sensors running through it—assured him tonight was doomed.

He didn’t yet know what or why, but something would swerve into shit creek territory, and the cops would be called.

Cops who had once been his friends and coworkers. Guys who’d had his back. Up until part of that back, his heart, his left arm, and an eye had been replaced with cybernetics. On the outside, Adam didn’t look any different than he had. But simply knowing he wasn’t entirely organic beneath the epidermis layer was enough to make him an object of fear and loathing.

The awkward shift from pal to persona non grata hadn’t been listed as a possible side effect when he’d allowed doctors to replace his shot-to-hell body parts with experimental cyborg systems. If it had, he might have let himself die on the operating table. Scratch that, he would have assumed his friendships were tight enough to withstand a few synthetic enhancements.

The joke was on him. And it wasn’t funny.

You seem on edge, Lemon. The automaton bartender handed him a bottle of water. Adam forced a neutral expression at the slight mispronunciation, which turned his last name into a proclamation of his derelict physical state. Adam’s glitching cyborg parts and mid-forties human body did not mesh well. A mid-life crises of epic proportions with no hope of coming out on the other side any way but dead. Not that he would admit that to anyone.

"I seem? A bit of a subjective statement, don’t you think Arthur?"

Arthur’s robotic Swiss army knife body rotated beneath its head, its multiple attachments a symphony of cleaning, stacking, filling, pouring, serving. Only its face held any humanoid features, and those looked like the poor schmuck who passed out first at a fraternity party. Someone had taken a black marker to the mechanized bartender, decorating it with a scraggly goatee, handlebar mustache, scars, anime eyelashes, a black eye, and the word dildo in bold caps across his forehead. Instead of paying to have the synthetic covering cleaned or replaced, The Vogue’s owner had shrugged at the vandalism and invested in costume hats to add to Arthur’s look. Tonight, it sported a red bandana skull cap and pirate eye-patch. Adam refused to laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

To be honest, he didn’t laugh, period. Looming demise did that to a person.

Incorporating common human phrases and word usage is part of my programming. Arthur’s artificially generated voice was an unemotional monotone. Your pupils are dilated 38 percent, your heartrate increased 25 percent, and your shoulders have lowered point-five inches. All symptoms of tension. As you have often lamented your lack of personal activities, I conclude it is work related.

Lamented? Is that another common word usage you’ve incorporated? Adam twisted the bottle open with a flick of his wrist. "Don’t recall ever lamenting anything, although I have mentioned my short list of hobbies."

Arthur paused in its multi-tasking for a moment. Lamented seemed the appropriate word for your condition.

Lamented. Seemed. Better take care, talking like that. Adam murmured the warning over the top of the bottle. You might be mistaken for a human.

Adam knew better than anyone, humans did not take kindly to being impersonated. Their need to play god and create something in their own image warred with their fear of creating something which might render them unnecessary. This explained why automechs enjoyed a spotty sort of popularity, while alpha-phase cyborg transitions such as himself were pariahs.

He choked down the ugly cocktail of envy and bitterness burning in his chest. The fact Arthur’s creators were fearful hypocrites wasn’t its fault. The automech merely fulfilled its programming. Adam shrugged off his harsh opinion—although they no longer claimed him, he was also a member of that human race—and changed the subject. I got a bad feeling about this, Arthur. The night’s gonna jump the rails at some point.

"That is illogical, as night is a term for a period of planetary rotation in relation to the sun, not an obsolete transport vehicle requiring directionally guided tracks. And please, call me Artie."

Arthur made the request nightly, oblivious to the fact the nickname was a slur against all Artificial Intelligent automechs. Whoever had named it Arthur to begin with had played a joke Adam found distasteful on behalf of the robot. Or maybe because the insult hit a little too close to home. "Jump the rails is a common human phrase, Arthur."

Not anymore. That specific idiom fell out of usage nearly three decades ago.

Feeling every day of his forty-four years, Adam took a long swig of the crisp water and scanned the sparse crowd. The current patrons consisted of a group of students from nearby Butler University ribbing each other over a game of dejarik, some locals laughing at the holo-darts, and a middle-aged woman fidgeting at one of the corner tables. A subdued, unremarkable scene, like a calm lake. A deep well of water which would swell, building pressure until bursting like a broken dam once the night’s band was into their third set, bringing death, destruction, and panic with it.

Yep, crazy would happen tonight, right in the middle of Indianapolis’s eclectic Old Broad Ripple Village bar scene.

Adam ground his molars at the possibility of having to interact with his former fellow officers tonight. The wary looks, like he would suddenly go all rogue-robot-murdering-spree on them, thank you Hollywood for that fucking paranoia. In truth, he was more likely to seize up and die on them like granddad’s rusty truck, although he kept the tidbit to himself. Still, his gut churned in foreboding that tonight would get out of hand.

I see you are scoping out the possible threats. Arthur piped up. Apparently, AI mechs yearned for conversation to distract them from their menial jobs. My vote is an alcohol-inspired brawl between the two groups.

Possible. Too much alcohol made people stupid and unpredictable. But Adam’s gut told him that wouldn’t be the case. He shook his head, calling upon his years of police-force training to examine the subtle behaviors of the guys at the dejarik board. Nothing aggressive or defensive from any of them. His programming ran their stances and motions against his database of universal body language psychology. He switched his cyborg corneal lens between infrared, ultraviolet, and magnification. He noticed the untouched condensation on the near-full beer bottles. His gut was right.

Unlikely we’ll get a bar fight from those guys. They’re probably just killing time until their girlfriends arrive. Then they’ll go someplace trendier.

What about the crowd at the holo-darts? Money is being exchanged. No doubt they are gambling and someone is going to get accused of cheating.

You gunning for my job, Arthur? Adam snorted. He wasn’t much for idle conversation. This isn’t the Old West. There won’t be a showdown in the streets. How about you stick to pouring drinks and let me watch the drunks?

Very well. But if I am right, you owe me a new hat.

Adam’s lips twitched at that.

Normally, his scowl and powerful build were enough to keep trouble at bay. He got to toss a rowdy drunk or handsy college boy on occasion. Pour a giggling bachelorette party into a cab. Once in a great while, he redirected the determined attention of a woman too deep in her cups to realize she was beer-goggling an alpha-phase cyborg. Just normal bouncing business which he could handle with one robotically-enhanced arm tied behind his back.

But tonight? Tonight would be one of those jacked-all-to-hell nights. His Spidey-senses said so.

The lone woman at the corner table was what he would consider a person of interest. And not just because she was attractive. Her gaze skittered around the room, never landing on anything for more than a moment. She turned her glass of white wine in her hands without drinking. Her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself as small as possible, to avoid notice. A difficult task, since she was not the bar’s typical clientele. Older. Classier. Pricier clothes. Attractive enough to stand out in a packed house.

He pushed off the bar rail and headed toward her. He wouldn’t admit to Arthur, but Adam was pretty certain she’d be at the eye of the evening’s shit storm. At least, that’s what the tingle in his spine and hitch in his breathing told him each time he glanced her way.

Or maybe those physical reactions were desire. He hadn’t experienced that particular sensation in so long, it was easily confused with something else. Yet every time he saw the rich auburn of her shoulder-length hair, his fingers itched to run through its thick waves. Even the synthetic circuits in his left hand flinched. Each time his gaze paused at her full lips, an electric zap of need shot to his groin. Like applying a defibrillator to a dead man, his cock jerked to life.

Adam gritted his teeth and willed the undead zombie in his pants back into the grave. His body rarely obeyed him these days, malfunctioning at the most inopportune times. He nearly stumbled when his penis settled down to sleep again. Great, the one body part he wouldn’t mind being livelier was happy to keep napping.

The woman eyed him warily as he crossed the bar and slid onto the chair across from her. Brown eyes like English toffee ringed with chocolate framed by long dark lashes continued to glance around the room, but settled on him more often than not. Adam forced his breathing to keep steady as his mechanical heart kicked a rapid beat. Was it malfunctioning? If he keeled over dead right here, everyone would discover he was a cyborg, and he’d worked so hard to hide the fact. But that wouldn’t matter if he was dead, right?

Can I help you? Her sultry voice rolled over his senses like velvet. His zombie cock lurched. His brain frizzed and froze, no answer to her question coming forth.

Adam leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, stalling and hoping his cerebral malfunction was brief. She leaned back against the seat, away from him and maybe making room for a quick getaway. Distrusting and nervous. He tried for a good-cop smile. Blind date?

Blind date? Her brows furrowed and the effect was adorable. She was a beautiful woman. Heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows. She’d applied her makeup with a light and expert hand. Faint laugh lines at the corner of her eyes and one off-center worry crease between her brows. Older than the bar’s typical patron, especially given the heavy metal band slated for tonight. Possibly in her late thirties, maybe early forties.

He leaned back to appear relaxed and unconcerned. "Yeah, are you waiting for a blind date? Related to one of the band members? Lost? Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?"

Anger flickered in her eyes. Is there a law against me being here?

Not at all. We just don’t often get customers like you.

One eyebrow rose and her lips formed a thin line. Like me.

Shit, he’d pissed her off. He might be a good bouncer, but standing and glaring for a living was affecting his people skills. Or maybe the light floral scent of her perfume was shorting out his micro-processor. He shook his head. No offense, but classy and beautiful women usually avoid this bar. Especially on night’s when Satan’s Rage is playing.

Her eyebrow lowered, but her cautious expression remained. Are you saying I can’t be a deathcore metalhead and wear Javier Anolo pumps at the same time?

Some trendy shoe designer he’d seen advertised somewhere. Yep, she was undeniably out of his class. I’m saying the head thrashing will mess up your hairdo.

She patted her hair self-consciously at the mention of it. "I am meeting someone. Not a date, per se. Just someone I’ve met online. And we agreed it would be nice to meet in person."

She met his gaze directly, after having avoided eye contact through her confession. He didn’t require twenty years on the beat or his cybernetic systems to know she wasn’t giving him the truth. At least not all of it. Adam’s heart cheered at the knowledge she wasn’t waiting for a date to arrive, which was a weird reaction to have. He didn’t know this woman, and shouldn’t care about her immediate plans, much less be happy they weren’t on the romantic end of the spectrum.

He ran a hand through his hair, and propped his elbow on the chair back. So, what’s your friend’s name? What does your friend look like? When she—he?—shows up at the door, I’ll escort ’em over and save you all that awkward watching and wondering and waiting for the other person.

Her expensive suit jacket hid her figure, but he guessed she was tall and trim. She adjusted it and he caught a glimpse of a cream satin shirt beneath it. She looked like she’d come straight from her office job, even though tonight was Saturday. Likely one of those career-minded execs who worked eighty-hour weeks. Intelligent, professional, and capable.

If he had a type, she would be it. Which also meant she was out of his ballpark. As a bouncer, he didn’t belong in the dating major leagues. As a cyborg, he didn’t get to play the game. Hiding his cybernetic status meant building a relationship on a shaky foundation. Add in the fact his mechanical heart hindered his ability to feel the tender emotions a girlfriend would expect. The most he could hope for was a good fuck, but his glitching made that little bit of contact risky. Yet he couldn’t stop the temptation to scan her heat signature in hopes she—

Shit. His cyborg eye glitched and went dark. He could bang it against the wall to jar it back online, but would have to wait until he had a private moment. Wouldn’t do for her, or anyone else, to see him bash his head like some wacko.

Further proof of how this night would go.

She clicked her short, unpainted fingernails—no rings on any fingers—against the wineglass, then put her hands in her lap while her gaze swept the room again. She was obviously nervous as hell, but that didn’t narrow down to why. If she was a naturally shy person—he doubted she was—meeting a practical stranger in an unfamiliar bar would be nerve-wracking.

I imagine you’ll be too busy with your regular duties tonight to provide such personal service. Her chin lifted a notch and she cleared her throat. But your offer is very considerate and I appreciate the thought, Mister… Uh… Mister—?

Just call me Adam. Adam Lehmann. At your service. He forced his eyes to meet hers, and not look where she nibbled her plump bottom lip.

Adam. Thank you—

And you are?

Oh. Um, I’m Evelyn… Eve… So, thank you for the offer, but I don’t know what my acquaintance looks like. Or his real name. I only know his online handle.

She might not be here for a date per se, but there was a man involved, and Adam’s heart grumbled. The damn thing was a cybernetic replacement and shouldn’t be cheering or grumbling or doing anything but beating. He was definitely malfunctioning. Unless he could determine if her plans might adversely impact the general business of the bar and its patrons, he shouldn’t be concerned with their details. His job was to keep the peace so the bar patrons could enjoy their evening, not ferret out personal drama. Reeling his emotions back in, he leaned on his interrogation skills. You don’t know what he looks like or his real name. But yet you decided it was a good idea to meet face-to-face?

One eyebrow rose again, likely in response to the accusatory tone of his voice. She responded with ice. All relationships begin with two strangers meeting, Mr. Lehmann.

He turned his hands palms-up in deference. Forgive an old bouncer for being jaded. I see more of the shady side of human interactions than I care to admit.

Why the fuck had he referred to himself as old?

The eyebrow lowered again and she mushed her lips together. Twisting the wine stem between her fingers, she glanced toward the stage, but her focus seemed inward. I’m sorry for being snippy. The truth is I’m nervous. The safety net of anonymity an online relationship brings isn’t there when you meet someone in person. And I… I question whether I’ve made the right decision.

Adam couldn’t fault her logic, nor did he want to berate her uncertainty. Unbidden, his left hand reached across the table toward her. He managed to stop it and lay his palm flat before he touched her. What’s your friend’s online handle?

MadDog2020. She grimaced as if she realized the absurdity of her situation.

MadDog2020? Why would anyone name themselves after a low-end liquor that hadn’t been made in over a century? What was the meaning behind it? Why not pick Mead1300? Or BoonesFarm2110? The handle made no sense, and by the way her lips thinned into a mulish line, she’d said more than she felt comfortable sharing. Best to wait her out a bit.

He nodded and rose from the table. "Well, Eve, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And as security for this establishment, I commend you for choosing the safety of a public location to meet someone you barely