Ricochet
Authors: Skye Jordan
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Ricochet
by Skye Jordan
Copyright 2014 by
Skye Jordan
Cover art and design by
Skye Jordan
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I have to thank you, my readers, for your enthusisam over this series. I love writing these sexy, complex men and you all make that possible.
A very special and heartfelt appreciation goes out to our men and women in all branches of the military for their dedication, selflessness, and courage, all of which allows every American a sense of safety and pride.
Undying affection and gratitude goes out to my critique partner Elisabeth Naughton who has pushed me through every one of my books – this being my 10th published. And to Darcy Burke, another fabulous author who plotted and brainstormed Ricochet through to the end.
Deep gratitude to all my fabulous supporters who have shared their love for the Renegades with others - bloggers, beta readers, and the Swan Siren’s street team.
And to my editor, Linda Ingmanson, who helps me keep my story in perspective, as well as Toni, our proofreader, a woman with laser-sharp eyes.
Of course, I’m endlessly grateful to my husband and two daughters who always pick up the slack I leave during busy times, who respect my work, have pride in my achievements, and continue to love me despite all my eccentricities.
Rachel Hart battled with a gaggle of stunt harnesses beneath the blazing Los Angeles Indian summer sun until the muscles of her arms ached. Sweat trickled along the indentation of her spine and dampened the back of her new sundress.
“I should have known better than to wear something cute on location,” she complained into her Bluetooth headset, jerking against nylon, canvas…even freaking Kevlar until her back and shoulders ached. “This is a disgrace. I can’t believe you take such shitty care of the very equipment that saves your stupid asses.”
A few harnesses pulled free, and the momentum of her struggle knocked her off balance. She dropped the gear into the dirt at her feet, and stared down at the tangle, hands on hips, panting. “Who is responsible for this mess?”
“Keaton.” The blame came over her headset in two distinct voices—Duke’s and Troy’s.
“Just throw me under the bus, why don’t you?” Keaton said. “Assholes.”
Rachel turned from the equipment compartment beneath the Renegades’ on-site stunt trailer and squinted up the mountain face. Duke, Troy, and Keaton hung at different levels, their forms outlined by the creamy granite at their backs. Two cameramen hung nearby, one filming from a higher vantage point, the other filming from the lower, equipment mounted on their shoulders.
“This might take a while, and I’ve got a bunch of other stuff to do. Which is more important to you, this harness or your paychecks?”
“Paychecks,” all three men said at the same time.
“But Jax is on his way over to pick it up,” Troy added.
The owner of Renegades, Jax Chamberlin, had been performing another stunt across town that morning. “Now?” She turned back to the knot of straps and latches, and even the thought of fighting with them again made the aches in her body deepen. “I thought he’d be filming all day.”
“He nailed the fall on the first take,” Keaton said. “They wrapped early.”
Rachel growled, crouched, and wrestled one of the harnesses free, then gritted her teeth and untangled two more. “Little notice would be nice, guys.” She held up two harnesses, both of which seemed identical. “What does this thing look like?”
“It’s the Zero G,” Troy said.
“Full body,” Keaton added, “with side D rings.”
She blew out a breath, ruffling the strands of her hair that had fallen from the messy bun held together by pencils. “That’s a little like me asking you to get the crackle nail polish from my makeup drawer, which, at last count, contained seventy-two bottles.”
A chorus of groans filled her ears.
“It’s black,” Duke said.
“Oh.” She drew out the word, staring into the dregs of the trailer. Ninety percent of the harnesses were black. “That’s helpful, Duke.”
Inside the trailer, the phone rang. “Shit.” She dropped the rig and started around the front. “I have to get the phone.”
“Rachel—” Troy said, irritation in his voice.
“I’m waiting for Precision to call me back—” She turned the corner, her mind on the risk assessment consulting company that held the key to success for the last stunt in the Bond film, and found a UPS man blocking the stairs with a cart of boxes.
He looked up from his clipboard, his middle-aged face drawn with fatigue, sweat glistening across his forehead and turning the chest of his brown uniform shirt dark. “Delivery for Renegades. Where would you like it?”
“Um…delivery?” Her mind skipped through the orders she’d recently placed, but had no idea what could be in these boxes or where they should go. She squeezed between the boxes and the arm rail to get up the steps. “Let me just get this…”
She jogged up the stairs, her toes squeezing in the tips of boots designed for style, not activity, another fashion mistake for a stunt site. At her desk, she leaned across, reaching for the phone. Her penholder tipped over, and pens, pencils, a letter opener, and scissors spilled across the surface and onto the floor. “Renegades,” she answered and got a dial tone in her ear. “Dammit.” She slammed the phone down and hit her paperclip holder. The top flew, spewing multicolored clips everywhere.
“We could use the Matrix if you can’t find the Zero G,” Keaton was saying in her ear.
“Or the Yates,” Duke added. “It might be easier to find. It’s orange.”
“We can’t use an orange harness on this shoot, dumb shit.” Troy’s voice came over the connection. “That’s not exactly something you can hide from the camera.”
“Ma’am,” the UPS man called up the stairs. “I’m sorry, but this delivery took me way outside my normal route, and I’m really behind. Can I drop these somewhere for you, or do you want me to just leave them here? They’re kind of heavy.”
The ring of her cell phone chimed from her purse on the floor. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Kill me now.”
“Excuse me?” the UPS man asked.
“That’s a little drastic,” Keaton said. “It’s just a harness.”
Rachel pulled the Bluetooth from her ear and dropped it on the desk, satisfied with the chorus of pained curses that drifted from the device. She turned to the UPS man and said, “Leave them there. I’ve got lots of big, strong guys to move them for me.”
Stepping behind her desk, she pulled her cell from her purse. The display read: MOM. Rachel closed her eyes in dread and lowered into her chair. “Criminy.” She pressed Receive. “Hey, Mom.”
“Honey, why aren’t you answering your phone? I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
Rachel closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Outside, boxes thudded on the ground, kicking up dust, which wafted into the trailer and stung Rachel’s eyes. “Busy day.” One that felt like it would never end. “What’s up?”
“I was hoping you could come home this weekend. Your dad and I miss you.”
Rachel sighed. “Not this weekend, I’m sorry. Work is really crazy right now. I’ll try to get away as soon as things quiet down.”
“But Nickie will be here.” Her mother’s voice rose with hope, but Rachel’s shoulders lowered with dread. “I know she wants to see you.”
Rachel had to force herself not to ask if Dante was coming with her. “No she doesn’t.
You
want her to see me.”
“She does. She asked me to call you and see if you’d come home.”
Bitter betrayal welled in Rachel’s belly and rose to tighten her chest. She picked up the fan on the floor at her feet and held it in front of her neck. “Then why didn’t she call me herself?”
“You don’t answer her calls.”
God, she didn’t have the patience for this. “If I don’t answer her calls, what makes either of you think I’ll drive three hours to see her?” She set the fan on her blotter. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m in the middle of a hundred things—”
“Rachel,” her mother pleaded. “She wants to talk.”
“Good for her. She can talk all she wants, just not to me, because I
don’t
want to hear her. And I sure as hell don’t want to see her.”
“Honey, it’s been six months—”
“So what does that mean? That I should be over it? That I should just forget? Go on like nothing ever happened?”
“No, of course not. But she’s reaching out—”
“Look.” Rachel cut her mother off with a stern tone, then took a deep breath. “I know this is hard on you and Dad.” She pressed her fingers against closed eyes. “I wish Nicole had made different choices. Wish she’d put someone else’s feelings before her own for once. But she didn’t. She never has. And honestly, I don’t think she’s even capable.”
A familiar impasse settled between her and her mother, and silence filled the line. Rachel’s heart felt heavy, which only stirred a deeper anger toward her gorgeous, selfish younger sister.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but this time, I’m not willing to just forgive and forget.” She stood and looked at the mess she’d made of her desk. “I’ll call you later. Love you.”
Rachel disconnected and squeezed her cell until her palm stung, which kept her from hurling the phone across the trailer.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Got the harness?”
Jax filled the doorway in all his six-foot-two, muscle-bound, ex-movie-star glory. The edges of his dark hair stuck to his sweaty, dirt-streaked face. His jeans were covered in dust, his T-shirt ripped at the hem.
“I’m still sorting them out.” She moved around her desk again. “The guys just told me you needed it, and Keaton is a damn slob with the harnesses. Wait till you see that nightmare.”
“I can hear you…” drifted over the Bluetooth.
She reached for the thumb-size device, said, “Not anymore,” and powered the receiver off.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Jax said, grinning. “I’ll tackle the harness mess if you make a pickup run to the airport.”
Rachel slumped and leaned her ass against her desk. She glanced at the clock on the wall behind Jax. “LAX at rush hour on a Friday.” She crossed her arms. “You really hate me, don’t you?”