Ricochet (44 page)

His gaze darted to hers, and the raw accusation there drilled ice straight into her gut. “What the fuck…?”

Tensing, he gripped her wrist and yanked her hand away from his face. He darted a look over the crowd and returned his gaze to Rachel’s, sparking with fear and doubt and raw fury. For a moment, she swore he looked at her like the enemy.

She leaned away, keeping her voice level and soft. “Nathan, do you know who I am?”

“Of course I know who you are.” And just like that, he was instantly lucid.

And livid.

He shoved her hands away and rose to his feet in one fluid, strong move. When he stood, his gaze scanned the others looking on, and the horrifying realization of knowing they’d watched his meltdown flashed in his eyes. And he looked down at her again.

In that moment, Rachel had a flashback of her own. Of Dante standing over her in the same way after she’d broken down over the truth of his affair with Nicole. She’d slumped on the sofa in his New York living room, sobbing with betrayal, and Dante had delivered the same accusatory, furious glare.

With Dante, she’d stayed on the couch, fallen asleep there sobbing when he’d walked out. And hadn’t regained her self-respect for months.

Now she pressed her hands to the ground and forced herself to her feet. A hand gripped her arm and helped her up, but Rachel shook it off, and when she finally straightened, she found Josh standing beside her, ready to support her if needed. And Nathan standing in front of her, ready to skewer her—the sacrificial lamb to his demons.

“You’re the woman who can’t stay out of other people’s business.” Nathan’s hands rested at his hips, and he leaned forward. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me the fuck alone?”

Humiliation stabbed her chest, and Rachel sucked a breath of air.

Troy stepped in and grabbed Nathan’s arm roughly. “Shut your mouth—”

Nathan shoved Troy hard. He stumbled backward a few steps. Jax and Duke broke his fall.

“You motherfucker.” Troy lunged for Nathan, but the other men held him back.

Nathan ignored Troy as if he weren’t there, stabbing a rigid index finger to the air near Rachel’s chest. She flinched but didn’t back away.

“You cause more trouble for me than I can cause myself,” he ground out. “For the last time,
I. Don’t. Need. You.
Deal with it.”

Nathan pushed past her, knocking her off balance with his shoulder. Josh caught her and kept a protective arm around her waist. Troy lunged for Nathan, breaking out of Jax’s grip and yanking Nathan around by the arm. Troy’s other hand was already fisted and came around in a sharp hook to Nathan’s jaw.

A scream popped from Rachel’s throat, and she covered her mouth with both hands. Nathan stumbled sideways, bent at the waist, and covered his jaw with his hand. Sure he’d come back swinging, Rachel drew a breath to yell
stop
, but Nathan didn’t even turn and look back at Troy. He continued his path through the crowd, yelling, “I’m going to do the post-blast check. Everyone stay the fuck away from me.”

She kept her gaze on the dark where he’d disappeared from view, her mind hazing over as emotions overwhelmed her.

Josh was saying something in her ear. Troy stood in front of her, his grip on her arms, his worried, furious gaze on her face. But Rachel only heard Nathan’s slashing words over and over in her head.

She pushed Troy and Josh away, searching for Jax, and ignored his scandalized expression. “Jax, can you check the footage now? If it’s not acceptable, I’ll have to regroup fast to pull it off in time.” Jax grabbed her hand and dragged her with him to meet up with the assistant director.

“Drama’s over,” she said to the staff, forcing herself to keep her hand off the cheek that felt the size of a balloon, grateful her heart was temporarily numbed by the trauma. “Start packing up so we can get the hell out of here.”

As soon as the crowd started to disperse with low murmurs of shock and concern, she focused on the footage playing on the iPad’s small screen It was ridiculously dramatic and cinematically stunning. But Rachel felt no joy or accomplishment or even relief. She felt nothing.

“The fight came over on audio,” the director said to Jax, “but we’ll dub over it in edits.”

“We’re good to go?” Jax asked.

The director nodded. “It’s a wrap.”

There was no applause, no high-fives, no hugs, no laughter, the way wraps normally ended, and Rachel felt a pang of regret that Nathan hadn’t gotten to experience that.

When Jax turned his concerned gaze on Rachel, she stuck to business. “We came in twenty thousand under budget.” Her mind wasn’t fully engaged or functioning, but she turned to Wes, Troy, and Josh standing close by, and said, “Can I have a minute with Jax?”

They all gave her that pitying stare she’d received for months after the news of Nicole and Dante’s affair had spread across town, but wandered away to help dismantle equipment.

Before Jax could kick into concerned-dad mode, Rachel wrapped her arms around her middle and said, “I’ve already tied up all the bookkeeping. All invoices are paid or scheduled for payment. The cost analysis is finished. The HR paperwork is complete and filed. I’ll cut paychecks tonight—”

“Rachel—”

“But then I need to get the hell out of here, Jax.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed and pushed on. “Away from everything and everyone, or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

He gripped her biceps gently. “I’ll get you on the next plane to Maui. You can stay at my house on the north shore. It’s right on the beach, and I have a caretaker who will—”

“No, no,” She rubbed her temple. “Thank you, but no. I need to stay busy. I can’t just sit around with nothing to do but think. What else have you got going that I can help with?”Jax shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rolled back on his heels. “I was going to head down to Mission Beach for a few days. But you can handle that if you want.”

She raked a hand through her hair. “The surfing gig for the music video?”

He nodded. “Zach called earlier today and said the director acting as stunt coordinator is way out of her league. I think she’s knowledgeable and skilled but may need a little guidance in keeping it all together. You can stay as long as you want.”

Rachel pulled in a deep breath. San Diego. Not far enough away in her opinion, but as long as Nathan wasn’t there, as long as the Renegades weren’t there…it was as good a place as any. “I’ve never met Zach. And I know zip about surfing.”

“I think of Zach as Keaton’s blond twin—in looks, talent, and personality, with a whole hell of a lot of ‘dudes’ thrown in. And he knows enough about surfing to fill the ocean with how-to books. I need someone to connect with the director. Maybe finagle a few duties away from her while making her think it was all her idea.”

Rachel blew out a breath. “I think I can manage that.”

Jax pulled her close by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Then pack your bags, honey. You’ll be taking my seat on a flight out of Los Angeles first thing tomorrow morning.” He smiled down at her. “And Lexi doesn’t know it yet, but she’s very grateful.”

Relief and appreciation swam around the pain filling her.

She wrapped her arms around Jax and pressed her cheek to his chest. “Thank you.”

Ryker scraped his fingers along his itchy scalp. Fresh haircuts always itched, and he’d gone way shorter than usual this time, as if cutting it all off could erase the past two months of leave from existence.

“Attention passengers on flight 645 to Tacoma.” The American Airline’s customer service rep’s voice drifted overhead. “Your plane has arrived, and your flight crew is estimated to arrive in the next ten minutes. We apologize for the delay and will begin boarding as quickly as possible.”

With one more sweep of his hand over the new bristle of his hair, Ryker pushed to his feet and paced the length of windows looking out onto the tarmac. He stretched the muscles of his back, wincing at the aches all through his torso. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and glanced at the screen.

No messages.

No e-mails.

No calls.

Self-disgust welled up again, and he shoved the phone away. Of course there were no calls. He’d alienated everyone. There was no one left who wanted to talk to him except for a few buddies halfway around the world.

Troy had ambushed Ryker at the blast sight the next day when Jax wasn’t around and had taken a few choice shots with his fist. And Ryker had let him. He’d deserved the beating. Only it hadn’t made him feel any better about his insane reaction to the blast or how he’d treated Rachel afterward.

They’d eventually parted the same way they always parted after fights, with grudging support for each other—because they were family, for better or worse.

He pressed his palms on the sill of a window and leaned into it. His gaze blurred over the expanse of cement. The early detonation had unnerved him, but the sight of those fireballs mushrooming into the sky had been the cause of his snap with reality—something he never anticipated.

He pulled out his phone again. Scrolled through the contacts. Paused on Carmello’s number.

And shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Ryker knew what Carmello would say. Ryker would have told himself the same thing if he were in Carmello’s shoes. It wasn’t like Ryker hadn’t been in therapy before. He’d spent the better part of his childhood on state-mandated shrinks’ sofas. Had endured countless psych evals as a Ranger.

So what the fuck was his problem?

“Attention passengers on flight 645 to Tacoma.” The customer service rep’s voice broke into his uncomfortable thoughts. “Minor maintenance is required on your plane. The estimated delay will be approximately twenty minutes. Please stay in the boarding area, as the repairs may be finished earlier, and we’ll start boarding immediately.”

“Fuck that,” Ryker muttered. He needed a drink.

He pulled his seabag over his shoulder and wandered into the main corridor. The two decent bars in this terminal were full, every table in the restaurant, every seat at the bar taken. Ryker glanced at the entrance to the international terminal and remembered the bar there. And Rachel.

“Shit,” he muttered, then headed that direction. By the time he reached the bar where two seats remained open, he’d decided this was a good thing. Closure. Ending his memories of Rachel where they’d begun.

He dropped his bag and planted his ass on a stool. Ryker was staring at the shiny wood, realizing he’d never noticed it that night. All he’d noticed had been Rachel. Rachel and her spunky attitude. Rachel and her long dark hair, sweet face, big brown eyes. And, God, that smile…

The bartender turned from the cash register. “Well, look who’s back.”

He glanced up and found the woman who’d served him here three weeks ago. “Hey. What IPAs do you have on tap?”

“Just got a new Firestone Walker in. I think it’s called—”

“I don’t care. I’ll take it.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not near as congenial as you were the first time you were here.” Pulling a glass from behind the bar, she put it under the tap and pulled the dark liquid of Firestone’s newest creation. “Maybe you could give that woman a call to meet you. The one you hooked up with that night. She certainly added spark to your personality.”

He frowned at her. “You must get hundreds of customers a day. How do you remember that?”

She slid the full glass across the wood. “Honey, men like you hardly walk into my bar every day. Too bad the sweet young things always win out.”

“Refill,” someone called from down the bar, drawing the woman that direction.

He sighed and took a deep drink of the beer. His mouth filled with the rich flavors of caramel, coffee, and chocolate. His eyes fell closed, and he hummed in pleasure.

Rachel would love this.

The thought filled his mind, followed by the instant realization that he’d never get the chance to tell her about it, and cutting loss seeped in.

He swore under his breath and drank until half the beer was gone. When he set the glass down and stared into the dark amber liquid, he knew the alcohol wouldn’t help this time. He certainly wouldn’t be picking up another woman when the only one he wanted was Rachel. And as he spun his glass slowly, he realized he doubted submersing himself in his work would help erase this pain either.

He propped an elbow on the bar and rested his forehead there.

“Why are guys such assholes?” A woman’s voice from the other end of the small bar caught his ear.

“Got me,” another woman said, voice thick with disgust.

“All I wanted was an apology, you know?” the first woman said. “When I’m wrong, I always apologize. Sometimes I apologize even when I’m half-wrong just because it feels good. It’s cathartic or something.”

Ryker took another drink of the beer. Cathartic. He’d never looked at it that way. Rarely had an occasion to apologize for anything. And when he did…it had always been out of duress or expectation. But he wanted, more than anything, to apologize to Rachel. Had even stopped in front of her house when he’d returned to LA to catch his flight to Lewis-McChord. But staring at her door only made him think of seeing the hurt in her eyes, and he’d decided he’d hurt her enough. And, yeah, it would have hurt him to witness the pain he’d caused, so he’d been avoiding that too.