Ricochet (45 page)

He could stare into a dying man’s eyes and lie to him, but he couldn’t fucking apologize to the best woman he’d ever known.

His guts filled with such derision, he couldn’t sit still. He pushed from the bar, tossed money down, and walked out. He paced past his gate, checking on the flight status. The door to the ramp was open, and people stood in line to board.

He thought of the flight back to Afghanistan with nothing to do but sit. And think.

When they called his seating section, he waited until the very last minute to get in line. He didn’t need to sit any longer than he had to. But as each person boarded the flight, Ryker’s anxiety kicked up a notch. When they finally called the last seating assignment, he continued to pace, his anxiety building to panic-attack levels.

He paced until the last person boarded and the waiting area was empty. Yet he looked at the ramp leading to the plane and couldn’t make his feet move that direction.

He certainly wasn’t afraid of flying. Sure as hell wanted to get back to his men.

But he couldn’t make himself walk down that ramp.

“Sir?” The young woman behind the desk drew his attention. “Are you on this flight? 645 to Tacoma?”

His gaze darted back to the door. He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am.”

She announced the last call for boarding, and Ryker stood there like he’d lost his mind and watched that ramp until the airline rep closed the door, blocking his view. Then she too walked away from the gate, and Ryker stood in the waiting area alone.

A whisper of relief filtered through his chest. He wandered to the window and watched the plane taxi onto the runway with a sense of being torn in half. Of floating, lost at sea without a human in sight.

He unclenched one hand from the strap of his seabag and shoved it into the pocket of his pants. A piece of thick paper touched his fingers, and he drew it out, turned it over, and found the name and number of Carmello’s therapist.

Yes
, a voice whispered deep in his head.

Ryker dropped heavily into the nearest seat, sat forward, and stared at the card.

Just do it,
the voice whispered again.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, then pulled out his phone.

A secretary picked up on the third ring. “Dr. Scott’s office.”

Ryker cleared his throat, his gut hollow as he said, “Hi. I got this number from a military friend, and, uh, he said Dr. Scot works with the army benefit package.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice upbeat and happy. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

Fuuuuuck. His throat thickened. A huge part of him screamed
Nooooooooooo!
But his mouth formed the word, “Yes.”

“Let me get your name, sir.”

He exhaled and grimaced at the long road ahead. Then thought of Mike, his three missing limbs, and the way he had kicked Ryker’s ass at one-on-one from a fucking wheelchair. “Nathan,” he said. “Nathan Ryker.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “Hold on one— Yes. Dr. Scott would like to speak with you himself. Can you hold just a moment?”

“I…uh…what?”

But she was gone, music playing over the line. Ryker rubbed a hand over his mouth as a flutter of panic irritated his gut. He was about to hang up when someone picked up the other line.

“Sargent Ryker?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, this is Ryker.”

“I’m so glad you called.” The man’s voice was smooth and warm and supremely relaxed in a way that settled Ryker’s fears. “Mike Carmello holds you in the highest regard, and well,” he added with a touch of humor, “Mike is so exceptional, I think that says a lot about you.”

Emotion rushed to the surface, breaking the crust on Ryker’s numbness. He huffed a laugh. “Well, Mike can be a little…dramatic.”

“I’d like to decide for myself. Mike’s told me about your time constraints. I’m willing to meet with you in my office, or somewhere else if you’re more comfortable with that. Where you’re staying, a coffee shop, wherever you feel safe and relaxed. We can even Skype if you must. You just name the place and time, and I’ll make it work.”

The sincerity in the man’s voice, the smooth way he used such formal language yet felt like someone Ryker had known for a lifetime, broke down every barrier.

The instant they were crumbled around his feet, Ryker knew exactly what he needed.

He looked at his watch. “I, uh…” His mind ricocheted between thoughts. “How about now?”

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Rachel said as Zach approached her with
another
surfboard. He beamed, his white smile what women’s sighs were made of. To Rachel, he was exactly what Jax had described—a blond Keaton. And after a week with the guy on set, she was sure she’d gained yet another brother. “How many surfboards do you really need, Zach?”

His smile transitioned into openmouthed shock. “I can’t believe you said that.” He turned to a cluster of cameramen kicking back in the sand with beers as the director argued with the band’s lead singer over the angle of the next shot in their music video. “Did you hear that?”

“The answer,” one of the guys said, lifting his beer to Rachel in mock toast, “is as many shoes as women need in their closet.”

“Not true,” she countered. “Shoes have a whole host of purposes, from function to style. We need a different shoe for every occasion, every outfit—”

“And I need a different board for every wave,” Zach countered. “We might start with six basic board shapes, but once you start getting creative with fins, tail shapes, design materials, and technology, whoa, dude, you’re looking at thousands of different prototypes. I won’t even start on the style aspect, or how a board should reflect your inner landscape, or—”

“Oh,
please
.” She rolled her eyes. The constant banter of the men on the set helped ease the awkward discomfort of all the women whispering behind her back. Everyone had already heard about the humiliation Nathan had inflicted up north. The men talked about it too, but they did it to her face—something she both preferred and appreciated. “Did you really just say inner landscape?”

“Oh, and the artistry involved is unreal,” he went on, ignoring her jab. “Look at this.” He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his wet surf shorts.

“Did you go in the
water
with that?” she asked, shocked the screen still lit up.

He laughed, and the surfboard-shaped charm threaded on thin black leather that lay against his bare chest jumped with the movement.

One of the cameramen said, “Don’t get him started.”

Another added, “He gets the coolest new toys before they’re even on the market.”

“And I get paid to play with them,” he said, scrolling through the images on his phone. “Look at this.” He turned his phone toward her. “Some are too gorgeous to ride.”

She squinted at the board standing on end. A light shone from behind, illuminating the exquisite, detailed, artistic carving of a squid covering the board from tip to tail. And it was a stunning combination of pink and blond wood. “Oh my God. What is that made out of?”

“African pink ivory. The tree grows in Zimbabwe. This is hand carved.
Hand carved.
Can you believe that?”

Zach stepped over to the cameramen to show the image, and the three bullshitted about how much the board was worth, how long it took the guy to carve it, and eventually degraded into conjecture over what the artist wasn’t getting at home to be able to spend that much time on a piece of art.

Rachel watched the actor Zach was doubling struggle just to paddle his board through the surf, and smiled. He was a nice guy, the actor. In fact, everyone here was nice. And happy. Very little stress occurred on set, for which she was grateful, and day by day, she relaxed a little more. The fact that Nathan was halfway to Afghanistan by now delivered both relief and pain, and seemed to suck up every moment of her thoughts if she didn’t stay busy.

“Rachel.”

Her mind dragged back from the drift, and a tingle ran down her spine. She smiled to herself with an internal shake of her head. Now she was hearing his voice. Yes, she really needed a vacation.

“Mmm-hmm?” she said, raising her hand to shade her eyes as she gazed out at the water,

“Can we…uh, talk a minute?”

The tingle along her back turned into gooseflesh, and a flash of fire burned her chest. Jesus Christ, just what she needed—someone here with Nathan’s voice. She’d make sure to stay as far away from them as possible.

She turned to see which member of the crew would be her nemesis for the remainder of the shoot, and found… “Nath…?”

For a moment, she thought she’d mistaken someone else for Nathan. His hair was short, buzz-cut short. But it only took one look at his eyes to know she was staring at Nathan—his eyes brighter, the angles of his face sharper, his scars more severe. He was ridiculously striking.

Movement behind him dragged her gaze away, to where the other Renegades ambled forward—Jax, Troy, Wes, Keaton, and Duke. All of them. “Oh my God.” She swiveled with fear flooding her belly. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Nathan said, drawing her gaze back. “Well, except that I can’t live in my skin anymore after what I did to you. And nothing’s happened, except for me pulling my head out of my ass.”

“That doesn’t explain...” She looked past Ryker. “Jax?”

“I asked them to be here,” Nathan said.

“Begged is more like it.” Troy walked over to shake hands with Dillon and look at the picture on his phone. “It was a wickedly pathetic sight, let me tell you.”

“I meant to ask,” Keaton said to Jax. “Are we getting paid for this?”

“Hey, Keat, Wes,” Troy called over his shoulder, “come look at this board.”

The two men walked over to Dillon and glanced at his phone.

“Guys,” Nathan said with an irritable tone. “You’re not here to—“

“Dude,” Wes laughed, bumping fists with Dillon. “That’s a sweet ride.”

“This is ridiculous.” Rachel turned and started toward the water.
Oh God, no.
He wasn’t going to do this to her. Again. As if the rumors weren’t already bad enough. She darted a look at the three members of her new crew. Painful memories from that last night slammed her, and her heart hardened.

“Good for you.” She put on an air of indifference. “I’m sure you’ll be able to breathe better now. Jax, come meet the director. Guys,” she said to the other Renegades, “there are extra boards under that tent. Grab one and catch a few waves.”

But none of the men followed her directions—goddamned stubborn pieces of shit—so she turned away and started toward the set.

“Rachel, wait.”

The pained plea from Nathan pulled her to a stop against her will. She closed her eyes. Gritted her teeth.

“Please,” he said. “Let me do this.”

She spun back, clawing to hold on to an indifference she didn’t feel. But she didn’t have the energy or the heart to fight. And this would be over faster if she just let him relieve himself of his guilt.

“I can’t believe you dragged all these guys to San Diego for this.”
Let it go. Move on.

Crossing her arms, cocking her hip, she said, “Fine. Get it out, then go.”

He took a step forward, his face drenched in so much regret it twisted her stomach. With his hair short, his expressions were even more intense, and she decided it suited the warrior inside him.

“I…” he started. “I lost it at the blast. I’ve been stuffing my pain and my fear, and the blast snapped my mind. I didn’t mean what I said and I shouldn’t have said it at all, let alone in public, with all your friends and coworkers around. It’s inexcusable, unacceptable—”

“Fucked up,” Troy added, arms crossed, attention now riveted to the apology.

“Shitty,” Wes supplied, hands on hips.

“Cowardly,” Keaton offered.

Nathan shot a scowl over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. You’re here at witnesses, not spokespeople.” Then turned back to Rachel. “And, yeah, all those things too.” He took a breath and met her eyes steadily. “I’m so,
so
sorry, Rachel.”

Her heart throbbed painfully beneath her ribs. She couldn’t draw more than shallow wisps of air into her lungs. And her vision blurred with stinging tears.

With one nod, she cleared her throat and managed, “Apology accepted. I’m sure you’ll be able to breathe better. Now go catch your flight.”

She got four steps toward the waterline before Nathan’s hand curved around her arm. “Wait,” he said softly, “I’m…I’m not done.”

A weary exhale escaped. “Well, I am.” She looked up into Nathan’s eyes, trying to memorize them for her memories. “Look around you, Nathan. You’re doing it again. I have to work with these people every day.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” Without taking his gaze off hers, he dropped to his knees in the sand. Just dropped. Straight down with no warning. Rachel gasped and automatically reached for his arm. But he caught her hand and cradled it in both hands.

“Finally, it’s getting good,” Duke said from where he stood next to Jax. “I was starting to think I’d wasted two hours trapped in the car with you guys for a snooze-fest.

Behind him, Troy asked, “You rolling?”

Rachel’s gaze followed Troy’s to a cameraman who’d turned his equipment on Rachel and Nathan. He nodded to Troy, who grinned like the devil.