Ricochet (Renegades #3)(4)
Author: Skye Jordan

America.

Los Angeles.

LAX police.

He was at the goddamned airport.

A mixture of relief and shame mingled with lingering confusion. He lifted one hand in surrender, fisted the back of the attacker’s shirt in the other, and pushed the man toward the cops. One officer secured the attacker with cuffs; the other kept his weapon on Ryker and ordered him to the ground.

Beautiful.

Once he was cuffed and searched, the cop pulled him to his feet by the arm and pushed him, face-first, to the hood of a police unit that had just arrived. The attacker had been positioned the same way over the front fender, putting them at right angles to each other.

Ryker glared at the cop over his shoulder. “I’m the one who stopped the fight—”

“Just give us a few minutes to get everything straightened out, sir.”

Perfect end to a cranky-ass day.

He dropped his forehead against the hood and breathed through the anger. Then turned his head toward the cabbie. “Spay Bachai.” The curse—equivalent to son of a bitch—didn’t seem to faze the guy. “All this over a fare?”

One of the cops yanked Ryker from the hood and walked him away from the driver.

“Can I get my bags?” Ryker scanned for his gear. “I don’t want them to disappear.”

The cop glanced that direction then called to one of the other officers to pick them up, and walked Ryker into a corner, where he was questioned.

His use of the Pashto language had the cops bent on creating a terrorist conspiracy linking him and the three taxi drivers. With every question, Ryker’s patience slipped a notch. Anxiety mushroomed in his chest like a storm cloud. And after thirty minutes of answering the same questions asked eight different ways, Ryker’s nerves were raw.

“Dude. I’ve been in the army for sixteen goddamned years, and I don’t appreciate the terrorism insinuations. Arrest me if you want any more answers. I could use a ride into town.”

His attitude alone warranted the arrest, but Ryker didn’t give a shit. The cop—if he were even a real cop; what the hell was LAX police anyway?—gave up on the interrogation and finally cut Ryker loose.

He threw his bags over his shoulder and headed back into the airport in search of the nearest bar.

“I need a fucking drink.”

But after fifteen minutes of searching, all he’d found was a splitting headache. He finally wandered into the international terminal, where he located the first restaurant with a bar and planted his ass in a chair near the wall.

The bartender was a pretty woman, probably in her forties. She wore a tight tank top that showed off a killer rack, and gave Ryker a familiar, interested smile as she leaned on the bar with both hands. “What can I get you, handsome?”

Normally, he would have played on her interest. Rolling around in the sheets with an older woman who knew exactly how to give and receive in bed sounded like a nice end to this day of travel from hell.

At least in theory. In practice, he’d rather have been picked up two hours ago and now be sitting in the corner of a comfy couch, watching a ball game with Troy.

“A couple of snakebites to start off,” he said, “with Jameson, please. Then a beer. What local IPAs do you have on tap?”

She turned and grabbed a bottle of Jameson whiskey from a row lining the wall. “Frog’s Breath from Corona Brewery out of San Diego, brand-new this month. Blind Pig from Russian River out of Sonoma. And Opal from—”

“Firestone Walker,” he finished for her. “Out of Paso Robles. I didn’t know they’d released it. That must be brand new.”

“Yep.” She grinned. “And it’s good.”

“I’ll take it.”

She set two shot glasses in front of him and moved to the tap. “Nice choice.”

Ryker picked up the first shot, released a breath of relief in anticipation, and threw it back. The rich burn of quality whiskey filled his mouth and sizzled down his throat.

Damn, that felt good.

His shoulders relaxed, and he opened his eyes to reach for the second. When he set that shot glass on the bar, the woman slid a beer toward him.

“Thank you,” he said with overt appreciation.

A couple took seats at the end of the bar, filling every stool but the one on his right, and called for service.

“Enjoy,” the bartender said before moving toward her new customers.

With the shots warming his chest, Ryker savored Opal’s light gold color and tried to empty his mind. After the Jameson’s relief had faded, he took his first taste of this new beer from one of his favorite breweries. The light ale coated his mouth with a crisp, spicy start, as fresh as it was surprising. The sharp bitter beginning rounded out with a light white wine finish, and Ryker hummed in pleasure.

This had to be the second best thing about being stateside—access to such amazing craft beers. The very best thing, of course, was his access to so many women. But after his spree in New Orleans with the wild, off-beat, occasionally unstable type that always gravitated to him, Ryker wouldn’t mind spending a little more time with beers like this one.

Only, he had to drink a hell of a lot of alcohol to get the same level of distraction a few hours of sex provided. Besides, sex always left him feeling better the next day. Alcohol, not so much.

He let his gaze blur over the hockey game playing on the screen above the bar, but his mind drifted back to the confrontation at the pickup area, and he grew uneasy again. Over four full weeks away from weapons and war, and his brain still triggered at the strangest times.

His thoughts veered toward his team… Which was no longer a team but a row of caskets as he’d last seen them being loaded onto the aircraft carrier bound for the states and their grieving families.

“Fuck.” That split-second image drove a fiery spike through his chest. Ryker closed his eyes and drained his beer. But he’d been drinking so much the last four weeks, it would take him half a dozen shots and a six-pack to get buzzed. A woman really was the way to go.

He glanced down the bar. The seats were filled with businessmen, the middle-aged couple that had just come in, and a pair of young women who looked like they couldn’t decide between going grunge or punk. Pretty, with full lips, nice cheekbones, and that unflawed look of vibrant youth even the heavy makeup couldn’t hide. They met his gaze with interest, one raising her pierced brow as if silently asking if he were going to make a move.

But his body didn’t react, and the game just felt like too much effort tonight—even for a threesome.