Ricochet (Renegades #3)(5)
Author: Skye Jordan

“Another?” the bartender asked.

Ryker nodded and drank half the glass as soon as she set it down. Then glanced back at the hockey game again, even though he wasn’t following. And by the time he’d finished the beer, he was just starting to relax. Maybe he’d actually get some good sleep tonight. God, he missed good sleep. He craved sleep as much as he craved food. But he still needed alcohol and women to get through the night.

“That must be good.” A woman slid onto the only free stool beside him, but he kept his gaze on the game. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Nice voice, was his first thought, even though the rich, sultry tone was tweaked with irritation. One corner of his mouth twitched up in an ironic grin. What rational American didn’t get peeved working their way through LAX?

Ryker stared at the foam sliding down the side of his glass. “And I’ll have another.”

“You look about as good as I feel.” She tossed a credit card on the bar. “This one’s on me.”

He watched her in his peripheral vision, not quite ready to make idle conversation. Yeah, he wanted the release of sex, but sometimes—in fact, more and more often over the past two weeks—the whole lead-up had grown tedious. Maybe he should just have a taxi drop him in the prostitution district.

The woman beside him hung the strap of her purse on the back of the fancy barstool and pulled off a sweater, throwing it carelessly over the arm. A whisper of feminine spice touched his nose, and he breathed deep. The hollowness in his chest eased a little. Then she planted her elbows on the bar, dropped her head into her hands, and raked her fingers through her hair with a long exhale.

Ryker really had enough of his own damn problems. He didn’t need to take on anyone else’s. But the bartender set down the drinks and snagged the woman’s card before he decided whether or not to decline the offer, so he sent her a sidelong glance and a quiet, “Thanks.”

Instead of responding or drumming up conversation, the woman lifted her glass and guzzled.

“Mmmm.” The throaty sound shot heat through Ryker’s groin and drew his gaze to the generous stranger. She wore small, dark-rimmed glasses, and wisps of her hair, a pretty deep reddish-brown, fell in wavy strands from a messy knot on the back of her head.

“Oh my God,” she murmured still staring at the drink. “Is this…? No. It hasn’t been released yet.”

She seemed to be almost talking to herself as she lifted the glass to the light, inspecting the beer.

“Opal?” he asked.

Her gaze darted to his, a quick gasp pulling through her lips. “No. Really?”

She returned her gaze to the beer. That was a first. Ryker didn’t think of himself as a god or anything, but women had given him more than his fair share of attention since he’d hit puberty. This one, however, seemed more interested in the beer. Ironically, that earned her a few points.

“Really,” he said. “Brand-new on tap. You like Firestone?”

“Love Firestone. I’ve been dying to try this since I heard about it two months ago.” She caressed the glass in both hands and smiled. Her teeth were small and straight, and a dimple poked into her cheek at the corner of her mouth. “My day is finally looking up.”

The fact that she was referring to the beer and not to him made him grin. “That’s refreshing.”

“I know, right?” She took another sip and considered the color again. “Almost tropical, but dry.” Another sip, more consideration, a shake of her head, a musing hum.

Ryker laughed. “I meant you, but, yeah, the beer is exceptional.”

She finally looked at him, just a sidelong glance through her glasses. He caught a glimpse of brown eyes before her lips quirked up at the corner again, drawing his gaze to her mouth. A really nice mouth, with full pink lips.

The thought started his blood flowing south, surprising him a little. She wasn’t a woman he would normally give a second look—not a tattoo or a piercing in sight. But he was looking now, and noticing her slim build beneath a deep blue dress, the curve of her bare tanned shoulder, the way of the loose strands of hair coiled into soft waves to her chin.

She huffed a laugh, looked away, and drained her beer. “Oh, yeah,” she said on a sigh. “I’m at my most refreshing after a nonstop day of work with men who communicate as well as fish, have to be cared for like two-year-olds, and then send me to the airport to pick up some stranger at freaking rush hour on Friday.”

“Another?” the bartender asked.

“Actually, as great as that was, I really need something stronger after ninety minutes on the 405.”

“Hell yes, you do,” she agreed. “I heard there was an accident—”

“Barely a damn fender bender, but you’d think there were zombies lying all over the road the way traffic crawled. Brutal, I tell you. Can I try a Mandarin and soda with lime? A friend of mine has been ordering them lately.”

“You got it.”

When the other woman moved on to another customer Ryker said, “After that beer?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got a lead stomach.” To the bartender, she called, “Can you make it a double?”

Ryker chuckled, saluted her with his beer, and took another drink, becoming way too fascinated with the renewed frown tugging at those lips.

“And then to have the guy I’m supposed to pick up go MIA?” she muttered with a shake of her head. “This is so screwed.” She fished in her purse, pulled out an iPhone, and pressed one number as the bartender set down the orange thing she’d ordered. “I should try getting them again. Maybe their reception has improved.”

She put the cell to her ear and took a sip of her new drink. Another moan of pleasure, and her eyes closed, head tipped back. Ryker’s gaze roamed down her neck, her chest, her tits. Not the rack on the bartender, but high and tight, and his mouth watered for something other than another beer.

“Shit,” she whispered. Her jaw tightened as she listened. Then, “Okay, the next time you guys send me on a freaking airport pickup, I’m getting all the information up front. I should have known you wouldn’t get reception up in those mountains. Just so you know, when he calls all pissed off that no one picked him up, tell him he wasn’t waiting outside terminal four. I even parked and walked inside, asked strangers at baggage claim. Do you know how stupid I looked wandering around asking, ‘Hi, is your name Ryker?’ I’m lucky no one called security.”