Ricochet (Renegades #3)(83)
Author: Skye Jordan

“So all you need is a fuck, and you think you’re good?” she asked, keeping her tone cool, as if it didn’t hurt. “You’re done with me, so I can hit the road, huh?”

He closed his eyes, exhaled, and ran a hand over his head. “I’m not fit for company, Rach. And the last thing I want to do right now is talk about this.”

“Not even if I told you that Josh discovered the cap was defective?” Feeling vulnerable now, she dragged the T-shirt over her head and stuffed her arms into the sleeves.

“What?” he asked, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Josh found the blasting cap that detonated in Ray’s hand. It wasn’t one you’d left behind or missed in the post sweep. It was just a defective cap in the storage locker that went off while Ray was putting things away.”

His gaze went distant, and a cluster of emotion flashed through in mini bursts—relief, hope, regret—then the gut-wrenching guilt returned, and he looked away. “I should have been the one putting those supplies away, not Ray.”

“He wasn’t handling the explosives,” she said. “Charlie was doing that. Ray was just moving equipment, and when he grabbed the locker holding the blasting caps, it exploded.”

“Charlie didn’t know that. How would you—”

“Brad,” she said. “Charlie was ten yards away, picking up debris that blew off the control hut. When Josh interviewed Brad, he said he and Ray were moving everything back into the truck to return to the stockyard. He and Ray reached for the blasting cap locker at the same time. Ray got it first.”

Nathan’s free hand lifted to his face. He rubbed his eyes and swore under his breath. “He’s just a kid.”

“It was an accident, Nathan. A tragic accident. No one could have predicted that cap would blow or when. This is exactly why we buy risk insurance. It’s no different than me buying life insurance in case I’m in a car accident.”

“I can’t…talk about this.” He shook his head and dropped his hand. “I’m a miserable human being right now, and you’re not going to change that. You need to leave.”

“You don’t have to talk, and you can be as miserable as you want,” she said, crossing her arms. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“I can take care of myself,” he barked with a ferocious glower. “Just leave me alone.”

Before she’d worked for Renegades, Nathan would have easily intimidated her. Now…not even close. She stood, turned and crawled onto the bed, then leaned back against a pillow.

“Rachel, I’m tired—”

“No one’s stopping you from lying down. There’s plenty of room for two people.” She pulled her knees up and slipped them beneath his T-shirt. “Are you going to waste your time arguing, or are you going to get some sleep?”

He swore again and lifted the bottle to his mouth. Rachel winced, knowing that alcohol had to burn going down. Then he lowered the bottle, his expression a similar grimace, and stalked to the bed.

When he lay down, Rachel reached for the bottle. “Share?”

He passed it to her, then dropped his forearm over his eyes. The other hand lay flat against his chest. She didn’t take a drink, just held the bottle. And watched the tension slowly ebb from his face as he drifted.

She remained still a long time, letting him sink into sleep. When his breathing found a slow, steady pattern, Rachel quietly set the vodka on the floor beside the bed. Propped up on one elbow, she watched him sleep. Watched his chest rise and fall, watched his fingers twitch against his chest, watched his head occasionally jerk sideways…and wondered if he was dreaming about what happened to Ray or what happened in Afghanistan. Or maybe something that had happened long before that.

Sixteen years he’d endured trauma after trauma for their country. For the men he served with. With another four to go, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d come out of his twenty years—or more, if he chose—alive. If he’d come out intact—physically or mentally.

Rachel’s heart reached out to Nathan even while her mind told her to cut her losses. She slid her palm over his cheek, and he stirred but didn’t wake. Letting her hand fall to his jaw, she lowered her head to his shoulder and snuggled closer.

Nathan sighed, turned toward her, and eased an arm over her waist, then tugged her close, pressing her body to his. With their legs tangled, his chin resting on her head, he stilled again, and his breathing regulated.

But Rachel couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to miss a minute of this unconscious sweetness, just one window into the real man beneath his trauma.

21

The dull clank of cowbells tinkled in Ryker’s ears. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck spike. He stepped in ultraslow motion, his gaze scanning the gravel at his feet. The air seemed to buzz with stress. Townspeople frustrated with the interruption of their farmers’ market stood behind armored vehicles blocking both ends of the road.

In the distance, dogs barked, chickens clucked, goats—those damned goats with cowbells strung around their necks—bleated, and the murmur of Afghan villagers touched Ryker’s ears. He forced every distraction away and inspected the ground immediately in front of him, then in a ten-foot radius, where the team member five feet to Ryker’s left and two feet behind—Mike Carmello—did the same. Their five-man team formed a diagonal string across the road where a possible IED had been called in to their EOD unit.

They passed a fruit stand on the left. A shop stacked floor-to-tented-ceiling with birdcages on the right.

“Those watermelons sure look good.” This came from Dog, the guy in the center and four feet behind Ryker. “When’s the last time we got watermelon in the mess? They should really be buying local merchandise, to support the area, you know?”

“Great way to die of food poisoning,” Carmello said. “Or swallow an IED.”

“Sure reminds me of summer, though.” The wistful voice of Tagger followed, fourth in the line. “Reminds me of clear, cold lagoons, rope swings, long, tan legs in jean cutoffs, string bikinis…”

“Summer?” Dekker said. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, man. You need to see fruit to remind you of summer when I’m cooking in my own skin?”

Another blazing Afghan day, and they were all wearing fifty pounds of uniform and equipment. Sweat trickled down Ryker’s cheek. He couldn’t bring himself to participate in the light banter, but he knew it relaxed his team and allowed it to flow, because their eyes, ears, and feet were always sharper when they were relaxed.