Ricochet (Renegades #3)(87)
Author: Skye Jordan

He closed his eyes, leaned his elbows on the rail, and rubbed his face. Too much pain lodged beneath his ribs—the loss of his friends, his team. Now Rachel’s loss. It throbbed there, as relentless as Rachel’s determination.

Walking out had been right. A long-distance relationship with her had been a momentary pipe dream. And, God, how he hated himself for not being more. Being whole. Being someone who could manage a relationship like that so he could have her to come home to.

Footsteps sounded on the trail. Ryker’s stomach plummeted. He couldn’t hash this out with her again. He’d already been compelled to spill his bloody guts back at the room. Had only managed to keep himself intact with anger and fear. Now… Fuck, now he was ready to melt into her arms.

But as the sound neared, he realized the approaching person was jogging. Not only could Rachel never run this mountain, the footsteps were too heavy for her size. Alarm razored across his nerves. Ray. Someone was coming to give him urgent news about Ray—which could only be bad.

He straightened and peered over the railing toward the footsteps, his mind drumming up every horrible outcome—a blood clot to his lung, sepsis, severe damage requiring amputation. Ryker’s gut coiled like a spring.

“Who’s there?” he called over the side.

The footsteps came closer and slowed as the jogger climbed the last embankment and straightened. Ryker knew instantly the man standing in front of him was Marx. Ryker knew his build, knew his stance. And the moonlight shone off his blond hair.

Marx wore shorts and tennis shoes. He planted his hands at his hips, and lifted his foot behind him for a quad stretch. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”

“I’d ask you the same.” He turned, set his feet wide, and crossed his arms.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, panting through the words. “Taking a run. You?”

Ryker wanted to call bullshit. He was sure Rachel had sent Marx to check on him. Maybe even lecture him. The fact both pissed him off and warmed his heart. And that was just annoying as shit.

“Same,” he muttered. “Minus the run.”

“Hey,” he said, coming closer, his voice the most conciliatory Ryker had ever heard it. “I sent a photo of the cap to a friend of mine who specializes in explosives.”

“I know. Rachel told me.” Ryker braced for Marx’s holier-than-thou attitude.

But Marx only nodded. “I figured she would, or I’d have told you myself. What happened wasn’t your fault.” As he wandered closer, his shadowed features showed better in the moonlight. He looked as sincere as Ryker had ever seen him. “You handled the injury quickly, efficiently. Your quick thinking probably saved Ray’s hand.”

Ryker remained tense, waiting for the stealthy verbal punch Marx always held back for the right moment.

Marx leaned his hip against the railing and pressed a hand to the metal. “I don’t really expect you to answer honestly, but…how are you handling it?”

Ryker tilted his head. “You shouldn’t expect me to answer at all.”

Marx nodded again. “Yeah.” He hesitated, his gaze turning to the darkness below. “I’ve been pretty hard on you. Rachel…well…” He huffed a laugh. “She set me straight tonight. And she’s right. I haven’t been fair because, well, I’ve had a thing for her for a while, and I have to admit, I’ve never been a good loser.”

Ryker didn’t comment. He wouldn’t fall for the obvious trap Marx was setting to get Ryker to admit to what was going on between him and Rachel.

He turned and placed both hands on the railing with a quiet laugh. One edged with the cunning Ryker had seen too often in Marx. Ink on his back caught Ryker’s eye, surprising him. And he grew curious about what kind of tat an insurance guy would wear.

“Then I realized that in two weeks, you’ll be gone. Halfway around the world. Putting yourself at risk.” He turned to look at Ryker again. “But I’ll still be here. Every day. Every night. And when the memory of your affair fades from Rachel’s mind…” His voice lowered with a steely determination that felt eerily familiar. “I’ll be ready to step in. Give her everything you didn’t. Everything you couldn’t. Everything she deserves.”

Ryker’s hands curled into fists. His teeth clenched. And every insecurity, every shortcoming, bubbled to the surface.

“You’re right. She deserves a lot more than I could ever give her.” Ryker forced the words out, his throat raw with the effort, and started past Marx.

The moonlight caught on the ink design covering the upper left side of Marx’s back and shoulder, and his feet froze. The image bore a dark black frog skeleton squatting on a lighter image of a waving American flag, the word FROGMAN woven into the design.

“What the…?” Ryker didn’t know he’d verbalized the thought until the words were floating in the dark. “Smart to keep that covered up, dumbshit. If a real SEAL sees that, you’ll be in a shitload of trouble, ’cause it’s obvious you’re no fucking Navy SEAL.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The move shifted the glow over the tattoo, and a new line bisected the image. A light line. A wicked scar.

“Not anymore, no.” Marx’s dark voice drew Ryker’s gaze up, and he found himself staring into eyes with the deep kind of pain Ryker had seen in the mirror way too often. “Nothing lasts forever, Ryker.”

His gut hardened. Memories and thoughts collided in his mind—Marx’s supreme confidence, his intricate knowledge of explosives, the crispness in his dress, his drive for perfection.

A SEAL. Marx was a fucking ex-Navy SEAL, not an above-average insurance guy. He was a fucking warrior, by all counts Ryker’s equal, with his sights set on Rachel.

“A real SEAL would say, once a SEAL, always a SEAL. Is that why you washed out? Because you didn’t have what it takes to stick?” Ryker demanded. “Is that why you hate the idea of Rachel choosing me? Because I could?”

Marx turned toward him, still gripping the railing as if it kept the other man from hurling himself into Ryker. “I didn’t wash out.” There was venom in his tone. “I was blown out by an IED in our path on a mission that should have been cleared by EOD, but wasn’t. So, yeah, I recognize the signs of PTSD, brother. And I know firsthand how it can eat away at you until you have no soul left. And without a soul, you’re just a dead man walking.