Ricochet (Renegades #3)(93)
Author: Skye Jordan

With one more sweep of his hand over the new bristle of his hair, Ryker pushed to his feet and paced the length of windows looking out onto the tarmac. He stretched the muscles of his back, wincing at the aches all through his torso. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and glanced at the screen.

No messages.

No e-mails.

No calls.

Self-disgust welled up again, and he shoved the phone away. Of course there were no calls. He’d alienated everyone. There was no one left who wanted to talk to him except for a few buddies halfway around the world.

Troy had ambushed Ryker at the blast sight the next day when Jax wasn’t around and had taken a few choice shots with his fist. And Ryker had let him. He’d deserved the beating. Only it hadn’t made him feel any better about his insane reaction to the blast or how he’d treated Rachel afterward.

They’d eventually parted the same way they always parted after fights, with grudging support for each other—because they were family, for better or worse.

He pressed his palms on the sill of a window and leaned into it. His gaze blurred over the expanse of cement. The early detonation had unnerved him, but the sight of those fireballs mushrooming into the sky had been the cause of his snap with reality—something he never anticipated.

He pulled out his phone again. Scrolled through the contacts. Paused on Carmello’s number.

And shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Ryker knew what Carmello would say. Ryker would have told himself the same thing if he were in Carmello’s shoes. It wasn’t like Ryker hadn’t been in therapy before. He’d spent the better part of his childhood on state-mandated shrinks’ sofas. Had endured countless psych evals as a Ranger.

So what the fuck was his problem?

“Attention passengers on flight 645 to Tacoma.” The customer service rep’s voice broke into his uncomfortable thoughts. “Minor maintenance is required on your plane. The estimated delay will be approximately twenty minutes. Please stay in the boarding area, as the repairs may be finished earlier, and we’ll start boarding immediately.”

“Fuck that,” Ryker muttered. He needed a drink.

He pulled his seabag over his shoulder and wandered into the main corridor. The two decent bars in this terminal were full, every table in the restaurant, every seat at the bar taken. Ryker glanced at the entrance to the international terminal and remembered the bar there. And Rachel.

“Shit,” he muttered, then headed that direction. By the time he reached the bar where two seats remained open, he’d decided this was a good thing. Closure. Ending his memories of Rachel where they’d begun.

He dropped his bag and planted his ass on a stool. Ryker was staring at the shiny wood, realizing he’d never noticed it that night. All he’d noticed had been Rachel. Rachel and her spunky attitude. Rachel and her long dark hair, sweet face, big brown eyes. And, God, that smile…

The bartender turned from the cash register. “Well, look who’s back.”

He glanced up and found the woman who’d served him here three weeks ago. “Hey. What IPAs do you have on tap?”

“Just got a new Firestone Walker in. I think it’s called—”

“I don’t care. I’ll take it.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not near as congenial as you were the first time you were here.” Pulling a glass from behind the bar, she put it under the tap and pulled the dark liquid of Firestone’s newest creation. “Maybe you could give that woman a call to meet you. The one you hooked up with that night. She certainly added spark to your personality.”

He frowned at her. “You must get hundreds of customers a day. How do you remember that?”

She slid the full glass across the wood. “Honey, men like you hardly walk into my bar every day. Too bad the sweet young things always win out.”

“Refill,” someone called from down the bar, drawing the woman that direction.

He sighed and took a deep drink of the beer. His mouth filled with the rich flavors of caramel, coffee, and chocolate. His eyes fell closed, and he hummed in pleasure.

Rachel would love this.

The thought filled his mind, followed by the instant realization that he’d never get the chance to tell her about it, and cutting loss seeped in.

He swore under his breath and drank until half the beer was gone. When he set the glass down and stared into the dark amber liquid, he knew the alcohol wouldn’t help this time. He certainly wouldn’t be picking up another woman when the only one he wanted was Rachel. And as he spun his glass slowly, he realized he doubted submersing himself in his work would help erase this pain either.

He propped an elbow on the bar and rested his forehead there.

“Why are guys such assholes?” A woman’s voice from the other end of the small bar caught his ear.

“Got me,” another woman said, voice thick with disgust.

“All I wanted was an apology, you know?” the first woman said. “When I’m wrong, I always apologize. Sometimes I apologize even when I’m half-wrong just because it feels good. It’s cathartic or something.”

Ryker took another drink of the beer. Cathartic. He’d never looked at it that way. Rarely had an occasion to apologize for anything. And when he did…it had always been out of duress or expectation. But he wanted, more than anything, to apologize to Rachel. Had even stopped in front of her house when he’d returned to LA to catch his flight to Lewis-McChord. But staring at her door only made him think of seeing the hurt in her eyes, and he’d decided he’d hurt her enough. And, yeah, it would have hurt him to witness the pain he’d caused, so he’d been avoiding that too.

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.