Ricochet (Renegades #3)(94)
Author: Skye Jordan

He paced until the last person boarded and the waiting area was empty. Yet he looked at the ramp leading to the plane and couldn’t make his feet move that direction.

He certainly wasn’t afraid of flying. Sure as hell wanted to get back to his men.

But he couldn’t make himself walk down that ramp.

“Sir?” The young woman behind the desk drew his attention. “Are you on this flight? 645 to Tacoma?”

His gaze darted back to the door. He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am.”

She announced the last call for boarding, and Ryker stood there like he’d lost his mind and watched that ramp until the airline rep closed the door, blocking his view. Then she too walked away from the gate, and Ryker stood in the waiting area alone.

A whisper of relief filtered through his chest. He wandered to the window and watched the plane taxi onto the runway with a sense of being torn in half. Of floating, lost at sea without a human in sight.

He unclenched one hand from the strap of his seabag and shoved it into the pocket of his pants. A piece of thick paper touched his fingers, and he drew it out, turned it over, and found the name and number of Carmello’s therapist.

Yes, a voice whispered deep in his head.

Ryker dropped heavily into the nearest seat, sat forward, and stared at the card.

Just do it, the voice whispered again.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, then pulled out his phone.

A secretary picked up on the third ring. “Dr. Scott’s office.”

Ryker cleared his throat, his gut hollow as he said, “Hi. I got this number from a military friend, and, uh, he said Dr. Scot works with the army benefit package.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice upbeat and happy. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

Fuuuuuck. His throat thickened. A huge part of him screamed Nooooooooooo! But his mouth formed the word, “Yes.”

“Let me get your name, sir.”

He exhaled and grimaced at the long road ahead. Then thought of Mike, his three missing limbs, and the way he had kicked Ryker’s ass at one-on-one from a fucking wheelchair. “Nathan,” he said. “Nathan Ryker.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “Hold on one— Yes. Dr. Scott would like to speak with you himself. Can you hold just a moment?”

“I…uh…what?”

But she was gone, music playing over the line. Ryker rubbed a hand over his mouth as a flutter of panic irritated his gut. He was about to hang up when someone picked up the other line.

“Sargent Ryker?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, this is Ryker.”

“I’m so glad you called.” The man’s voice was smooth and warm and supremely relaxed in a way that settled Ryker’s fears. “Mike Carmello holds you in the highest regard, and well,” he added with a touch of humor, “Mike is so exceptional, I think that says a lot about you.”

Emotion rushed to the surface, breaking the crust on Ryker’s numbness. He huffed a laugh. “Well, Mike can be a little…dramatic.”

“I’d like to decide for myself. Mike’s told me about your time constraints. I’m willing to meet with you in my office, or somewhere else if you’re more comfortable with that. Where you’re staying, a coffee shop, wherever you feel safe and relaxed. We can even Skype if you must. You just name the place and time, and I’ll make it work.”

The sincerity in the man’s voice, the smooth way he used such formal language yet felt like someone Ryker had known for a lifetime, broke down every barrier.

The instant they were crumbled around his feet, Ryker knew exactly what he needed.

He looked at his watch. “I, uh…” His mind ricocheted between thoughts. “How about now?”

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Rachel said as Zach approached her with another surfboard. He beamed, his white smile what women’s sighs were made of. To Rachel, he was exactly what Jax had described—a blond Keaton. And after a week with the guy on set, she was sure she’d gained yet another brother. “How many surfboards do you really need, Zach?”

His smile transitioned into openmouthed shock. “I can’t believe you said that.” He turned to a cluster of cameramen kicking back in the sand with beers as the director argued with the band’s lead singer over the angle of the next shot in their music video. “Did you hear that?”

“The answer,” one of the guys said, lifting his beer to Rachel in mock toast, “is as many shoes as women need in their closet.”

“Not true,” she countered. “Shoes have a whole host of purposes, from function to style. We need a different shoe for every occasion, every outfit—”

“And I need a different board for every wave,” Zach countered. “We might start with six basic board shapes, but once you start getting creative with fins, tail shapes, design materials, and technology, whoa, dude, you’re looking at thousands of different prototypes. I won’t even start on the style aspect, or how a board should reflect your inner landscape, or—”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. The constant banter of the men on the set helped ease the awkward discomfort of all the women whispering behind her back. Everyone had already heard about the humiliation Nathan had inflicted up north. The men talked about it too, but they did it to her face—something she both preferred and appreciated. “Did you really just say inner landscape?”

“Oh, and the artistry involved is unreal,” he went on, ignoring her jab. “Look at this.” He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his wet surf shorts.

“Did you go in the water with that?” she asked, shocked the screen still lit up.

He laughed, and the surfboard-shaped charm threaded on thin black leather that lay against his bare chest jumped with the movement.

One of the cameramen said, “Don’t get him started.”

Another added, “He gets the coolest new toys before they’re even on the market.”

“And I get paid to play with them,” he said, scrolling through the images on his phone. “Look at this.” He turned his phone toward her. “Some are too gorgeous to ride.”

She squinted at the board standing on end. A light shone from behind, illuminating the exquisite, detailed, artistic carving of a squid covering the board from tip to tail. And it was a stunning combination of pink and blond wood. “Oh my God. What is that made out of?”