Ricochet (41 page)

“Shut the fuck up.” He jerked at Mike’s jacket, sobbing the words. Tears burned on his cheeks. “No shit-talk, Carmello.”

“Get out of here, Ry. Not…safe…”

“I’m not leaving you.” He dropped to his ass and gathered Mike into his lap. With his arms steely around his friend, as if that would keep him from slipping away, Ryker pressed his head to Mike’s. “And you’re not fucking leaving me, asshole.”

He lifted his head, took as deep a breath as he could, and screamed, “Medics! I need medics over here!”

“Nathan.
Nathan
. Look at me.”

He moved away from the soft female voice, so horrifically out of place. Fingers dug into his arms. The
ten
fingers of
two
hands.

“It’s Rachel,” she said, her voice firm but filled with understanding, throwing out another red flag. “You’re fine. Mike is alive. You’re home now.
Look. At. Me
.”

He lifted his arms, breaking her grip and spinning away. His gaze refocused, and Ryker found himself inside a small room. Not in his barracks. His heart pounded as hard and quick as a jackhammer. Sweat covered his body. And he shook with the ice cutting through every inch of his him.

“Just a nightmare,” the woman said behind him, making Ryker swivel toward the bed again. Rachel knelt on the edge, dark hair tousled from sleep.

The instant he saw her, the left side of his body prickled with the imprint of her heat where she’d been curled beside him. His well-trained mind pushed the horror of his past behind, and his body reacted to the sight of her in his T-shirt with a burst of desire deep in his pelvis.

He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed hard. His mind pinged between the nightmare and Ray’s tragedy earlier that night. Then diverted to the image of Rachel in the shower, her white tank a wet second skin, the heat and softness of her pussy in his mouth. Her tangy, edgy taste. The hollowness that filled him wasn’t the least bit interested in sex, but his brain and his body had other ideas.

He growled, dropping his hands and turning his back to her again. “You need to go.”

Her hands slid down his back, and Ryker jumped at the electric touch. “It was just a nightmare,” she said softly. “You’re fine now.”

“I’ll never be fine,” he bit out. He never should have fallen asleep with her. He’d known that. So fucking stupid.

Her shoulders dropped, hands falling into her lap. “We’re not going there again, are we?”

He didn’t understand. His mind was doing that fragmented thing again, pieces disappearing and reappearing like a game of pong.

The covers rustled as she uncurled her legs and stood. She passed him on her way to the bathroom, looking so damned adorable with his T-shirt draping her little body. He had to clench his hands to keep from reaching for her. He wanted to sink deep into her and banish the bubbling anxiety fizzing through his system.

The water ran, and Ryker paced the small room, working to clear his head. But the clearer it became, the more he wanted Rachel.

Something cool and wet touched his neck, and he whirled. Rachel stepped back holding a limp hand towel. She waited, her expression patient. Understanding. Void of pity. That helped him relax.

As soon as his posture softened, she stepped in again. “Let’s cool you off.”

She wiped the wet towel across his chest and up his neck. The chill washed the last fragments of the nightmare from the present, and he exhaled heavily.

Covering her hand with his, he cupped her head with the other, lowered his forehead to hers, and closed his eyes. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” She stroked the towel over his shoulder and down one arm. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

He absorbed her presence, her scent, the soft heat wafting from her body. Lowering his head, he slid his damp cheek down hers, turned his head, and covered her mouth with his. The first press of her supple lips was like a crisp breeze in the desert, and he sighed with relief. When he deepened the kiss, she kissed him back, but only for a moment before breaking away and pressing one hand to his chest.

“Sit,” she said softly.

He sank to the edge of the bed and gathered her close, his cheek resting against her belly beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. He caught his own scent mingled with hers, and the fire in his groin flared. His cock hardened with the thought of pushing inside her soft, wet heat again. Nothing banished the memory or the pain better.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said, dragging the cool cloth along the back of his shoulders and the nape of his neck, “but you have to see someone about it before you go back, Nathan.”

All his muscles tensed. His eyes opened to the dim room, and a hard ball sank into his gut. He didn’t respond, hoping she let it drop there. Damn, he didn’t want to get into this.

She pulled back, lifted his face with a hand at his jaw. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the emotion, the expectations, the fear on her beautiful face. She wiped his face, and the cool relief made him sigh again. He slid his hands down her back, over the sweet curve of her ass, and squeezed. Pulling her in, he scraped his teeth over the T-shirt along her belly and groaned.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, and that familiar need coupled with true desire made his mind haze. Exactly what he wanted. What he needed. Ryker stroked his hands up her back, then down again, squeezing her ass again and pulling her close. He clutched her waist, his mind already on the idea of dragging the shirt off over her head and watching her ride him the way she had that first night.

But her hand tightened in his hair. “How do you deal, Nathan?” Her voice remained soft and serious. “I know you’ve seen a lot of tragedy. And you’ve stayed sixteen years. You must have some way of coping.”

He clenched his teeth. Frustration dimmed the delicious desire flooding him. “Rach,” he said, trying to sound patient but not feeling it. “I already told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not talking about any one incident,” she said. “I’m talking about you, Nathan. I’m talking about how you get yourself past the pain and move forward. You can’t go back to duty like this.”

Fuck.
He had a crazy urge to jump to his feet and demand,
“Like what?”

Instead he covered one of her hands with his and pressed it between their bodies, between his legs. He rubbed her palm over his erection. Electric fire erupted in his groin, spreading pleasure through his cock.

“You’re right, baby,” he said, voice rough with lust. “I can’t go back to duty with this.” He slipped his other hand beneath the shirt and stroked her soft curves. Christ, he’d never felt anything so beautiful. He realized what a ludicrous thought that was considering how many women he’d been with, but she felt far more perfect in far more ways. “Why don’t you help me with that?”

He gripped her waist and lifted her to his lap, then scooted back on the bed. She braced her hands on his chest and looked down at him, all that long dark hair falling forward. He stretched one arm toward the nightstand, pulling the drawer open and grabbing a condom.

“Nathan, you can’t keep avoiding this. You can’t go back to the men who count on you unless you’re one hundred percent there for them.”

He bent his knees and purposely dug his fingers into her waist too hard. “Baby,” he said, warning flaring in his voice, “leave it alone. The only kind of therapy I want from you is sexual therapy.” He slid his hand up to her breast, cupped, and squeezed. To soften the bite of his tone, he added, “Definitely your area of expertise.”

He ripped the condom open with his teeth, wanting to get inside her fast so he could divert her attention from this topic.

But she covered the hand holding the condom and pressed it to the bed. Leaning over him, she looked directly into his eyes. “Nathan, I’m serious. You have less than two weeks before you go back. That’s not much time. You need to call someone and make an appointment.”

He gritted his teeth, and his exhale sounded as a hiss. “What is your deal?” He pulled his hand from hers, sat up, and lifted her from his lap, setting her aside. “Why can’t you just drop it? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rachel wasn’t the first woman who wanted to talk about his work. In the past, the slightest show of anger had immediately deterred most of his one-night flings from the subject. A few had persisted, but every one of those had relented when he’d shown any sign of walking out on them.

He should have known that tactic wouldn’t work with Rachel. Her gaze remained serious but caring. Her expression determined yet open.

Something inside urged him to confide in her. Something whispered she would understand. She would be strong enough to deal. A little spark of maybe she would believe, maybe she could really love him, despite how fucked up he was.

“I may not know what you’ve been through,” she said, “I may not ever be able to understand the depth or extremity of the suffering you’ve seen or done, but I can see an open wound, and yours is as visible now as Ray’s was a few hours ago.”

He pushed to his feet, planted one hand on his hip, and raked one through his hair. He was fucking sick of all this hair. He was never letting it grow this long again.

She rose from the bed, facing him. Something about the sight of her in his shirt twisted the same elemental place inside him it had that very first night. “Nathan, I care about you. I just want—”

“There’s the problem.” He couldn’t do this. She was too close. Too sweet. Too strong. Too everything. “We agreed this would be about sex, nothing more.”

“Really.” Her brows fell, and she propped her hands at her hips. “So that whole “‘What if I came home between tours—’”

“Was just a
what if
,” he lied, his stomach clenching. “Hell, the sex is good. Why wouldn’t I want more if I came back to town?”

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Her jaw shifted to the side. And her gaze gleamed with a familiar determination. One he couldn’t face, because she wouldn’t let up. Wouldn’t relent.

“Look,” he said, using a careless tone. “If you don’t want to fuck, then leave.”

Her lids lowered. “I expected a lot of things from you, but I never expected you to be a coward.”

He laughed, the sound sharp and cynical as he turned and dragged a pair of pants from the dresser. He jerked them on and zipped up, then headed for the door. “Good to know where we stand.” He swung it open and looked back at her. “We’re done.”

He slammed the door behind him and started walking. A sick kind of fury propelled him toward the path leading to the bridge, and he climbed halfway before his mind cleared. Then it tortured him the rest of the way. And when he reached the roadway, he was sweating again, panting, and his gut felt like he’d been stabbed with a commando knife.

Ryker planted his hands on his hips and paced, catching his breath. A little voice kept asking,
What did I just do?
Regret swamped him. He should never have started anything with her. He should have listened to that whisper at the bar. Fuck, he should have told Troy no when he’d asked Ryker to take this fucking job.

He was so seriously fucked up. He’d never know how he’d even entertained that “what if” he’d offered. Who the fuck did he think he was, believing he could be normal? Believing he could offer her even a fraction of what she deserved in a man?

Ryker walked to the railing and braced both palms on the metal. Dropping his head, he stared down at the dark water running beneath the bridge, the moonlight shining off the rippled surface. “Such a fucking loser.”

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.”