RICOCHET
PART 2
FRIENDLY FIRE
By Heather C. Leigh
Copyright © 2015 Shelbyville for Heather C. Leigh
All rights reserved.
Published ebook use only. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition, License Notes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
DEFINITIONS
Friendly fire – (n.) discharge of a military weapon that injures or kills a member of one's own armed forces or an ally.
Submission – (n.) the act of utilizing a grappling technique to force an opponent to concede defeat via tapout or other means. The action or fact of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person.
Tactical – (adj.) of, relating to, or constituting actions carefully planned to gain a specific military end.
Chapter 1
Quinn heaved the last cardboard box from her father’s attic onto the old farmhouse table in the kitchen. It was a good thing she wasn’t allergic to dust or she’d be dying right now. Quinn was glad to be almost finished cleaning out her childhood home.
A month and a half. That’s how long it takes to tie up the loose ends of fifty-five years of life. After her mom suddenly died of an aneurysm when Quinn was twelve, her father had no choice but to quit the Marines to care for his daughter. Even though he never said it out loud, Quinn’s dad blamed her for making him leave the job he loved. He used her guilt to try and control her, to make her have the future he wanted her to have. Instead, she left for Texas to go to college at eighteen and only saw her father a few more times before he died.
And ended up with Travis. Well done, Quinn.
Wiping her brow with the hem of the tattered old T-shirt she found in one of the rickety dressers, Quinn took a pitcher of sweet tea out of the refrigerator and poured herself a fresh glass over ice. She mindlessly stared out the kitchen window while she drank, watching people on boats zipping around on the lake.
The box sat on the table behind her, nagging at Quinn to complete the job. Clearing out the junk, the clothes, the furniture… that was easy, but the memories? Those were the hardest to deal with and the ones she avoided the longest. Sighing, Quinn put the empty glass in the sink and pulled up a chair. Carefully, she opened the flaps to peek inside, cowering as if it might explode like one of those Mission Impossible messages. This box would be the worst, saved for last for just that reason.
Spying her baby book, Quinn shook her head. “Forget it,” she whispered under her breath, choking back a sob.
Quinn shoved the flaps down, closing the door on Annette Quinn Wallace’s childhood. Picking the box up with a grunt, she stomped out the garage door and unceremoniously dropped it into the bed of Mack’s old pickup truck. Avoiding it a little longer wouldn’t kill anyone. She would deal with the box of photo albums when she got back to the city. Right now, it was time to deal with the other loose ends in her life, namely Travis and Rick.
After a quick shower to rid herself of the cobwebs and grime, Quinn threw the rest of her belongings onto the passenger seat. She was only keeping a few things from the house, photos, her dad’s military medals, her mom’s jewelry, and a few pieces of her grandmother’s beloved china. Everything else had been taken away by an estate company and sold, except for the furniture the real estate agent said to leave behind to stage the house. It would go on the market next week after a thorough scrubbing and a paint job.
Dread hung heavy inside Quinn as she turned the truck onto the highway, going south. The closer she got to Atlanta, the worse the thick, aching feeling in her stomach got. She had left Rick asleep in her bed without saying a word six weeks ago, no note, no reason for leaving, nothing. She’d up and disappeared in the middle of the night after the best sex she’d ever experienced, not that she had much to compare it to.
It was a terrible thing to do to Rick, for sure, but Quinn had known she needed to leave before she made some big declaration that she, and he, wasn’t ready for. She had to get her life in order before she could give that trust to him, before she could ask for that gift from him.
Quinn wondered how Rick would react when she returned to Sanctum MMA on Monday. Would he be pissed off? Would he ignore her? Mack said he would keep her receptionist job for her while she took care of some personal business. He also promised he wouldn’t tell Rick where she was while she was gone. Mack understood her need for privacy. She was almost positive Mack knew that her real name was Annie and he never said a word to anyone. Without a phone or a paper trail, there was no way Rick could find her unless he dug deep. Somehow, Quinn suspected he was too proud to dig deep.
Armed with brand new cell phone, Quinn made her very first call on it to tell to Mack expect her at work in two days. Mack conveniently didn’t tell her what she should expect when she arrived.
“Goddamn it, Rick! You passed all your psych evals so I sent you back out in the field. Was that a mistake?”
Mack’s furious expression let Rick know that he was not amused with how his last operation went down. Honestly, Rick thought Mack’s head might actually explode from anger.
“You almost fucking died on my watch, Rick! I won’t have that shit on my conscious. If you aren’t field ready then it’s your responsibility to fucking tell me.”
Rick sat anxiously in Mack’s office, the stack of paperwork on the older man’s desk threatening to tip sideways and scatter onto the floor every time the he slammed his fist down.
“I’m fine, Chief. I don’t know what happened out there.”
“Bullshit! You didn’t follow protocol and it almost got you killed. If you’re intent on suicide, then do it on your own time! Got it? I’m not calling your family to tell them you died in some bullshit fake plane crash or overseas “car accident” because you screwed up on a mission!”
Mack’s face was beet red by the time he was done chewing out Rick’s ass. Rick bolted to his feet, knowing he was being dismissed without being told.
“Yes sir.”
He turned to go when Mack spoke again, the majority of the anger gone from his voice. “Quinn will be back at work on Monday. Just thought you should know.”
Rick’s entire body stiffened, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Saying nothing, he opened the door and walked out.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Quinn was coming back as if nothing happened? As if they hadn’t crossed some sort of line? As if he didn’t see in her eyes the same terrifying but unwelcome feelings he had in his, the falling, the pull, the connection beyond the physical?
Then… she left. Vanished in the night like he dreamed her up and she never really existed. Or maybe she didn’t feel anything for him at all.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
Rick stormed into the locker room and jerked off his clothes, quickly changing into his fight shorts. Sitting on the bench, he methodically wound the hand wraps around each knuckle, over and down his wrist, using the familiar routine to clear his mind.
Quinn, coming back. Christ! And right on the heels of that clusterfuck of a mission.
Always so cool and collected, meticulously approaching every situation with a calm and rational mind. That was Rick, what he was known for. Quinn managed to fuck all of that up in the span of w
eeks, turning him into a fucking headcase. Rick knew he had been a mental disaster when she left. There was no other way to describe his unstable emotional state over the last month and a half. His brain constantly wandered off on tangents of why and where when it came to that night with Quinn. Not exactly productive behavior for a hired mercenary, or an MMA trainer, both being professions that required extreme amounts of focus.
Rick stalked out of the locker room and into the training area, determined to punch his frustrations right out of his head. He signaled to Ben, who was working the heavy bag, to head over to the cage. Ben nodded and grabbed his gear. Rick smiled, cracked his neck, and stepped up into the octagon.
It’s on.
“Great to have you back, Quinn.”
Quinn gave Tucker a half-hearted smile, her stomach too queasy to manage a more sincere response.
“Thanks, Tucker. Glad to be back.”
Uncomfortable with the small talk, Quinn returned her focus to her computer so she wouldn’t have to keep up the cheerful façade. Frankly, it was exhausting. Thankfully, Tucker entered the main facility without attempting any more chitchat.
Quinn spent the first hour of work with a nauseating knot in her belly, afraid that Rick would walk in at any moment, but even more afraid that he wouldn’t. Despite repeatedly telling herself not to, her eyes kept drifting over to the front door against her will, watching — waiting for Rick to show up so she could explain her seemingly irrational behavior.
By lunch, Rick hadn’t shown up. Quinn had chewed her nails down to brittle stubs, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she kept nervously licking her lips until they were dry and cracked.
“Quinn.”
She jolted upright in her chair at the sound of the deep, gravely baritone she had dreamed about over and over every night for the past six weeks. The same voice that had whispered in her ear while they made love, saying her name like a litany, shouting it out as he came. Quinn forced herself to look up and her gaze locked on the Caribbean-colored eyes of Ricochet Brennan.
Shocked at what she saw, her hand flew to her mouth in horror. “Holy— what happened to you?”
Swollen, purple to almost black bruises surrounded one of Rick’s beautiful turquoise eyes. His full lower lip was split in the middle, a just-healed scab threatening to break open with the slightest movement. Quinn wanted to cry over the damage done to his gorgeous face.
A sarcastic bark erupted from Rick’s throat. “Maybe I should ask the same of you.”
Quinn’s heart fell into her stomach at the hostility in his voice. She felt her lip quiver and those damn tears pressing against the back of her eyes.
Apparently, I’m not forgiven.
“I’m so sorry, Rick.”
Another sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you are.”
Quinn’s gaze dropped guiltily to her ragged fingernails. She felt like a complete loser, tongue-tied with no idea what to say to make things right with him. A beeping sound grabbed her attention. By the time she looked up, the door leading into the gym was closing. Rick was gone.
Just like me, gone without saying goodbye.
Blinking back the imminent tears, Quinn tried unsuccessfully to focus on the stack of papers on her desk.
You knew he’d be pissed, Quinn. Don’t act like you didn’t expect the cold shoulder.
Quinn didn’t expect open arms, but she did expect Rick to at least listen to her explanation. He was hurt more by her actions than she had anticipated.
Quinn finished up with her work at five sharp, slipping into the break room for her purse and sneaking out the front door of the gym like a coward. Once in the safety of her tiny apartment, she shut the door and leaned against it, her heart thumping wildly against her ribcage.
Drained, she kicked off her shoes, making her way to her kitchen to grab a drink. After pulling a half-full bottle of vodka out of the freezer and a glass from the dishwasher, Quinn stopped and changed her mind. She put the glass down and brought the entire bottle into her bedroom. Curled up alone on the bed all night, weeping into her alcohol was Quinn’s only plan, and right now it didn’t sound like such a bad one.
Rick twitched as he sat on the large grey couch that faced the windows of his Midtown condo. The city looked peaceful from up here, lit up and sprawling into the night in every visible direction. Peaceful was about as far as possible as you could get from how Rick felt inside. Agitated, he got up and tossed his icepack into the sink. He knew better than to have gone into the cage when his head wasn’t in the game. It was his own fault that Ben caught him with a mean right hook/upper cut combo the other day, busting up his face.
He had needed to feel grounded to something or someone in that moment or he would have totally gone off the rails and got himself hurt or worse. He went out to all his usual haunts for a hookup, but when a woman would act interested, the thought of being with someone besides Quinn made him sick. He tried to go through the motions, desperately wanting to fuck her from his mind, but he couldn’t do it. Instead of making him forget her, all it did was confirm his belief that Quinn was different, that she was better than any of those women, that he actually fucking missed her.
Now I know I’m really fucked up. I figured I’d be the one to hurt Quinn in the end. It turns out she held all of the power and cut me deeper than I ever thought possible.
His nightmares had been getting worse since Quinn left. More than once he had woken up covered in sweat, the dreams so realistic he swore his leg was hot and he could smell burning flesh.
Needing someone to talk to before he lost his mind, Rick snatched up his phone and scrolled through the contacts. Once he found the one he wanted, he hit send before he could change his mind. Rick impatiently tapped his fingers on the dark marble countertop as it rang.
“Ricochet?”
His entire body relaxed at once. Rick hadn’t realized how tense he was until he heard the voice of his former Recon unit teammate.
“Hey Dash.”
“Holy shit. Never thought I’d hear from you again. At least, not until we both turned eighty and met up at some Vet function for used up old Marines or some sentimental crap like that.” Dash chuckled at his own joke.
“Yeah, I guess I haven’t been great at keeping in touch.”
“No,” his former teammate said flatly, “you haven’t. Not that I blame you.”
“How’s it been?”
Rick still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for what happened in Iraq two years ago. Bixby had been injured by shrapnel and required surgery to repair an artery. He wasn’t able to return to active duty. Rick himself had needed several surgeries and skin grafts taken from the front of his thigh to heal the burns he suffered on the back of his leg. He took an honorable discharge instead of waiting to be kicked out for poor psych evals.
Rick couldn’t get past what happened that night, how he failed his team. He had known he would never pass evals to go back with his unit and even if he did, he wouldn’t have put his team in danger by leading them while unfit for duty. Starting fresh with Mack and a whole new team was what he needed to be able to work in special ops again.
“The new guys are pretty cool. I got promoted to C.O.”
“Hey Dash, that’s awesome, really. Although, I can’t imagine following your sorry ass into enemy territory.” Rick laughed with his friend, a man he’d known since Recon boot camp where they both toughed it out under Mack’s brutal instruction almost ten years ago.
“Well, I wouldn’t follow me either,” Dash joked. “Seriously man, what’s going on? You wouldn’t call me just to catch up on Recon shit.”
Rick sighed, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Sometimes, I think you know me too well, staff sergeant. I just… fuck. I don’t know, Dash. You heard I’m working for Mack, right?”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before Dash replied. “I may have heard something like that.”
Rick didn’t worry about the gossip. It was a well kept secr
et throughout the elite Special Forces units where the private sector jobs were and who they were with. Mack’s operation was the best in the country at what they did, one the military used often.
Rick cleared his throat. “Okay, then I won’t explain that part. There’s a girl.”
Laughter poured through the phone, loud and never-ending.
Rick frowned. “Hey asshole, it’s not fucking funny.”
Dash struggled to catch his breath. “The fuck it’s not! Ricochet, are you calling me to discuss your girl problems?”
“You know what Dash, you’re a real fucker. Forget it—”
“Shut up, Rick. I’m just busting your balls. I know exactly why you called me. I’m the married one, the one who had to leave his wife behind every time we were sent out, with her not knowing if I’d ever come back. The other guys were fuck ‘em and leave ‘em, just like you. Am I right?”
“Maybe,” Rick said cautiously. Years of working and living with the man made Dash damn near psychic when it came to figuring out his teammates.
Dash snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Tell me about the girl.”
Rick smiled despite the hurt and anger he felt towards Quinn for running away like she did.
“I don’t know. She works here… has a lot of secrets, Dash. A lot. I can see that shit in her eyes, you know? The eyes of a person who’s been through hell and is clawing her way out.” He wandered back towards the windows, looking down at the cars passing by on the city streets.
Dash was silent while Rick struggled to explain.
“She uh… she left without a word. Was gone for six weeks. Now she’s back and it’s just fucking weird. I’m not used to this shit.”
“You mean actually feeling something?”
Rick grunted.
“Man, if you don’t let that shit with your family go, you’ll never have a relationship with this girl, or with anyone for that matter.”