“Fuck, what are you now, a goddam head shrink?”
“No, I’m a guy who knows you. I met your dad and your brothers. I know your mom left you all high and dry and your dad and your brothers tainted your view of women. When your dad was told she OD’d, he didn’t even let you mourn her. That’ll fuck you up. I’ve told you more than once to get it out so you can let that shit go, Rick.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe? You know I’m right,” Dash chuckled. “I’m always right. You weren’t ready to change back then. Sounds to me like you are now.”
Rick scrubbed a hand down his face and winced, forgetting about his black eye. This conversation was getting uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell his ex-teammate that his former commander Ricochet Brennan, a hard as nails, ball-busting, special ops Marine and Muay Thai expert, was quite possibly in love with a girl who fucked him and coldly ditched him. “I should go. Thanks Dash.”
“Anytime Ricochet.”
“We’ll catch up later. I want to hear all about the two new guys.”
“You know I can’t tell you anything. Classified and all that.”
Rick smiled. “Yeah, I know. Say hi to Tess for me. Talk to you later.”
He could practically hear his friend grin over the phone. “Later.”
Purge the demons of his past? Get over his fucked up childhood? Easier said than done.
Needing to confirm that his childhood was indeed fucked up, he dialed another number. It was answered almost immediately.
“Rick?”
“Hey Brandon.”
“Baby brother! How’s it going? I never hear from you anymore.”
Rick swallowed thickly, an unfamiliar anxiety blossoming in his chest. “Good. I’m good. How are you?”
His brother chuckled. “Really good. Actually, I was going to call you next week.”
“Oh?” Rick and his middle brother had been the closest of the three Brennan boys. Their oldest brother, Kyle, was a dick ninety percent of the time growing up just like their dad. “What were you calling me about?”
“I’m getting married.”
Rick froze, listening to his own heavy breathing as he stood with the phone to his ear.
“Rick? Hey man, you still there?”
“Shit.” Rick said in disbelief, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “You’re getting married? Is this a joke?”
Brandon laughed again. “No bro, it’s not. I want you to come visit and meet Tara. Dude, she’s awesome. You’re gonna love her.”
Rick slowly lowered himself to his couch, in complete shock. The Brennan brothers were raised by a bitter, lonely, misogynistic man. Trained from an early age not to let women get their proverbial claws into them, because all they want is to take their heart… use it, and shred it to pieces.
“But… I don’t understand. You… you never even had a girlfriend?” Rick was flabbergasted. Yeah Brandon was the most sensitive of the three boys, but he still took their dad’s advice to heart, never getting close to anyone he dated.
Brandon made a dismissive noise over the phone. “All bullshit. I faked it around dad… and around you and Kyle. Sorry man, I didn’t know where you two stood. Didn’t want dad beating on me for being a sensitive pussy.” Brandon paused. Rick heard his brother sigh deeply. “I had a steady girlfriend all through college. I was very much in love with her.”
Rick’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. “What? And you never said anything to me?”
His brother huffed. “Like I said, dad, and Kyle… god Rick, I didn’t want to hear their bullshit. I don’t feel the same way dad does. Not all women are like mom.”
“I just can’t believe you never told me.” Rick was disappointed, both in his brother for not confiding in him, and himself for not being available for his brother to come to.
“Would you have listened? Honestly?”
Rick paused, thinking it over. “No. I wouldn’t. Until recently, that is.”
“Oh ho! Another Brennan gets bitten by the bug?” Brandon laughed.
“Funny. And yeah, I guess you could say I’ve been bitten by something, Bran.”
“Well little bro, tell me what’s up?”
Rick explained his situation with Quinn, leaving out the hired mercenary part. By the time he was done going through it, his head was pounding and he was even more confused.
“Well, the question is, do you love her?”
“Bran, I don’t know. Maybe. I think so. How would I even know?”
“What does it feel like if you imagine never seeing her again?”
His brother’s words pierced his heart like a dagger and his breath hitched. Brandon must have heard it, because he didn’t wait for Rick’s response.
“That’s you answer, Rick. Do what you have to do to be happy. Fuck dad and fuck Kyle. If they can’t be happy for me or for you, then you and I don’t need them in my life. Go get your girl. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Yeah,” Rick rasped. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
“I’ll call you next week and we’ll figure out a time to meet up. Hang in there little bro.”
“Thanks Bran. And congratulations. I’m sure Tara is a great girl.”
“She is. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The world must be spinning off its axis— I’m in love, Quinn is gone, and my brother is getting married. Holy fuck.
Rick tossed the phone on the couch next to him, his surreal conversation with his brother replaying in his head. He knew what he wanted to do, he just didn’t know how to do it or if Quinn would even be interested in seeing him. Or maybe he was stupid to think about being with her and he should salvage his tattered ego by walking away. Once more, a pain stabbed him in the chest when he thought about never being with Quinn again. He absently put his hand up to rub the spot over his heart.
This was going to take sacrifice on his part, and a whole lot of patience that Rick wasn’t sure if he had… emotions and shit he didn’t know anything about.
Fuck, was this even worth it?
As Rick said the words to himself, he already knew the answer to his question. Yes, Quinn was most definitely worth it, but she had already burned him once. Could he withstand going through it again?
Can’t get any worse, right? What have I got to lose? Besides my mind.
Chapter 2
Quinn didn’t see much of Rick the first week she was back, just that one time at the front desk, and in passing when she cut through the gym. She didn’t avoid him, but she didn’t engage him in conversation either. It was horrifically awkward with Quinn spending most of her time ducking her eyes or burning from humiliation.
I’m a total wuss. He hates me.
The couple of times they made actual eye contact, it seemed as if Rick had something he wanted to say, but he never made a move to approach her or try to talk to her. Quinn felt beyond stupid. She knew she screwed it up royally. But in all honestly, she really did need to fix her own life before attempting any kind of relationship. Hell, she still hadn’t filed divorce papers to rid herself of Travis, the human cancer. She couldn’t be who she wanted to be with Rick. And who even said he wanted anything with her anyway? Maybe it was presumptuous to assume he thought of her as anything but a fun night? Maybe he was glad she left and just nursing a bruised ego?
“Quinn?”
She glanced up from her computer to find Mara Paxton standing in front of her desk.
“Hey Mara.” Quinn attempted a smile, but the best she could do was weak and unconvincing.
Mara’s perfect red lips turned down. Quinn was a little hurt when her friend gave her a harsh glare. “What the hell happened to you? Everyone was so worried. Rick was a complete mess. What on earth did you do to that man?”
Oh.
“Mara,” Quinn hissed under her breath, “could we discuss this somewhere else?”
Mara looked around the empty lobby, puzzled. “There’s no one here, Qu
inn.”
“I know, but…” her eyes darted towards the inner door, “anyone could come out at any time.” Quinn didn’t want to tell Mara that she was afraid Rick would come into the lobby and be furious that she was discussing their hookup.
“Fine, but we’re getting together this weekend, and you’re telling me what’s going on with you.” Mara put her hands on her hips and attempted to give Quinn a stern look, but a smile broke through.
Quinn couldn’t help it. Despite feeling like a class-A jerk, she laughed. “Fine, fine. I have to meet with my lawyer Saturday, but I can meet you for lunch on Sunday.”
“Okay, and you’re also going to tell me why you have a lawyer.”
“Oh, I forgot. Here.” Quinn scribbled something down and pushed a piece of paper across her desk. “I finally have a cell phone. This is my number.”
“Wow. Joining the twenty-first century, are we? How forward of you.”
“I know. I figured it was time.”
Quinn didn’t bother explaining to Mara that Travis had never allowed her to have a phone, or that she had no money to get one until she claimed her father’s estate. She curled up her fingers to run them over the jagged ridge from the scar on her right palm, a silent reminder that she did have it in her to be strong.
“I’ll call you tomorrow to set something up,” Mara said just as Clint emerged from the back, sliding his arm around Mara’s waist. He dwarfed his fairly tall wife, making her look waifish in comparison to his enormous body.
“Ready to go, babe?”
Mara looked up at her husband lovingly. “Yep. Let’s go.” She turned to Quinn, “I’ll call you.”
“See you Monday, Quinn,” Clint called out as the couple left the building.
Quinn waved and sat back heavily in her chair. Mara and Clint were so happy together, in a healthy, normal marriage. Was it too much to ask for the same? Not every relationship out there was the abusive nightmare she had with Travis.
She just needed to convince herself that she deserved better than Travis— that she was good enough for someone to love. Until then, she was better off alone, no matter what her heart was saying.
The cab dropped Quinn off in front of a five-story brick office building in the heart of Atlanta’s Midtown. She hurried inside after realizing she would be late for her meeting with the lawyer managing her father’s estate. Fifteen minutes later, Quinn was being ushered into an upscale office. The polished wood bookcases that lined the walls were overflowing with large legal books of all shapes and sizes and smelled like the inside of a library.
The man behind the desk came around to meet her next to a sizeable conference table near the door. It was littered with stacks of files, though all were neatly arranged.
“Mrs. Hardy, good to finally meet you in person.”
Quinn flinched at the lawyer’s use of Travis’s last name.
“It’s Miss Wallace now. Good to see you too, Mr. Wheeler.”
“Call me John, please.” The forty-something year old man with dark eyes and lightly greying hair smiled at Quinn, gesturing for her to take a seat at the large conference table.
“Then call me Quinn. Thank you, John.”
He pulled a manila file from the top of one of the stacks and opened it. She couldn’t see much, but she did catch a glimpse of her father’s address listed at the top of the first page.
“Well, let’s get down to business, Quinn, since the trust is paying a considerable hourly fee for us to meet on a Saturday. Shall we?” John winked, unbuttoning the jacket of his very expensive looking suit.
Quinn nodded in agreement.
“Good. Good. So, you went through the contents of your father’s residence, correct?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Great. The realtor will have it on the market by next Friday at the latest. That gives the painters and maintenance workers a few days to spruce the place up.”
“Okay.”
John shuffled through a few papers, pulling a small pile out. “The trust is available for you to access immediately, which I see you already did.” He flipped through the pages, skimming them briefly as he spoke.
“I needed a phone. And money for gas.” Quinn felt her neck grow hot. It was humiliating to have to justify purchases made with her own money. It made her feel like she did when Travis controlled everything… weak and helpless.
What Travis hadn’t known, however, was that she made out the check to the grocery store ten dollars above the transaction amount every week, allowing her to save a significant amount of money over the two years they were married. He checked everything to keep her trapped, dotted every i and crossed every t, but he never thought to check her weekly grocery receipt.
Quinn made a fist with her right hand and shoved it under the table, her fingertips digging into her scar.
John reached over and patted her upper arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about how you spent it, Quinn. It’s your money. Your father put no stipulations on the trust. It belongs to you.”
She exhaled in relief that he wasn’t judging or chastising her. “Thank you, John. This is just so… strange for me. To have money, I mean.”
The lawyer smiled. “I do this all the time, so if you have any questions please ask.”
“Okay.” Quinn shoved her other hand under the table as it began to shake. “I—I do have a question.”
John looked at Quinn intently, waiting for her to continue.
“I have a husband. An ex, actually. We’re… separated. I don’t want him to get any of my father’s money and I don’t want him to know about it. Is—is that legal?”
The lawyer kept his expression neutral, but Quinn saw a flash of pity in his dark eyes. “Perfectly legal, Quinn. Spouses have no claims on inheritances unless you put the money into a joint account. I take it you won’t be doing that?”
“No. And I want it to stay in my maiden name. I’ll be taking my name back legally and dropping my first name in favor of my middle. Also, I want to file for divorce. Do you do that?”
Quinn shoved her hands underneath her thighs to stop the trembling after letting everything spill out of her mouth at once. She didn’t want John to see how weak and unnerved she was to discuss Travis, but damn it felt good to say it all out loud.
“I don’t handle divorces, but my colleague, Linda, does. I can give you her card and have her call you.” John’s dark gaze caught Quinn and she swore he could see right through her, that he knew what Travis had been doing to her while they were married. She didn’t know how, but he knew. John winked again, lightening the mood. “She’s very good. Linda’s been compared to a bulldog in high heels.”
Quinn smiled. “Thank you.”
John leaned close, his smirk conspiratorial. “He doesn’t need to know any of this, okay?”
“Okay,” Quinn whispered. She breathed out, the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxing. She was relieved that John seemed to know to tread lightly in regards to her failed marriage.
She didn’t want to talk about Travis. Not today, not ever.
“Does it have to be me, chief?” Rick stood in Mack’s office, his hands twitching at his sides as he stared down his boss. All he wanted to do was get in the ring and train, to punch out his frustrations and drown his emotions in sweat and blood. Mack, unfortunately, had other ideas.
“Yes. And believe me, I wish it didn’t have to be you. Hell, you barely passed your last psych eval. You probably shouldn’t be going back in the field for another month. But this op is delicate, you’ve been cleared, and you’re the only one who knows the terrain and the players.”
“Fuuuck!” Rick laced his hands behind his head and focused on the ceiling so he wouldn’t lose his shit. Sighing, he pulled a hand down his face, raking it over the three-day old stubble he had grown in simply because he was too damn tired to bother shaving. “Fine. Give me the info.”
Mack tossed a red file across his desk. “That’s everything. Talk to Tucker. You and Nolan l
eave at eighteen-hundred hours.”
Rick’s head snapped up. “That’s in six hours! Are you fucking kidding me?” Quinn just got back this week and Mack wanted to send him thousands of miles away? That meant he wouldn’t get to talk to her before he left. Not that he did much talking when he actually saw her, no— he ducked and ran, avoiding her like the plague. Afraid of being rejected again by a tiny, fragile girl.
Mack frowned, his eyes boring holes into Rick. “You’ve left with less time to prepare before. Plus, you have an eight-hour flight and a transfer to the ship to fine-tune the op. Now,” Mack stood from his chair, glaring at his employee, “get your ass to Mission Control and talk to Tucker. Nolan is on his way in. Expect to be ready to brief him.”
Rick pressed his lips together into a tight line. He snatched the folder up and stormed out of Mack’s office to talk to Tucker and wait for Dane.
This has fucking disaster written all over it.
Rick sat in the back of the UH-1Y Venom military helicopter, strapped to one of the jump seats. He was strapped, painted, and ready to go.
“You ready?” Dane yelled from across the aisle.
“Yeah, I’m ready, killer!” The loud rotors nearly drowned out their words.
The two men had crammed every last bit of intel for this op into their brains during the six-hour flight to Panama. Then again on the two-hour helicopter transport to the amphibious assault ship stationed in the Pacific Ocean fifty miles off of the coast of Ecuador. Once there, they reviewed the operation one last time with Mission Control in Atlanta from the bridge of the giant Marine Corps battleship. Rick and Dane were courteously afforded the use of the facilities of the U.S. government, but were not allowed to divulge information or ask for assistance from any of the crew. Officially speaking, the U.S. government had no knowledge of their operation.
A member of the crew wearing a black, non-descript flight suit entered the cargo hold of the military helicopter. “Alright boys, we’re two minutes from the drop zone. Make sure your GPS is on and functional, you have eyes and ears, and your gear is strapped.”
Ricochet: Friendly Fire Page 2