Friendly Fire (Ricochet 2)

She laughed, wondering if Mack would have lent her his truck if he knew she didn’t have a driver’s license.

Traffic was heavy as she maneuvered the big old truck down Peachtree Road towards Midtown. The air-conditioning in it was iffy and a fifteen-minute drive ended up taking over forty-five agonizing minutes. By the time Quinn turned into a public parking garage on 10th Street, she was so sweaty and frustrated that she wanted to beat her fist on the steering wheel and scream at the top of her lungs.

Breathing deep and focusing on her task, Quinn walked half a block in the late afternoon heat until she was standing in front of a gleaming glass high-rise. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and went inside, silently losing her shit the entire ride up the elevator, trying to convince herself that she was doing what needed to be done.

When she stepped up to the door to Rick’s condo, Quinn almost bailed out. Tired of avoiding confrontation, of avoiding feeling anything, of sitting in the passenger seat as her life went by, Quinn lifted her hand and knocked.

Chapter 4

A gentle knocking woke Rick from his erratic, often restless sleep. He bolted upright without thinking, wincing when a streak of pain lanced through his side like a white-hot poker. The door opened and a booming voice brought him fully awake.

“Ricochet! Looking good, man!”

Rick did his best to level an angry glare at the big man coming through the door without cracking a smile. “Don’t patronize me, Paxton. I’ll kick your ass sideways once I’m all healed up. I know I look like shit now, but you know I’m good for it.”

A loud laugh erupted from Clint, momentarily brightening the depressing, sterile hospital room. “I’m all for a good fight once you’re back on your feet. Hell, I’m all for a good fight whenever.” Clint ran his fingers through his strawberry blonde hair, leaving it slightly messy in the back.

“What are you carrying?” Rick asked, straining to see the package in Clint’s hands. Again, he tried to sit up, this time gasping in pain before lying back down.

Clint rushed to his bedside. “Don’t be stupid! You’ll tear the damn stitches.” He snatched up the remote control for the bed, elevating the top so Rick could rest comfortably in a sitting position.

“Fucking stitches. They itch.” Rick emphasized his point by scratching at the large white bandage on his lower abdomen.

“This isn’t your first rodeo, Ricochet. Suck it up and deal.” Clint handed Rick a bright pink, reusable cloth grocery bag. “Mara put together this care package for you. She insisted I bring it down here since you said she couldn’t visit.”

Rick rolled his eyes, but a hint of a smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “Thanks.” He opened the bag, chuckled, and immediately handed it back to Clint, wincing in pain. “Pax, you gotta put this over there.” Rick grimaced, motioning to the long bench under the window. “I can’t look at this right now. That tiger of yours is a fucking riot, man, and if I laugh, my side hurts like a son of a bitch. I already saw the copies of Combat Tactics and Guns & Ammo she put in there. You know damn well there’s more shit in that bag

that will crack me up and I’m way too sore to laugh right now.”

Clint grinned, putting the bag by the window. “She’s definitely got a sense of humor a mile wide.”

“Yeah, she does.” Rick said, his face falling.

So does Quinn. She’s funny, and gorgeous, and charming… and she left your ass, stupid.

The large man grabbed a nearby chair, its blue fake leather peeling off the seat, and dragged it over to the bed. He flopped down onto it, the wood frame creaking in protest. “Rick, I’m not a fucking touchy-feely guy. Neither are you. Fuck, none of us at the gym are, right?” Rick nodded, his expression cautious. “I know you can’t tell Quinn what happened in the field, but man… she’s looking pretty torn up about you being missing from work.”

Rick stiffened on the bed, suddenly defensive. “What’s your point, Pax?” He really did not feel like discussing Quinn with anyone, let alone a coworker and husband of Quinn’s best friend.

Clint huffed, his impatience with his deliberately obtuse friend showing. “My point is… Mara and Quinn have become close. She’s been to the house a few times. I’ve seen her every day at work. She’s a fucking wreck, dude. Maybe you should let Mara bring her down here—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Rick shook his head in protest. “Anyway, they’re releasing me tomorrow so there’s no point.”

Clint made a dismissive sound and stood up to leave. “There’s always a point, Ricochet. Maybe this one will hit its mark, stick this time. You won’t have to keep skipping from girl to girl. Ever think about that?”

Rick didn’t answer his friend. Instead he stared out at the trees in the courtyard outside his window. He spent every day and night thinking about Quinn, he certainly didn’t want to discuss her with Clint. Besides, Quinn’s actions spoke loud and clear— she wasn’t interested.

“My wife’s a stubborn woman, Rick. You’d do well to remember that.” Clint opened the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later.” Rick said to an empty room.

His head dropped into his hands. Raking them down his scratchy, unshaven face, Rick exhaled deeply enough to feel a twinge in his side. He’d been shot before, but never gut-shot. Well, more like “hip-shot” actually, since the bullet skated in just below his body armor at the waist. It probably hurt more than almost every other injury he’d ever sustained simply because of its central location in his abdominal core. Every movement he made flexed the wound, sending fire ripping through his side.

After getting shot, Dane had somehow managed to haul Rick’s limping ass the remaining half-mile to the helo. He was flown back to the amphibious battleship for emergency surgery, and then to the U.S. once he was deemed stable forty-eight hours later.

Sitting in a hospital room in Atlanta, with nothing but his own thoughts for the last three days, had just about tipped Rick’s patience over the edge. He felt decent. Not great, better than he should but he was twitchy as fuck. The bullet didn’t pierce anything vital and only nicked his small intestine, which was easily fixed. It was the entry and exit wound in the front and back that needed to heal, plus the doctors were monitoring for infection from the surgery.

Being stuck in bed was the worst kind of torture he could imagine. Rick used it to replay his time with Quinn over and over until his heart and head ached nearly as much as his wound. Maybe when Mack cleared him to come back to work he would talk to Quinn, try and get a better explanation for her behavior, because damn that fucker, Clint was right.