Page 4 of Troubled Skies (Blue Skies #3)

three

Ricky

A little over a week into his stay with Luis and Darius, a knock at the door brought Ricky hobbling out of the bedroom he used to share with Greg. Luis had turned it into a storeroom-slash-workshop for Fix, his vintage store, but it still held a bed and that was all Ricky really needed.

Unfortunately, the room did not come with soundproof walls, and he felt bad that he’d woken Luis and Darius up with his nightmares.

After the second time Darius had discovered him sleepwalking, Ricky refused to take the sleeping pills he’d been prescribed.

It was bad enough that he’d been found clawing at his door in an attempt to get out of his room, but having no recollection of it the next day was disconcerting.

He’d joked about giving himself a roofie, unwilling to admit how freaked out he was by it.

Not taking the pills meant Luis and Darius had to live with being woken by his shouts and cries, but Ricky considered it payback for him having to listen to them getting funky in their bedroom.

You’d think having been friends all their lives and in love with each other since they were teenagers would have dimmed some of their newlywed desire for each other, but evidently wedding rings were better than Viagra.

Not that Ricky would ever know. The closest he’d made it to the altar had been with the guy with whom he’d moved to LA when he was twenty-one.

Two years together, and the asshole had taken off with another guy after first cleaning out their joint bank account.

Ricky made it into the living room before whoever it was knocked again, and he cursed under his breath.

He was breathing hard, his muscles sore, his body still aching.

The burns on his legs—though miraculously minor—hurt as his movement pulled at the healing skin.

In addition, the painkillers with which he’d been discharged made him dizzy.

Another knock.

“Fucking hell,” Ricky called out. “I’m coming.”

Both Luis and Darius were at work. Luis had left that morning on a flight to Miami and Darius was working at the store until his evening class at UCLA, so Ricky was on his own until nine.

He checked the peephole in the front door.

So far, the media hadn’t found out where he was staying, but Darius said a few reporters were still camped out at his place, so Ricky was being cautious.

The guy standing on the other side of the door was wearing a light blue delivery shirt and a dark blue baseball cap with the logo of Ricky’s employer.

There was also what looked suspiciously like a flight bag at his feet, though the lens in the peephole distorted everything too much for Ricky to be sure.

As he opened the door, he realized that he hadn’t thought about his flight bag at all and assumed it had been destroyed or damaged in the crash. He’d been too busy sleeping to even think about getting a new driver’s license, passport, credit cards, or even a phone yet.

“Richard Bennett?” the delivery guy asked.

“Yup.” Ricky leaned against the doorframe, exhausted from the short walk from bed to door.

“Sign here.” The guy thrust a clipboard and pen at him then thanked him when Ricky handed it back with his signature. He was about to turn away when Ricky asked if he could get some help. “Bag’s pretty light, dude.”

“Yeah. But I was in a plane crash last week, and I fucking hurt. At least raise the handle for me so I don’t have to bend over.”

The delivery guy’s eyes widened as he double-checked the name on the form. “That was you? Shit, man. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. ” He held out his hand. “You’re a fucking hero.”

Ricky sighed and shook the guy’s hand, then thanked him for his assistance when he lifted the bag and placed it inside next to the door.

What had been a black flight bag was now gray from the powdery residue that clung to it.

The distinct smell of smoke and jet fuel made Ricky’s head start to spin, but he held it together long enough to let the guy say goodbye and close the door.

And then the floor dropped out from under him.

The sounds Ricky hadn’t heard in the moments of the crash bombarded him, the cries, the screams, the grind of metal, and the sickening lurch as the plane slammed onto the tarmac, skidded sideways and flipped onto one wing…

he was in the middle of the crash all over again and there was nothing he could do as he felt his body jerked against the restraints that held him firmly in his seat.

He closed his eyes, only to see phones and cups and a child’s doll flying through the cabin as anything that hadn’t been secured became a projectile when the plane slammed to the ground with groans and shrieks of metal pushed past their ability to hold form.

And then the sickening sound of the plane scraping across the ground, the grinding noise almost deafening.

“Fuck,” Ricky moaned, rubbing his hands against the bruises on his chest. He had anxiety meds, but they were too far away in the bathroom, so he made his way to the couch and wrapped himself in the plush blanket they had always kept there.

It smelled of Luis and Darius, but that was okay.

Anything that wasn’t jet fuel and flame, anything that helped anchor him to the present and kept him from screaming his lungs out.

The worst of it was the fear that clutched at his heart, that squeezed at him until he couldn’t breathe.

That choked him and made him unable to think beyond the memory.

In the moments of the crash, he hadn’t felt fear at all.

He’d been calm, under control, doing what he needed to do to survive and help others to do the same.

Now, fear seemed to be leaching out of his skin, suffocating in its intensity, and blinding him to everything but the certainty he was about to die, reminding him he was insignificant, fragile, something that could be crushed, erased, eliminated without anyone even noticing he was gone.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

Ricky opened his eyes. He was on the floor wrapped in Darius’ arms and the blanket from the couch. When he struggled to get up, Darius held him tighter.

“Stay here. You’re okay. Just relax. Everything’s okay.”

A rueful laugh bubbled from Ricky’s mouth, and he shook his head. “I don’t think anything’s going to be okay ever again,” he said. Then he shifted his legs and realized his sweatpants were wet and shame heated his cheeks. “Fuck. I pissed myself, didn’t I?”

Darius chuckled. “A bit.” His hold on Ricky tightened again. “We both know it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, hon.”

“Shit.”

“At least it wasn’t that, too.” Darius chuckled, but Ricky was too embarrassed at losing control to find the humor in what he’d said.

The room was still light, and Ricky realized it was only late afternoon. “What are you doing home?”

“The neighbor heard you yelling and called me.”

That was the moment all the fight left Ricky, and he slumped against Darius’ chest. “Your class—”

“Can wait. You’re more important.”

Once again, tears welled in Ricky’s eyes, but this time he was too worn out to fight it and let them come.

He sobbed against Darius’ chest and felt as if he’d never be able to stop.

His entire body shook, his teeth chattered, and he couldn’t let go of the tight hold he had on Darius to let the man wrap the blanket tighter around them.

But Darius didn’t stop talking to him in a soft voice, hands rubbing his back in slow circles, his breathing deep and measured as he urged Ricky to follow suit.

It took some time, but Ricky’s tears eventually stopped, and his gulps of air and shuddering exhales subsided.

He let Darius help him to his feet, cringing a bit at how drained and off-balance he felt as he leaned against his friend.

After a couple of deep breaths, he squared his shoulders and told Darius he needed to use the bathroom, then rolled his eyes when Darius asked if he needed help.

“Dude, I’ve been pissing on my own since I was three, pretty sure I’ve got it handled.”

With that, Ricky made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

He didn’t have to go, he just needed space.

The problem was, as soon as he turned on the light, he was confronted with his reflection in the mirror, and he didn’t like what he saw.

Sure, there was his richly red hair and green eyes rimmed with dark lashes.

But there were circles under those eyes, and a haunted look that hadn’t been there prior to the crash.

Ricky tried seeing past that, to admire what his grandmother had called his “peaches and cream” Irish complexion and be thankful he’d been spared the abundant spray of freckles that usually went along with it, but all he could see was a face that belonged to someone else.

He splashed water onto his cheeks then turned off the light and sat down on the toilet.

Darius’ voice trickled into the bathroom, faint and indistinct, but Ricky could tell he was talking to someone on the phone and let out a relieved breath. At least Darius wouldn’t be knocking on the door anytime soon to see if he was all right.