Chapter 12

"So," Brewer says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. A teasing smirk plays around his lips. "The word around the water cooler is that you put your notice in at Womack."

"I wasn't aware that BALLS had a water cooler," I reply, evading his question. Let him dangle for a minute.

"Okay, not the water cooler, the reception desk," Brewer clarifies.

"Margaret Anne is a nosy gossip, but she's got a good heart."

"She's over the moon that you'll be around every day now."

I can't hide my smile. I've been at Womack for six years now, and so many of them have become friends, especially Liza, but these people, this place, they feel like home. This is where I'm supposed to be, and I'm probably almost as thrilled as Margaret Anne.

"I told you I was going to put my notice in weeks ago. Why are you acting like this is the first you've heard of it?"

Brewer snorts. "Do you know how many times I've heard you swear you were going to quit? Speaking of gossip, the word around the knitting circle is that there's a new Bitch in town, and you have a mysterious, secret past with him. So, what gives? Why do you make me beg for the juicy stuff?"

I chuff. Fucking Brewer. As a therapist, it's his job to work his way into people's heads, to get to the root of their trauma. But as my best friend, it's his job to just be a nosy pain in my ass. He excels at both.

"His name is Rhett. Rhett Marsh." I realize I'm smiling, and quickly school my features so as not to give myself away.

"So they were right! There is someone." Brewer looks overjoyed. He thinks he's got leverage on me, and he's waited years for it.

"He's exactly what they said—new in town. That's it." I never should have encouraged him to date a Bitch. They're the nosiest, most meddlesome group of men I've ever encountered. They're also my brothers, so I put up with them gladly.

"What about the mysterious past part? Don't skip that."

I shake my head, my eyes narrowing. "You're as bad as they are." Brewer chuckles. "I met him on my last deployment. He was my patient."

"Juicy," he baits me, wanting more.

"Nope, not juicy. It's dry. There's nothing more to tell."

Brewer snorts. "You're so full of shit. But that's fine, keep your secrets. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that they spill themselves if you just give them time."

I regard him with a raised brow. "And you've got plenty of time, huh?"

"Loads," he teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I don't really care if they know I worked on Rhett's leg, or, according to him, saved his life. As long as nobody, including Rhett, uncovers the feelings he sparked in me that night. The feelings he stokes like hot embers every time we meet. That's a secret I won't be spilling—ever.

"Finish your sandwich. I've got to hit the gym before my group session starts."

As soon as I walk into the gym, Rhett is already hard at work with weights strapped to his ankles. He struggles through a set of leg lifts, and when he begins to scissor his legs open and closed, a fine sheen of sweat breaks out across his brow.

His dark hair is longer than when I first met him, and carefully mussed. His dark stubble isn't too thick to hide his dimples. He looks incredibly young—and delicious—in black nylon shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Even after loafing in the hospital for weeks recuperating, his biceps are defined and thick. I catch a hint of black ink trailing down his arm that disappears inside his shirt.

What I wouldn't give to peel his shirt off and get a closer look at his sweaty, tatted skin.

Fucking get a grip. Ain't gonna happen.

When he spots me, his hazel eyes light with interest. "Riggs!" He flags me from across the gym, drawing everyone's attention, and my body heats with awareness. I don't mind having all eyes on me when I'm barking orders, but curious eyes? Yeah, no. Not a fan.

I really have no choice but to approach him.

"This gym is sick! It's nothing like the one at Womack," he gushes.

"That's the beauty of private donations," I tease.

"So," he asks, looking up at me from under that thick, dark fringe of lashes that caught and held my attention for hours that first night. "Am I finally going to have you to myself?" Like a practiced flirt, he waits for his innuendo to hit its mark before amending, "I mean, as my physical therapist?"

He doesn't look even remotely bashful about the slip, and I'm convinced it was deliberate.

That would be a terrible idea. Absolutely disastrous. "We'll see. Right now I'm just on volunteer status, but if I get the position I applied for, it might be a conflict of interest."

"Why? We're not sleeping together." His expression and his eyes say ‘ yet ,' but he doesn't voice it out loud.

He's right; it's not a conflict of interest because we're not sleeping together. Yet or ever. That's just me pushing him away for my own peace of mind.

No, that's just you leaving the door open so he can slip into your bed in the future, my mind screams. Fuck you, I tell it. My conscience is a nosy motherfucker.

Boldly, he repositions himself so that when he extends his leg for his next leg lift, his foot rises between my thighs. I catch his foot before it connects with my nuts, wrapping my fingers around his ankle in a vise-like grip, my expression severe.

" You're not sleeping with anyone because your legs don't work. And if I were sleeping with someone, it wouldn't be any of your business. Focus on what's important, soldier. Your recovery, not your sex life."

Damn, that almost sounded believable. I'm fucking good when I want to be. The disappointment on his face only stings a little.

He bends to remove the weights, but I stop him. "Don't even try it. You've got fifteen more reps to do before you quit."

"Sounds like a fuckin' party," he quips with a huff.

"You can't spell party without PT."

Rhett looks up at me like he's disappointed and shakes his head. "Please tell me you don't have any more of those saved up somewhere."

"I've got a fuck-ton more," I say with a deadpan expression. "And when you finish those leg lifts, head over to the mats and do some stretching. Your goal is to get where you can extend your leg completely and touch your toes."

Rhett frowns. "You're a fuckin' sadist. I bet you don't have a lotta friends."

This time, my laugh is genuine. "You wouldn't be the first person to say that, but you're wrong; people love me. I think it's my can-do attitude." Now I'm just fucking with him, and it works because Rhett smiles. I thought he was hot as fuck before, with tears in his eyes or with his face drawn tight with pain, or with his blank, thousand-yard stare. But Rhett smiling? He's fucking gorgeous.

He finishes his exercises and then heads to the mats to stretch. I cringe, hearing the bones in his leg snap, crackle, and pop like breakfast cereal. He hides his pain well behind a mild grimace, but I know how much the fa?ade costs him. He's hurting, evident by his sweat and his pale coloring. He's nearly finished when Mandy strolls in looking for him.

"Yo, Rhett. You ready?"

He brightens visibly. "Do we get to leave now?"

I bite back my smile, knowing Mandy is dragging him to the support group next.

"The gym, yeah. But we're not finished milking BALLS dry. The fun's just getting started."

Rhett's expression falls. "I'm up for whatever, as long as you quit the lame-ass ball jokes."

Mandy chuckles and extends a hand, helping Rhett up.

"Shit, I can't. I'm stuck," he huffs, sounding irritated.

Mandy looks to me for assistance, and I set my clipboard down and walk over to them. Squatting down, I explain to Rhett, "When your leg locks up like this, roll to your left hip, get your left knee under you, and push yourself to a kneeling position. Then you can slowly manipulate your right knee until you can bend it; like you're lunging."

Rhett tries it and flails around as he rolls, face-planting on the mat. "A little help, please?" he grates, frustrated with himself.

I stay Mandy's shoulder with my hand. "Try again."

This time he succeeds, glaring as he pushes to his knees. "Thanks," he says with zero gratitude.

Rhett may not appreciate my approach now, but when he's alone and stuck like this, he'll thank me. Well, probably not, at least not out loud.

Thinking of his spitfire personality makes me smile to myself. It's crazy that I can predict his reaction so accurately after only knowing him for such a short time, but I know I'm spot-on.

When he's on his feet, Mandy leads him towards the doors. He nods at me, and I wink. I can't wait to see Rhett's reaction to the Bitches. I have absolutely no idea how to predict that one.

I busy myself in the gym for a few more minutes so that I'm the last to arrive, and when I push through the doors of the classroom, the Bitches are all present and seated in a circle, some of them already pulling colorful balls of yarn from their bags.

"Riggs, how ya hanging, man?" McCormick asks.

"High and tight, unlike yours," I tease. Of course, Stiles laughs.

Any dig at McCormick is hilarious to him. McCormick is an easy target with his loud mouth and burnt-orange hair and beard. He's easy-going, good-natured, and even-tempered… until he's not. Once, a while back, he had a bad time and called me in the middle of the night. His voice sounded spooked, haunted, and scared, and I had goosebumps all over as I drove to his apartment in the dark, wee hours of the night. We sat on the floor of his kitchen for hours as he rocked back-and-forth, reliving some of his worst days. I hope it's a long-ass time before he has another episode like that, for his sake and mine.

Stiles, his sidekick, basically, is a lot like him in the personality department, which is probably why they get along so well. Where McCormick is red, Stiles is dark. They're both tatted and scarred, with McCormick missing a leg, and are proud vets, Bitches, and members of the ALR—the American Legion of Riders, a veteran motorcycle club.

They're all eyeing Rhett, and I know from Brewer's comments earlier that the Bitches already had a heads up about him, probably from Mandy. Armando Cahill looks like a beast of a man, but he's a big softie inside. It would be just like him to call the guys and let them know Rhett moved into the neighborhood and to be on their best behavior with him until he settles in.

I take my usual seat and call the meeting to attention. "Listen up, gentlemen. This is Rhett Marsh. Let's give him a proper Bitchin' welcome."

They go around the circle round-Robin style, starting with Mandy. "You already know me, but I'll say it again, anyway. I'm Mandy, retired Army, your neighbor, and proud to be your ball buddy."

I notice West Wardell glaring. He's not happy about sharing his ball buddy with Rhett.

"Dude, I told you to quit with the ball jokes. I'm fuckin' serious," Rhett complains, making Jax snicker.

McCormick goes next. "McCormick, retired Army, ALR member, and proud Bitch. Here's our phone tree. You find yourself in a jam, a flashback, or just feeling down, start at the top and call each number until someone answers." He crosses the circle to hand Rhett the paper.

Stiles follows. "Stiles, retired Army and ALR member. Call me anytime."

"Jax. Retired Army and ALR. Give me a call if you need me." I smile and nod at Jax. His anger issues and faux mohawk—faux hawk?—might give the impression that he's an asshole, and he is, mostly, but I know for a fact he's a good guy. They all are.

I'm supposed to be next but I look to Brandt Aguilar instead. "What about you?" he asks me.

"Rhett already knows all about me. Your turn."

I might as well have handed them gasoline and lit a match because I can feel their curiosity burning hotter than hellfire.

Brandt shrugs. "I'm Brandt. Retired Army. Glad to have you join us. I've got a hearing problem, so speak up. If I don't answer, it's 'cause I didn't hear you, not 'cause I'm a dick."

West snorts. "Says who? You're totally a dick." He shakes his head and turns his attention to Rhett. "West Wardell, retired Army. This is my partner, boyfriend, whatever you call it," he taps Brandt's shoulder. "I hope you stick around. This place is good for you."

Sommers grins. "I'm Nash. Retired Army and recovering addict. I don't ride, I don't drink, and I don't knit well, but I can bitch like a pro, apparently."

Pharo is absent today, and I'm pretty sure he's deployed, so it's back to Rhett again. "Nice to meet you all. I just got one question. What the fuck is this group and why am I here?"

My snicker draws several more. "Welcome to the Bitches With Stitches. We're a support group for vets with trauma. And… we knit. It's therapeutic."

Rhett looks around the circle at the huge battle-scarred and inked vets, some of them missing limbs, all of them holding knitting needles and yarn. He shrugs. "Cool. I'm into origami, so why not knitting too? but I gotta be honest, I'm not much of a sharer. I'm just followin' Mandy around 'cause he's my ride home."

He handles his introduction better than some have, and I'm glad he's giving it a chance instead of running for the door. He'll come around in time and become a regular old Bitch like the rest of us.

If anyone needs to share with the group, it's Rhett. He's got fresh trauma and I'm sure he intends to bottle it up and stuff it down deep until it shreds him apart from the inside like cut glass shards.

As the guys take turns sharing about their week, I can feel his eyes on me, but I dare not look. Not until it's his turn again.

"I don't have much to say, just that I'm grateful to Riggs for—well, everythin'. Everythin' I have, even my life, is because of him. I only wish there was some way I could return the favor."

His stare lingers, burning hot through me, and I have no doubt he wants to return the favor. Preferably while we're both naked.

Fuck, if I had a chance to get my dick inside him, hell, it would probably be physically impossible for me to pull out. It'd be too good, too tight and hot and perfect. I'd fuck him up so damn good.

A wave of heat rolls through my belly and I swallow hard, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his eyes still pegging me so intensely.

Why, God? Why him? Why Rhett Butler Marsh, the gorgeous flirt with the silly name, the vet with too much fresh trauma, both physically and mentally? Of all the guys to break my dry spell, why can't it be someone easy? Someone I'd allow myself to have? Why does it have to be him?

Rhett is like my kryptonite. He's poison in my blood. He weakens me, brings forth all my fears and insecurities, and makes me doubt my instincts. He's the bad choice you make when you're drunk and your inhibitions are low. The one that you regret in the morning. The guy you don't bring home to meet your mother. The guy's not made for promises and plans and declarations, which is ironic considering his mother named him after an icon of romance.

Rhett Marsh is a one-night stand, a bad boy good for only one night. He's dangerous to me, and I plan to stay far away and heed all the red flags.