Chapter 13

Using my crutches, I hop into the bathroom, set my phone on the counter, and reach into the stall to turn on the water. It takes a minute to warm up and I wait so I can adjust it to scalding; just how I like it, melting the skin off my bones. There are times now when I can hobble along without the crutches, like from my bedroom to the kitchen, or when I'm sitting on the couch and I need to run to the bathroom. But after the intense workout I had today, there's no way I can manage.

My knee throbs, punctuated by white-hot daggers of pain, with each step I take. My hip aches from my uneven gate and the twinge of pain in my lower back reminds me it's time for my meds. I'll wait until after my shower so I can take them with food.

When the glass stall fills with steam, I strip out of my clothes, lean my crutches against the wall, and step under the scorching spray. I'm cheating, leaning heavily on the back of my safety chair instead of sitting, but I can't wash my ass if I'm sitting on it.

I slide my soapy hand between my cheeks, brushing my fingers through the fuzz surrounding my hole. Bearing down, the tip of my finger breaches my rim and I sigh with pleasure.

Been too long since I fingered my ass.

My workouts at BALLS leave me feeling exhausted by the end of the day, and once I plop down on my cushy new couch and relax, it's lights out. I've fallen asleep there the past two nights.

Fuck it, I need this.

Sitting down in my chair, I spread my knees and glide my soapy hand up and down my shaft, getting it sudsy and slippery before cupping my balls. The weight of them feels good in my palm and I give them a couple of satisfying tugs before returning to my shaft.

With the aid of the soap, I can feel every engorged vein squish under my fingers. My wrist twists over the crown and I sigh again, tilting my head back under the hot spray. Say what you want about medical equipment, but this shit right here is the fucking pinnacle of life. A warm head massage from the shower spray while jacking off and my skin enveloped in a steamy kiss? Fuck yeah, I'll take this all day long.

When my leg heals, I'm keeping this chair.

My eyes slide shut and his face fills my head— Riggs —because who else would I fantasize about? Seriously, I've dreamt of him every time I've touched myself since meeting him. You could say I'm obsessed, but I wouldn't because it sounds, well, obsessive. I don't want to be that guy, the guy that can't take a hint. But I refuse to give up yet. Riggs and I are just getting started.

I've pushed myself hard all week, past the point of pain and well into excruciating territory, all just to prove to him I'm taking my rehab seriously. At this point, I'm doing it more for him than me, but I'm not sure it even matters why, as long as I show up and get it done. Results are what matter, not the whys and how-tos.

Hell, that even sounds like something Riggs would say. I'm starting to channel him, apparently.

Taking two lungfuls of thick steam into my chest, I breathe deep and imagine it's Rigg's rough-skinned hand wrapped around my dick, pumping me until I gasp. My heart beats faster, the pressure in my chest building, until I feel almost lightheaded, and I squeeze the tip of my sensitive cock. It's too much, too good, and I groan, the sound rumbling like a lion's roar in the tiny stall. With my other hand, I tug my balls, and I'm there… so close I can taste it. I love this part—teetering on the verge of ecstasy. If I continue to pump, I'll come, but if I slow my strokes, I can crest again before I finish. It's been so long since I've come that I decide to drag it out.

Releasing my sac, I stroke up and down my shaft until I become impatient and speed up again, eager to feel the rush of release. God, what I wouldn't give to ride him, to feel him grip my hips, slamming me down hard on his cock. His deep voice urging me to ride him faster, harder, to take his load. My orgasm comes fast and hard, and I shout as I spray my chest.

I turn my chair toward the water so the cum rinses away under the hard spray and push to my feet, leaning on the back of the chair for support. To be honest, slipping in the shower scares the fuck outta me. Not only would I further damage my leg and set back my recovery, but who the fuck would help me up?

Of course, my phone starts ringing before I'm even out of the stall. I lunge for it, dripping wet and wobbly. "Hello?"

"Hey, ball buddy," Mandy's deep voice rumbles.

"I told you not to call me that, especially when I'm naked and wet."

"Huh? Why are you answering the phone when you're naked? I won't even ask about the wet part."

"Cause it was ringin', dickcheese!"

"Whatever. You wanna come with? Me and the guys are heading to the Black Mountain Tavern."

"Uh, I think that's the place Liza told me to apply to. So, yeah, I'll come. I gotta find a job."

"Great! Leaving in twenty."

Exactly twenty minutes later, Mandy knocks on my front door. I'm not in a great hurry to answer it considering I've got my leg propped up on my bed trying to refasten my soft cast around my jeans. It has so many moving parts and Velcro straps; you need a degree in rocket science to figure it out. He pounds again, this time much louder.

"Alright, damn! Keep your fuckin' boots on. I'm comin'." Slowly, I make my way to the door and there's Mandy, casually leaning against the door frame as if he hadn't just tried to beat the damn thing down.

He grins. "You ready?"

My eyes roll. "You're annoyin', you know that?"

Mandy chuckles, unaffected, and steps past me. "What do we need? Crutches? Keys? Did you take your meds? You know, there're some meds that don't react well with alcohol. Are you taking any of those?"

"What are you, my mama? Don't worry about what I'm takin'."

He flushes deep red. "Just trying to look after you."

This guy takes his job as my ball buddy deadly seriously, which is kinda sweet— kinda —except that it's annoying.

Mandy drives and I fidget the entire way. I've met the guys, and they seemed alright or whatever, but this is different than sitting beside them in group and listening to them bitch. This is hanging out one-on-one, this is intimate. They'll ask questions, try to get to know me, and the last thing I want is to make new friends.

I have friends… well, had. Who knows if they'll still keep in touch now that I'm gone. Biddell's gone.

Friends leave .

Friends hurt .

Friends aren't always forever .

New friends just means new grief. God knows I've got plenty, I don't need more.

Mandy glances over. "Quit biting your nails. You'll make them bleed."

It's a metaphor for my life. Fate keeps picking at the scab on my grief until it bleeds and bleeds. Until it stains everything.

The Black Mountain Tavern has a good vibe—with a stone and wood fa?ade. The theme carries inside with rustic wood beams overhead, a wood floor, and brick walls. The long bartop extends the entire length of the right side and the left has groupings of tables and chairs. Booths line the back wall, and there's a dance floor in the middle. The live band sets up on the small stage beside the front door.

We're the last to arrive. The guys wave us over to a long table. It looks like they shoved three together to fit us all.

I spot the lineup of usual suspects I remember from group. West and Brandt, Stiles and McCormick, Jax and Nash, with the addition of two guys I don't recognize. One of them is with Nash and the other has wavy dark hair pulled into a ponytail, his amber highlights glinting under the bar lights. His golden eyes say, ‘don't fuck with me,' and because his shoulders are three times the width of mine, I don't.

The one face I don't see is Riggs's.

The disappointment stings.

The guys order a round of drinks, and I can't help but notice that the table is split in two, with one half sharing a pitcher of beer, and the other half, our half—with Nash and his partner, Mandy, and me—drinking soda. I remember Nash saying he was a recovering addict when he introduced himself in group, and I guess his partner is either supporting him, or also a recovering addict.

I lean into Mandy. "I hope you aren't not drinkin' on my account."

He shakes his head. "I'm not a big drinker. Makes me feel depressed and anxious." Mandy snorts. "Like I need more of that."

I love to drink, but Mandy was spot-on about my meds not reacting well with alcohol.

"That's funny for a guy who hangs out in a bar every weekend," West snipes.

"Hooters isn't a bar; it's a family-friendly restaurant," Mandy defends.

West rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure, Mandy. Those tiny orange shorts are fun for the whole family."

"Hey, Rhett. This is Brewer," Nash introduces.

I nod at him. "Is Nash your ball buddy?" I tease, having already guessed they're a couple.

Brewer snorts. "Be careful. That's how it starts. Then, before you know it, bam! You fall asleep together every night and you're watering his plant and feeding his cat. It's a slippery slope," Brewer warns.

The guys in hearing distance snicker, and Brandt adds, "I don't think that's how it works, Brewer. Mandy has two nuts in his sack and he's not dating either one of them, far as I know," he says to me with a smirk.

I like him. These guys are as ridiculous as my buddies. Slowly, I start to relax and listen in. The conversation flows easily with lots of snark and banter. Seems they love to rib each other.

"I'll be right back," I say to Mandy.

Gathering up my courage and my crutches, I make my way to the bar.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks.

"Wonderin' if y'all are hirin'?"

"Maybe. What kind of work are you looking for?"

I take a deep breath and look him straight in the eye. "Look man, I'm willin' to do whatever y'all need. I just really need to get back to work." I've never applied for a job in my life. I graduated from high school and joined the Army.

"I get it. Do you have a resume?"

Heat creeps up the back of my neck and I feel a bit nauseous. "Uh, no." What the fuck am I supposed to put on a resume? I jumped out of planes? Once, my sergeant made me mop the entire first floor of my barracks after tracking mud inside. Would that count as janitorial experience? I can pack a chute quicker than anyone in my unit, but that means fuck-all in a bar. "I've been deployed for the past nine months. Before that, I spent three years at Bragg. I'm 82nd Airborne."

The bartender looks me over. "That how you broke your leg?"

I nod before answering. "Yes sir. I'm healin' up. Got rehab all day, every day, but my nights are free to work."

"You got ID?"

I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, fishing out my military ID. He looks it over and smiles. "That's good enough for me. If you can take orders from Uncle Sam for four years, you can take them from me. I'm Brian."

The name stabs me in the heart, but I can't fault him; it's a common name. "Rhett Marsh," I offer, shaking his hand.

"I need help tending bar and stocking liquor. Might ask you to push a mop now and then."

"That sounds great. I'll do whatever needs doin'."

McCormick comes up behind me and claps my shoulder. "Hey, Brian, you give my brother a job?"

"Well, hell, Rhett. Why didn't you say you knew McCormick? That's the only resume you need 'round here, man," Brian laughs.

I laugh with him, shaking my head. Mandy wasn't lying when he said Black Mountain was a small town.

The microphone makes a screeching sound and McCormick yells, "Fuck yeah! Karaoke, Bitches!"

A feeling like a heavy stone sinks in the pit of my stomach. "This is gonna get ugly real fast," I say to Brian.

Laughing, he clasps my hand in a shake. "You'll do just fine 'round here. I'll see you tomorrow night at seven."

Feeling lighter than I did when I walked in, I rejoin the guys who are looking over the song list like they're studying for the ASVAB.

"Whatchu singing, Rhett?"

I glance at Stiles and shake my head. "Not singin', man."

"We'll see about that," he laughs.

When I raise my head again, scanning the crowd for Riggs, my eyes settle on a cute blonde. She's a curvy little thing with a big bright smile. And she's fixed it on me. Fuck, I've got no game in a damn cast and with a broken heart to boot. I haven't even thought about getting laid since the shit-show in Afghanistan.

Not true, liar. You think about getting banged by Riggs every fuckin' night.

That don't count, though, 'cause that's Riggs. Who wouldn't fantasize about him? That scruff, those dark eyes, and big rough hands and domineering attitude. Yeah, it's a given.

This cutie wants my attention, like now. She gets up and walks over to our table, and I pull out an empty chair for her. Her little blue dress hints at plenty of cleavage, and she leans forward to tease me.

"Hi, I'm Brandi, with an i."

"Yes you are," I say dumbly. Her tits are hypnotizing me. "I'm Rhett."

"Ohh, I love that name," she gushes. "What are you drinking?"

"Uh, Coke ?" Mandy elbows me in the ribs without even looking my way. "Oh, um, can I buy you a drink?"

I don't even wanna buy her a drink. I'm fucking broke, and with my broken leg, I can't even fuck her. At least, not like I used to. Maybe I can lie on my back while she rides me—very carefully.

Hell, nothing about that even sounds remotely appealing. My dick likes her tits, but not enough to get hard for her.

"A margarita. I just love the taste. It comes in so many flavors!"

Jesus Christ, she's a bright one. If my buddies were here, they'd be fucking me over by buying a margarita in every flavor and charging it to my card. A pang of sadness hits me square in the chest. Fuck, I miss them. I glance down the long table of laughing faces and feel a little lost among the crowd of my new buddies .

Starting life over just feels… exhausting.

Brandi with-an-i polishes off her margarita and takes me by the hand, dragging me from my chair.

"Come on, my song is up. Sing with me."

"Yeah, Rhett, sing with her," McCormick urges, laughing at me.

"Let me grab my crutches," I plead as she practically topples me over. "You're next," I threaten McCormick.

"Bet your sweet ass I am! I can sing real good," he boasts.

Almost every man at the table snickers.

To my everlasting horror and the amusement of my buddies, the song Brandi chose is ‘ Genie In A Bottle ' by Christina Aguilera. "I can't…" but she tugs me back onstage, winding her arm around my waist to squish me against her lush boobs, and I'm trapped, like a fucking genie in a bottle, ironically. Thankfully, the guys are whooping and laughing so loudly that it mostly drowns out my singing. If only West wasn't recording me on his phone, I might've been able to make everyone forget… eventually.

Every time she says I've gotta rub her the right way, she shimmies her ass against my hip. I glance across the bar and fucking fuck… Riggs is staring at me, jaw slightly agape.

The song dies down and Brandi ends with a big finish—she fists my shirt and pulls me down to plant a big, wet, sticky lipstick smooch on my lips. The bar cheers wildly; well, mostly just the Bitches, and when I look back at Riggs, he's no longer gaping.

He's glaring.

I fucking hate karaoke.