Chapter 15

This day started off great, with news that I got the full-time position at BALLS. I even received a bump in salary. Then I had breakfast with Brewer, and things went to shit after that. It's been one problem after another, and I'm losing patience. It's not even three o'clock and I've got a headache starting to pound at the base of my skull.

When I walk into the classroom where I hold the Bitches with Stitches support group, I'm the last to arrive. Nine men fill the circle.

"All right, everybody listen up. I want to know who is responsible for the incident in the pool." Their shared looks of confusion don't produce any confessions. "Despite your nicknames, you're not bitches. You've got balls. So speak up." Nothing but snickers from around the group. Losing my struggle, holding onto the last thin thread of my remaining patience, I glare at each and every one of them with narrowed eyes. "I'm listening. I want to know who was responsible for turning the pool water brown." The snickers turn into outright laughter, with Jax being the loudest. I fix my glare on him. "I wouldn't have pegged you for it, but if you did it, come clean."

"I didn't," he wheezes through his laughter. "Honest to God."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because whoever did it is a genius."

"I highly doubt that."

"It was a mistake," McCormick swears. More laughter ensues.

"Did you shit in the pool?" I ask, regretting that I need an answer, and regretting even more that I'm going to have to write an incident report about this.

"No! Tell them," he says to Stiles, smacking his arm.

Stiles is laughing too hard to spit out the words, clutching his belly like it aches. "We were trying to pay homage to pride month by kicking it off with a surprise for everyone."

McCormick continues for him since he's now laughing so hard, he's incapable of speech. "We only meant to dye the pool rainbow colors, but then it all sort of mixed together and turned brown." He shrugs, and all hell breaks loose. Pharo laughs quietest, but tears stream down his cheeks. West and Brandt have doubled over on top of each other.

"So you didn't shit in the pool? That's really all I need to know."

"Come on, Riggs, do I look like the kind of guy that would shit in the pool?"

I give up. Jax slips out of his chair, falling to his haunches. I can't see his face behind his hands, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had tears in his eyes like Pharo.

"Do you really want me to answer that, McCormick? Really?"

"No, sir," he answers, trying to keep a straight face, although it's as red as his hair.

"You owe me two volunteer hours in the gym. That's how long it took me to clean up your mess. You too, Stiles. In the meantime, get a hold of yourselves," I bark. "Let's get on with this meeting."

I might as well have walked out right then because the rest of the hour was just as unproductive as the first ten minutes. Every time someone began to share, someone else would start laughing again, and it was as contagious as a STI.

I'm actually relieved when group is over, which is something I never say. Most of the Bitches head out for wings and beer like they always do after group, but not Rhett, or West. They come back to the gym with me. Rhett has two more hours of physical therapy today, and West is training for the Warrior's Walk. Nash and West are competing this quarter to see who can finish the obstacle course in the shortest time.

These vets spend weeks, months, and even years rehabilitating after serious injuries, and the Warrior's Walk is their chance to prove themselves. Not just proving their fitness to others, but to themselves as well. I know from experience, no one is harsher when it comes to judging a soldier's ability than themselves. We are our toughest critics. Always comparing ourselves to what we used to be capable of before we were injured.

Completing the Warrior's Walk may seem like a cakewalk to someone with two good legs, someone who hasn't blown out a kidney or a lung, or isn't suffering from a broken back or shattered knee, but to the injured vets who almost lost everything, including their own lives, and have had to battle every day to come back from that, completing the obstacle course feels like a thousand-mile victory.

But instead of getting started on the treadmill, West is yakking it up with Rhett, as if they didn't just spend an hour together, bitching. I would call him to attention, but honestly, I'm just glad to see him settling in and making friends. I've noticed some resistance in him and I'm pretty sure it's because of his grief.

After all, who could blame him? He lost his best friend, his unit, his buddies, his career, hell, his whole fucking life. It all went down the drain, along with his mobility and his confidence.

He's starting over from scratch with nothing but a shred of hope.

Just another reason not to let him in your bed.

I hate how I constantly need to remind myself of the reasons why Rhett is a bad idea. But God, there are so many of them.

He's only twenty-three years old. I didn't know my elbow from my ass at twenty-three, not that I've learned a whole lot in the last nine years.

He's at the lowest point of his life and I would just be one more complication he doesn't need.

His primary focus should be his recovery, not his dick— or mine.

He's a bisexual flirt who gives any passing ass a second look. I can't blame him because I was much the same at his age, but I'm not going to make a fool of myself over a guy like him. Way too high risk for failure.

Unfortunately, my heart and my brain aren't on the same page, and my cock is in a whole other library. Every time my brain reminds me of the red flags, my heart tries to convince me of Rhett's numerous good qualities… like I need reminding.

"Wardell," I bark. "You gonna train for the Warrior's Walk, or just talk about it?"

He laughs and shakes his head. I used to intimidate him, so I must be losing my edge.

West gives Rhett a fist bump and then fires up the treadmill. He's got his hydraulic prosthetic on, which is best for quick, repetitive movement of his knee. It also absorbs impact well and causes less strain on his hip and back than his blade leg.

Rhett takes a seat on the weight bench beside me and bends at the waist to strap on his ankle weights. "What's that Warrior's Walk he's talking about? He's training for something?"

"Like an obstacle course for PT patients. It's an endurance test."

"Sort of like graduating from PT?"

I snort. "You never graduate from PT, soldier. With a leg like yours, you'll be seeing the inside of this gym every day for a long, long time."

He straightens and looks up at me, his lethal dimpled smile on full display. "I like the sound of that."

Everything with him is innuendo, and though I've come to expect it by now, it never fails to charm me.

"You're gonna like it a lot less when you find out what I have planned for you today."

Rhett groans. "When am I gonna compete in the Warrior's Walk?"

"Are you kidding? You're a long way from completing an obstacle course like that. You can barely walk in a straight line. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other, literally, before you start dreaming that big."

Nodding, he asks, "When I'm ready, will you train me?"

He looks so sincere, and I feel like he's asking because he truly believes I can motivate him to get there, and not because he's trying to spend more time with me one-on-one. "Yeah, soldier. When the time comes, I'll train you."

That seems to give him the motivation he needs to power through his leg exercises. By the time I move him to the parallel bars, he's sweating, and I know he's starting to feel the burn in his leg.

West slaps the stop button on the treadmill and wipes his face and neck down with a towel. He positions himself on the other end of the parallel bars, waiting for Rhett. A heaviness settles in my chest and I take a deep breath to push past it, feeling my lungs expand with air. It's moments like these that remind me how much I love my job. This is why I made the switch from nursing to PT.

There's nothing more powerful than watching a community of vets rally around the new guy, lending their strength to help him get back on his feet. It's the kind of shit that makes my eyes water.

"These are the bitch bars," West snipes, "because it makes you feel like one when you realize how much of a struggle it is to walk ten fucking feet to the end, but I'm gonna stand right here and wait on your ass until you get here." He checks the black sports watch on his wrist. "I've got shit to do today, namely Brandt," he smirks, "so don't make me wait too long."

Rhett chuckles and grabs hold of the metal bars. His first four steps are strong, but then his leg starts to wobble, and his knuckles turn white as he grips the bars tighter.

"Move that right leg forward. Don't think about it, just do it. The longer you think about it, the heavier your leg feels." He glances at me, looking determined, and moves his right leg forward.

He takes another two wobbly steps before he's looking around in a panic for his crutches. "Don't even think about it," I bark.

"I gotta sit," Rhett pleads.

"What you need to do is keep walking."

"Riggs, I gotta sit."

"The only seat you're gonna find is when you fall on your ass and hit the floor, soldier. You're not going backward and you're not quitting. Even if it takes all day, you're going to get to the end of those bars."

Rhett is a passive guy, genial, fun. He's not an angry guy, so when his face pulls tight, the prelude to his hissy fit is unexpected, but totally understandable.

"I can't fuckin' make it to the end!"

"Eventually, you can. You just might need to sit down first," I insist calmly.

"That's what I fuckin' said!" he screams.

"No, you want to sit in a chair. I told you that's not available. If you sit on the floor, you'll have to get yourself back up again."

His hazel eyes turn the palest shade of green I've ever seen them as he glares angrily at me. I know he's dying to tell me to go fuck off, but he wouldn't dare.

"Are you angry? Anger is nothing but an outward expression of fear, hurt, and frustration." His nostrils flare, and he breathes harder as he struggles to maintain his stance. But he manages one more step forward. A step in the right direction. "That's it, keep moving. Don't give up."

His leg buckles, but he catches himself halfway down. West gives me a hesitant look, and I can tell he's worried, but he should know better. I wouldn't push Rhett this hard if I didn't think he could take it. I did the same exact thing to him, and it was exactly what he needed.

Rhett groans, a primal sound of pain and effort as he works to pull himself back up. His next step is wider, and I recognize the move. He's trying to cheat, to cover more distance in less time. At least, that's what he's thinking, but as a therapist, I know better. The move is going to cost him dearly. It takes more effort and puts more strain on his muscles to lunge than it does to take an extra step.

With a cry of relief, he stumbles over his feet the last three steps, crashing against West's solid chest as he threatens to knock them both over. West catches him in his arms and sets him on his feet as I hurry over with his crutches.

"I did it!" He's practically sobbing—a combination of pain, adrenaline, exhaustion, and relief.

"You fucking did it," West agrees.

"Which means you can do it again tomorrow." The look West gives me warns me I'm pushing my luck, and the look Rhett gives me confirms it. Fuck it, that's my job, and I'm damn good at it. This is what it takes to get back on your feet again. Neither of them have to like it, but they're both walking, so my methods speak for themselves. "The next time you feel like quitting on me, just remember this; you're not quitting on me , soldier, you're quitting on yourself."

"I'm going to take off," West says. "But I'll be back tomorrow if you need a cheerleader."

"Are you gonna wear a fuckin' skirt?" Rhett teases.

West chuckles and claps Rhett on the back. "I only wear that for Brandt. Sorry."

He walks off with a backward glance at me, probably warning me to take it easy on Rhett. When I turn back to Rhett, I'm facing the full force of his anger, a look I've never seen on his face before. It's fucking magnificent.

His eyes are burning shards of jade. Long strands of sweaty hair tease his forehead, and my fingers itch to swipe them aside. His lips are pulled into a tight line, and I can tell he's about to hand me my ass.

Go for it, soldier. I'm just going to hand it right back to you.

"I can't figure you out," he snarls.

"Good luck. I wouldn't even bother if I were you."

"No, you were different. Back there, in Afghanistan, you cared. You were kind. We had a co?—"

"A connection?" I scoff, making light of the feelings I know for a fact we both felt. It's the only way I can maintain a safe distance between us. Especially after seeing him walk today. He needs me, but not as a lover. He needs me as his therapist, and I can't do that if I'm fucking him. "Don't kid yourself. I was just doing my job. Showing concern and compassion for my patient. It wasn't a connection, it was professionalism."

Rhett searches my face, looking deep into my eyes. I know what he's looking for, a trace of the man he thought he recognized. "No, I'm not buying that," he says disbelievingly. "I know what I felt."

I laugh cruelly. "What you felt was someone being nice to you after months alone in the desert. What you felt was in your pants, not your head."

His face hardens into a defensive mask. Whatever he's thinking about me right now, I can bet none of them are good thoughts. This is the only way I can shut him down for good. This has to happen.

"You think you're a badass?" I continue, adding insult to injury. "You're not. You're just another soldier who got hurt. My gym is full of them; look around. Most of them wear a bigger chip on their shoulder than you do. You'll have to try harder than that, kid, if you want to be a badass, and if all you want to do is write my name next to the notches carved into your headboard, it's not going to happen. Go get your dick wet somewhere else, and when you're done, you can come back here and show me what you've got. Don't step foot in my gym again unless you're ready to get your ass kicked and you're ready to work."

My heart burns like I was stung by a hornet when I see moisture gather in his eyes. His throat works like he's having trouble swallowing.

"That's fine. If that's what you want, that's what you'll get." Rhett turns away. "Married to your job, you miserable fucker," he mumbles under his breath as he hobbles off.

The glacier of ice left in his wake chills me to the bone. My words hit their intended target with deadly accuracy, killing two birds with one stone—both his heart and mine.