Chapter 16

He's ignored me all week long. Well, maybe ignoring is wishful thinking. More like froze me out. Straight up hostile.

In group, he sits with his arms crossed, glaring at me, refusing to share. In the gym, he ignores every suggestion I make, choosing to follow the advice of the other trainers on hand instead. When I pass him in the hallway, he ignores me and looks the other way. My friendly greetings fall on deaf ears, and when I ask him how he's feeling, or to describe his pain level during his workouts, he stares right through me.

It's juvenile as fuck, but also… it's lonely. I wouldn't have thought Rhett ignoring me could make me feel that way, but that's exactly what it feels like. Like I've lost a good friend, someone important to me. Someone I needed.

I need Rhett?

I don't know, do I? Do I need him? Fuck, I don't even want to know the answer to that.

When I enter the gym, the first thing I see are Nash and West occupying side-by-side treadmills, tearing up the black rubber. They're both pushing themselves way too hard. I jog over to their machines and hit the reset buttons.

"Slow down, knuckleheads. You're both going to be limping tomorrow." Jesus, they act like this competition between them has a cash prize or something.

I turn to find Rhett, stabbing me with metaphorical daggers shooting from his eyes, and I breathe out a deep sigh, struggling for patience. Before I can inhale a calming breath, Brandon, another therapist, flags me from across the gym. He's headed in my direction.

"Riggs, we're all excited you're here full time now, but we've got to have a word about these new ideas you have for redecorating the gym."

He's smiling at me, looking at me like I'm supposed to know what he means, but I'm clueless. I've never had ideas about redecorating the gym. I look around, searching for anything different, new, out of place, but it's the same old equipment…

"Son of a bitch." With my head on a swivel, I search out the culprit, knowing exactly who I'm looking for—a Bitch. Like clockwork, every one of their ugly mugs appear in the doorway of the gym at once, laughing like a gaggle of?—

"Congrats on your new job, Riggs!"

"Mazal Tov!"

"Break a leg!" McCormick ducks as another vet, who has a leg in a full fiberglass cast, throws a sweaty towel at his head. "Sorry, it was a joke. I meant good luck."

These fuckheads. I finally take that calming breath deep into my lungs and find the first smile I've expressed today. I take in the changes around the gym, new posters hanging on the wall in place of the old ones with serene backgrounds and cliché motivational quotes. These are printed on neon poster board and the quotes are decidedly un motivating. Actually…

My laughter starts slowly and silently, picking up volume as I read more of them. They're my own words, my own quotes, things I say to my patients when they're struggling.

"It's going tibia okay," is written boldly on neon pink paper.

"PT stands for pain and torture."

"If it doesn't hurt, you're not doing it right," is printed on a bright orange backdrop.

"According to my stopwatch, you're far from finished."

On and on they go, circling the walls of the gym. My gaze finally comes to a stop on Rhett. He's struggling not to laugh, to maintain that stoic, pissed-off expression he's carried all week long. His frown slips when he sees me smiling openly at him.

"Did you have a hand in this?"

"And if I did?" he asks.

The challenge makes my heart kick. It's the way he looks at me, with a hint of his dimples peeking through and his hazel eyes daring me to threaten him.

My gaze travels to the rowing machine.

"Fuck me," he murmurs.

I can't help but laugh as my smile turns wicked. "No, thanks. What I have in mind is going to hurt a whole lot worse."

As soon as the front door shuts behind me, I strip off my shirt and my shorts and head straight for the back deck. Lifting the cover off of the hot tub, I test the water—still warm from last night. I fire up the jets and climb in. The hot water bubbles over my shoulders, caressing my neck and washing away my stress. The sun is just beginning to set over the horizon. It'll be dark in thirty minutes, and I'll be able to see the canvas of stars painted in the night sky glittering brightly. The setting sun reminds me of a giant orange beach ball set on fire, illuminating the valley in rusty light as it kisses the day goodbye.

My phone rings and I realize it's in the back pocket of my shorts, which I left on the deck as I stripped.

Damn, I gotta get that.

I climb out of the tub, water dripping from my cock as I scurry across the deck to grab it.

It's Liza, and I feel a little annoyed that I was in such a hurry. But no matter what I'm doing, whether I'm sleeping, soaking, or screwing, I can't not answer the phone. What if it's one of my brothers? I can't recall how many times I've answered their calls in the middle of the night, whether they were scared or in crisis.

I always have to answer the phone every time it rings.

"Hello?"

"Hello yourself. I see how it is. You quit and leave me behind in the dust and don't even call to update me. How are you settling in?"

"I'm settled. It took me five minutes," I joke, though it's true. I was so ready for this life full time, there was no adjustment period.

"I miss you."

"Miss you too, girl. How's Womack?"

"Same old, same old, different day. You're not missing anything."

"I know," I laugh, convinced she's telling the truth. "Right now, I'm soaking in the hot tub, watching the sunset over the valley. In ten minutes, it'll be dark enough for me to count a hundred stars over my head."

"I kind of hate you," Liza teases with a sigh.

"You love me."

"So, how's Marshmallow doing?"

"Who?"

"Rhett," she says impatiently.

Of course, I knew who she was talking about, but I'm not going to let her know that, like I'm eager for the sound of his name.

"He's settling in, slowly making friends. Very slowly."

"He's lost a lot in a short amount of time. It doesn't surprise me he's cautious about letting new people in. How's his pain management?"

"I guess he's managing. Not gonna lie, PT is no party, no matter what I tell the guys."

"He should have about fifteen days left of his script, and he has another refill scheduled, but after that, I don't know."

"What is he taking?"

"Percocet."

Great, opioids. "I'll keep an eye on him. Don't worry about it."

"Of course I worry. I worry about all my boys. Speaking of, how are West and Nash?"

"Driving me crazy, competing for the Warrior's Walk."

"Is that some PT thing?"

"Yeah, Liza, it's a PT thing," I deadpan.

"So, are you dating anyone?"

"What in the hell would make you say that?" I ask, practically choking on the words.

"Because you've got all this time on your hands now that you're not running between two jobs."

"No, I'm not dating anyone."

"Well, it wouldn't kill you. Keep your eyes open."

"Good night, Liza."

"Fine," she huffs. "Good night."

A smile teases my lips as I lay the phone down on the edge of the tub, breathing in a lungful of steam. The first few stars shine through the dark purple sky above, and I tip my head back to stare up at them. The water bubbles around my shoulders, a soothing soundtrack that accompanies the cicadas and crickets. Just as I close my eyes, the phone rings again, and I reach for it blindly.

Damn, Liza, let me relax. "Did you forget something?"

"Riggs, I need you."

Definitely not Liza's voice. "Rhett?"

"I need help. Please, hurry."

Every muscle in my body tightens. "Where are you? What happened?"

"I fell," he pants, sounding out of breath. "In my bathroom. I can't get up. My leg is locked."

"Are you bleeding? Did you break something?" I'm already climbing out of the tub, scrambling for my discarded clothes.

"No, I don't know. I don't think so."

"I'm on my way. Hang tight."

"Riggs." I can hear him swallow. "The front door is locked."

"Well, how am I supposed to get in?"

"I think my bedroom window is unlocked. I had it open the other day to air the place out."

"You want me to break in?"

"It's not breaking in if I invite you. Hurry," he moans. I can hear the pain in his voice.

"I'll be right there. Hang on."

My heart is in my throat as I race to my truck. My clothes are damp and sticking to my skin. He's okay. He's fine. Despite my self-assurances, I'm driving twenty miles over the speed limit, running stop signs like they don't exist. I park beside his car and hop out, rushing around to the back of his building. I have to count in my head the number of windows I pass until I think I'm standing below the right one.

It better be the right one or I'm going to jail.

The window slides open easily, and I breathe a sigh of relief, hoisting myself up and over the edge. My landing is a mess, and I face-plant on his bed, getting tangled in his unmade sheets. I scramble to the foot of the bed and right myself before dashing into the bathroom. "Rhett," I call out.

"In here." His voice echoes off the tiled walls.

His body is sprawled across the floor and he's lying in a puddle of water that dripped from his body—his still wet and glistening, naked body.

Stop , I scream in my head.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, crouching down beside him.

"I don't know. Everything hurts."

From the sound of his voice, he's telling the truth. "What were you doing?"

"Uh, showering?"

"Why didn't you call Mandy? He's right next door."

"'Cause I'm fuckin' naked. I'd rather you see my junk than Mandy."

I let that slide and grab a towel from the rack to cover his body. Even in a quick panicked minute, I can see how perfectly he's shaped, all toned and tanned, tight lines and tattooed skin.

Rhett is on his side, curled in the fetal position with his right leg stuck straight out. I gently roll him toward his back, sliding my hands under his knee and thigh. "I'm gonna try to manipulate the joint." Applying the slightest pressure, I urge his knee to bend, but stop when Rhett cries out.

"Holy fuck, that hurts."

"You should go for an x-ray. Maybe an MRI."

"No," he breathes, eyes widening in panic. "Nononono. Just get me to bed."

"Ignoring the problem won't fix it."

"I didn't bang it when I fell, it just locked up on me. I landed on my ass. Maybe you should check that." He's trying for humor, but his face is drawn too tightly with pain for me to laugh.

"It's probably inflamed from your workout earlier today. Maybe I pushed you too hard," I murmur, thinking out loud and feeling guilty for pushing him.

"Don't start. This would happen whether you pushed me or not. It's just a fact of my life now," he says miserably.

Worry gnaws at my gut like bitter acid. "We need to apply ice to reduce the swelling. Did you hurt anything else when you fell?"

"Like I said, you'll have to check me over thoroughly ."

Before I can stop myself, a laugh bubbles up from my throat. It's the most absurd situation to try to flirt with me, but it doesn't stop Rhett.

I have no idea how to get him to the bed besides to pick him up in my arms and carry him. All one hundred and sixty wet, naked pounds of him. As a trained combat medic and physical therapist, I've learned the ins and outs of body mechanics, and how to roll a person's dead weight onto your body to carry them from a seated or prone position.

"What the fuck?" he asks as I maneuver his body. It takes a minute—he's slippery and fucking solid—but I push to my feet with a grunt. Rhett loses his towel in the process, but he's not shy and I don't give a fuck. I'm more concerned about getting him to the bed. It takes great effort to lay him down gently instead of dumping his ass in a heap, and my body goes down with him.

Suddenly, his nakedness is a thing.

The heat of his body sears my skin.

His warm breaths merge with my harsher gasps, becoming one shared breath.

My heart swells with adrenaline, beating as furiously as a hummingbird's wings.

I can feel his eyes on me, searching my face, pleading with me to look at him.

If you look at him, you're going to kiss him.

He wants you to kiss him.

Don't fucking do it, Riggs! Don't look.

It's as if the air between us is charged with magnetic electrons, compelling me to look him in the eye. And when I do, when I finally raise my eyes to meet his, I feel like I've been punched in the gut. I can't catch my breath, I can't swallow, and I can't think of anything but how he tastes. I lick my lips, softening them for him, and my head draws closer to his. His throat slides as he struggles to swallow, and his lips part for me.

I can taste his breath and it's so, so sweet.

He touches his mouth to mine, soft, warm lips, and I feel his wet tongue snake out to lick my bottom lip.

And I… I can't. My conscience is screaming at me like a coach with a bullhorn, warning me to pull back, to run.

But it doesn't prepare me for the look of rejection and hurt in his eyes. Nothing can prepare me for that devastating blow.

Way to fucking go, Riggs. Like he hasn't been hurt enough already.

"Rhett—"

"Don't, Riggs. Whatever you're gonna say, don't. I get it, you're not interested." His head flops down on the pillow with a sigh. "I don't know what I was thinkin'. Look at me," he laughs derisively. "I can't even pick myself up off the floor without your help. I had to call you to put me to bed—a bed that you bought for me. In fact, you furnished this whole fuckin' place for me. I've got nothing. No life, no future, no hope. Why in the fuck would you want to hitch your wagon to my horse?" He shakes his head. "I don't blame you. I just… I had to try. Didn't realize until just now how far above myself I was reachin'."

"You're wrong, soldier. It's not possible for you to reach too high. Trust me, you're worth it. I just… I can't."

"It's fine, it's… whatever. I'd rather have you as a friend than nothin' at all."

We lay like that for a minute in silence, and I rack my brain trying to think of what to say to make it better, but I've got nothing.

"My leg really fuckin' hurts," he complains.

"Let me get you some ice for your knee." I rise to my feet and throw the edge of the blanket over his body, for his sake and mine.

"Can you grab my pills from the kitchen while you're in there? And maybe an extra handful of ice? I've got a few other spots I need to cool down."

Despite the gravity of the situation, I laugh at his joke, knowing he's serious. He just never quits, even when all seems lost. In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and randomly open a few cabinets, looking for the one that holds his meds. I find it above the stove. The label says Percocet , to be taken with food, may cause drowsiness, and don't operate machinery while under the influence. Ducking into the hall bathroom, I flush them down the toilet. In the kitchen, I reach for the bottle of Ibuprofen instead.

These pills are addictive as hell. I've seen it time and again with so many of the veterans who come through the doors at BALLS seeking help. Hell, I saw it with some of the guys I actively served with. It was a damn near daily occurrence at Womack. I'm not gonna let it happen to my … not to my patient .

He's not your patient.

Like fucking hell he's not.

Closing the cabinet, I search through the drawers for a plastic bag I can fill with ice. Then I grab the water bottle and head back to his room. Rhett is lying exactly where I left him. "Are those Percocet all you're taking for the pain?"

"Yeah, the doctor at Womack prescribed them to me."

"Well, you're finished with them. No more." I hand him four ibuprofen and the bottle of water.

"What do you mean, no more? My fuckin' leg hurts."

"As it should, you shattered it. Ibuprofen will do just fine."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"You're a doctor now?"

In all my years in the medical field, I've never once encountered a situation where a patient acted magnanimously or gratefully when you took away their drugs. "Well, you called me doc when we met," I tease.

"It was a formality. I didn't know your name."

Leaning down over his body, I get right up in his face. "I don't care what the fuck it was, I told you that you're done with the painkillers. Your leg is supposed to hurt; it reminds you to take it easy, but not too easy."

Rhett snorts. "That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense. The pain tells you where your limit is, how far you can push yourself."

"So when it starts hurtin', I can stop?"

"That's not what I said. I'm telling you when it hurts, slow down, but don't stop. You can always go a little bit further than you think you can. If it's not hurting, you're not doing it right."

He curses under his breath and then sighs with defeat. "You can be a real prick sometimes."

"Don't I know it," I laugh. Plopping down beside him, I place the bag of ice over his knee.

"I'm drownin', Riggs. It's not supposed to feel like this. I'm doin' everything I'm supposed to, everything you tell me to do, but I'm still drownin'. If it doesn't get better than this, what is even the point of continuing to fight when all I wanna do is give up?"

Genuine fear grips my heart. I want to tell him it gets better, to hang in there, but that would be a lie. Just because it got better for me doesn't mean it's going to for him. "You can't give up, not yet. Just keep fighting, one day at a time. For me. Promise?"

"For you? Yeah. 'Cause I owe you for savin' my life."

I'm not going to debate it with him if that's what gets him to hang on.

"Give me somethin' real, Riggs. Not that motivational bullshit. Tell me you know what it feels like, that you know what I'm going through. Tell me you understand the pain I'm drowning in. The way I feel almost numb from it."

"I know exactly what you're feeling."

"Prove it. What was the name of the person you lost?"

Our voices are nothing but a whisper in the silent room, blanketed by the still of the night. Outside the window, still open to the evening breeze, I can hear the chirping crickets in the trees. With the exception of Brewer, I've never told anyone what I'm about to tell him.

"Most of the time, my mind is solid, like a frozen sheet of ice. But underneath there are soft spots, and if you step in the wrong place, with too much pressure, it splinters apart. Like cracks in the ice. Sometimes I don't even see it coming. It's stupid shit like the other day, I was watching TV and there was a baby food commercial on, and the mom was feeding her kid applesauce."

My voice becomes thick with emotions I haven't identified in a long time. "I cried. The fucking applesauce got me. It took me right back to the mess hall at Bagram. Applesauce was the meat identifier for pork chops. You couldn't tell what the damn meat was without the sauce as the clue. Cranberry sauce meant turkey." My mouth feels thick and dry. "Fucking Bandit, he was crazy about that applesauce. Used to ask us all to scrape our extra sauce onto his plate."

"Is that why they called him Bandit?"

"No," I laugh. "It's because he was always stealing our foot powder. He was a Gold Bond Powder thief. Had the nastiest case of athlete's foot I'd ever seen. We used to tease each other and say, ‘ If you fuck this up, I'm gonna make you wear Bandit's socks .'" I swipe the tears that unexpectedly fall from my eyes. "You could tell when he got into the powder, because you could see the dust caked under his fingernails."

Rhett shudders, then, in a soft voice, asks, "What happened to Bandit?"

"His name was Mark. Mark Grainger. He took a bullet to the face. It wasn't even nothing, wasn't supposed to happen. A stupid, senseless accident. They opened fire on us as we were driving out of the village. Bandit stuck his head out the window and a bullet ricocheted off the Humvee and went right through his cheek." The tears stream down my cheeks now, pooling on his pillow. Rhett reaches for my hand in the dark, and I squeeze back. "I was sitting beside him. I wore his dried blood on my face for twelve hours straight. They had to hold me down to scrub it off."

I don't have to see his face to know he's crying as silently as I am. I can feel the tremors running through his body.

"I'm sorry." His voice is shredded with grief. "I'm sorry about Bandit. I'm sorry about all the men we've lost."

I clear my throat loudly, hoping it works like a reset button. "The fucking applesauce and the baby made me think of my buddy's face exploding. I'll never ever unsee that shit." Swiping at my eyes, I continue softly, "I don't want to remember him that way. I want to remember Bandit chewing with his mouth open, singing the wrong words to every song, stealing everyone's fucking powder, and always scratching his nasty feet. I don't want to remember his death."

"He doesn't want you to remember him that way, either."

"It feels like a betrayal, like that's what I reduced him to. His whole life is all about his death."

"That's how I feel about Brian sometimes." Rhett's voice breaks when he says his buddy's name.

"You've been through a trauma, and it changed you. It changed the way your mind works. That's not up to you. It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either," he reminds me. I untangle my hand from his and tuck it under my ass so I'm not tempted to reach for him again. "I miss my mama," he admits sadly.

My heart breaks for him. He's lost so much. If I could just give him back something, anything .

"I can't understand why she hasn't come to see me yet. Wild horses couldn't keep my mama away normally, but since I've been back, things feel different. I don't know why."

"I'm sorry. In the meantime, you've got me."

"Do I, Riggs? Do I have you? 'Cause you just got done tellin' me how complicated it is for you, and I gotta say, it don't feel like I have you at all."

The sound of my blood whooshing through my veins is loud in my ears, like a heartbeat. "I'm here, aren't I?"