Chapter 17

"So, how often do you have to go through this?"

Mandy sighs heavily. " Too often. Feels like every month just about I'm going through some sort of treatment, whether it's dermabrasion or another skin graft. They only do those every quarter, but then there are the checkups in between."

"And West usually comes with you?"

"Usually. I hate going through this shit alone. I hate having to admit that, but I spent so much time in the hospital after it happened, and then alone in that rehab place, and… I don't know. I get so much anxiety, and all this bad shit comes back and haunts me. I just don't handle it well. It helps having someone with me."

"Well, I'm glad it's me today. So, what are they gonna do to you?"

"Dermabrasion for my last skin graft. Basically, they use this sanding tool to grind down the scar tissue and smooth it out."

"Get the fuck out of here. Seriously? That's a thing?"

Mandy laughs. "Yeah, it's a thing. But don't worry, they numb me first."

"Shit, when we leave this place, I'm gonna buy you ice cream."

He laughs again, shaking his head. "That's more than West offers me."

I make the turnoff on the exit for the Charles George VA Medical Center in Asheville, and the ball of nerves in my stomach grows larger with each mile we get closer. Hell, it's not even my face being sandblasted today, and I feel like I'm gonna throw up. How in the hell does he go through this every month?

I park my car in the full lot and before we get out, Mandy folds his hands in his lap and bows his head. Is he praying? After a minute of silence, he looks up and gives me a little smile.

"Just something I do every time I come here. I ask for strength and courage, and I ask for acceptance that no matter what the outcome of the procedure, that it's enough for me, that I'm happy with the results." He grabs for the door handle and then stops. "Oh, and I ask that they don't remove the wrong body part by accident."

I smack his shoulder. "Get the fuck outta here."

"I'm serious. You wouldn't believe how many articles I read like that."

"You have no business reading medical journals and articles about amputating the wrong limbs or organs. Not with your medical anxiety."

He just shrugs and climbs out of the car. Tucked under his arm is a thick-ass manila folder. I'm betting it's his medical records, and judging by the thickness of the file, he knows this place like the back of his hand. I follow him inside to the reception desk, where he checks in, and then we're told to wait. We take a seat in the waiting room that's packed wall-to-wall with other vets. Apparently, waiting is a thing here.

We don't have to wait long before the entertainment arrives.

"Oh good, I'm not too late," West huffs, jogging up to us.

"I thought you couldn't make it," Mandy says, looking up with surprise.

"I was getting fitted for a new prosthetic, but they didn't make me wait long to be seen, unlike this fucking place," he complains, looking around the packed room.

"Oh, but I loved the old one. It had the painted toenails."

West sticks his middle finger right in Mandy's face. "I was due for a pedicure. I think I'll go with purple this time." West stands directly in front of the man sitting to Mandy's left and lifts his pant leg, shamelessly exploiting his prosthetic leg until the man feels honor bound to give up his chair. "Thanks for your service," West says, clapping him on the shoulder. He snatches up his seat in a heartbeat.

I'm a little disappointed he showed up. Not that I'm in the market to make new best friends, but I was enjoying getting to know Mandy a little better. He's actually a great guy, but so is West. He pulls out a Mad Libs pad from his backpack and Mandy shakes his head, chuckling.

"What?" West asks. "You love these. Give me a synonym for big."

"Ginormous," Mandy answers.

"Oh, that's a good one." He writes it down. "Rhett, what rhymes with art?"

"Cart, dart, heart, fart, and start."

"That'll work perfectly," he says with a smirk. "A verb that starts with G."

"Grinding," I answer at the same time Mandy says, "Gloating."

"I'll take them both," West says. "All I need is the name of a fruit."

"Avocado," I supply.

"Avocados are fruits?" West asks.

I answer with a shrug. "I read that somewhere."

"Well, aren't you a smarty-pants?" he says sarcastically.

"Just one of my many good qualities," I tease back.

He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a stack of flyers. "Here," he says to Mandy. "Pass these around while I work on this story."

Mandy passes the stack to me, and I read the flyer on top. ‘ Squeeze your BALLS for all you can ,'" it reads before listing some of the many services provided by BALLS. These are the ones Margaret Anne hands out at the front desk to new visitors.

"Here, pass these around," I tell the guy next to me.

I think it's great how these guys volunteer to represent BALLS just because the organization has given them so much. I hope I can say the same for myself after I see what they can do for me.

I watch as the stack gets passed around; some people fold it up and put it in their pocket or purse, and some crumble it in their fist and toss it under their chairs. I get it. Not everyone wants the help or feels like they need it, but I bet every single one of these fuckers could use it.

"All right, here's what I've got. Laundry day," West starts.

Mandy groans. "Laundry day? None of those words we gave you have anything to do with laundry."

West grins. "That's the point. The wicker basket overflowed with a ginormous load of dirty clothes. Most were stained by darts and farts." Mandy snickers and West laughs before continuing. "Sometimes, they get downright filthy with the grinding and the gloating. If you toss them in the washing machine with a ginormous helping of laundry soap, you can usually get them sparkling clean and smelling sweet and delicious like avocados."

Mandy smiles. "Not as good as your space alien one, but I laughed, so it worked."

"You do these often?" I ask.

"Yeah, I've always got this pad handy. It passes the time. We spend a lot of time in waiting rooms, don't we, Nutter buddy?"

"Unfortunately," Mandy agrees.

A weight drops into the pit of my stomach. This is what I have to look forward to. When you have a chronic injury, the kind you're going to spend the rest of your life with, like mine, like Mandy's burns, and West's leg, you become very intimate with waiting rooms and doctor's offices. It's an eye-opening glimpse into my future.

"I better get myself a Mad Libs pad."

West rubs his thigh just above his amputation site and grimaces. "You know, I'm actually thinking of borrowing your origami book. I could use some variety."

"You can borrow it any time. At this point, I don't think Liza expects I'll ever give it back."

"Hey, are you coming over to stay with us after this?" West asks Mandy.

"Yeah, I've got a bag packed in the back of Rhett's car."

"You know, you're welcome to come stay with me."

"Thanks for the offer," Mandy says graciously, "but at his house, I've got my own room. All you've got is the couch."

"It's a nice couch," I insist. "And I don't mind sharing the bed with you; it's plenty big enough."

"If you think I'm sleeping on those kids' sheets, you're nuts," he laughs. "I'm pretty sure I know what you do on those sheets."

West straight-up cackles. "Should I even ask why you have kid sheets on your bed?"

"I didn't buy them," I defend hotly. "Riggs did."

"Oh, this I've got to hear," he insists.

But before I can explain, the nurse calls Mandy's name. "Wish me luck," he says grimly.

"Good luck," West calls.

"Break a leg," I add. West's eyes go wide and he shakes his head.

"Not here," he advises, looking sideways to see if we drew attention. "It doesn't go over well with this crowd. You should stop by our house tomorrow. We always have a movie day when Mandy is recovering. All the Bitches will stop by with a care package and there'll be food."

"Sounds good. Thanks." It seems like these guys are determined to make a friend of me, no matter my reservations.

He grins wickedly. "Now, tell me about those sheets."

Group with the guys is never boring, but I could have skipped today, since it seems to be focused solely on me. Well, me and Riggs.

As usual, he's the last to arrive, taking his seat after everyone's already present and pulling their knitting out of their bags. I haven't even attempted knitting yet, so I pull out my origami instead. Liza sent me an envelope of colorful printed paper in the mail. It sure beats using the BALLS brochures.

There's an undercurrent in the room I'm picking up on, some sort of inside joke, evident by the whispered conversations and covert glances I've witnessed since taking my seat. Of course, I'm not a part of it, but that's my choice. I chose to keep these guys at arm's length, for… reasons, and if they don't include me in their inner circle, then that's on me, not them.

Even yesterday when I stopped by West and Brandt's home to check on Mandy, I felt out of place and on edge throughout the entire movie. I was the only guy who didn't bring a care package, and I was the only guy not complaining about watching Top Gun . I also chose to sit in a chair by myself in the corner, instead of trying to dogpile onto the bed with the rest of the guys, mostly to protect my leg from getting kicked accidentally, but it just added to the solitary feeling.

"All right," Riggs addresses us. "We're two men short today. Mandy is recovering, and Pharo is deployed, so if we finish a few minutes early, it's understandable. Who wants to kick us off?"

West raises his hand. "I'll go first." He shares another look with Brandt, who nods at him before continuing. "I've been training for the Warrior's Walk, and it's kicking my ass. But also, I'm grateful I'm far enough in my recovery that I'm even able to train for it. A couple months ago, that wouldn't even have been a possibility. It got me thinking about when I first started PT, when I met Riggs. I had zero hope that I would ever recover enough to even walk, let alone train for something like that. You promised me," he says to Riggs.

"You promised that someday I could run and jump, and even snowboard if I wanted, and I thought you were fucking high," he laughs. "You never let me down, never stopped believing in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. Neither of you did," West says, placing his hand on Brandt's knee. They share a look full of meaning that gets me right in my heart.

"I had a real lack of motivation when I first started out, and I remember Riggs told me he had a theory that he used sexual desire to motivate his patients. I thought he was coming onto me." He laughs. "It sounds ridiculous, but he was right; it worked like a charm. He asked me if my dick still worked."

"West," Riggs warns. "Is this necessary?"

"Yeah, I've got a point I'm trying to make."

"Then make it," Riggs snaps.

"Anyway, that night in the shower, my buddy here," he slaps Brandt's leg, "helped me figure out if my dick still worked."

McCormick cracks up. "Let me guess, it worked perfectly."

"You bet it did," West winks. "But Riggs was right. Sexual desire is a great motivator for recovery. When Brandt started playing with my dick, I never wanted him to stop, which meant?—"

"West," Riggs barks.

"I swear I'm making a point," he laughs. "Which meant that I had to work twice as hard in the gym so I could start fucking again. Anyway, I just want to say thank you for asking about my dick, Riggs."

I laugh along with the rest of the guys, but Riggs isn't laughing.

Nash goes next. "Yeah, this training is kicking my ass, but that's a good thing. I think I was getting complacent with my workout, because now I'm sore everywhere . Much like West, I had a real lack of motivation when I first started therapy with Riggs, and he gave me the same advice. If you want to have sex again, you better start working harder. I've busted my ass in that gym every goddamn day because I had a mission, and his name is Brewer. Unfortunately, my dick was broken, but not from an injury. It was because of my head. And just like I worked hard in the gym, I worked even harder in therapy, trying to overcome that roadblock between my head and my dick."

Riggs interrupts. "Listen guys, I'm not Dr. Ruth and this isn't sex therapy."

"I've got a point, Riggs, I promise," Nash laughs. Riggs glares at him as he finishes speaking. "My point is, it may sound like crazy advice, but he knows what he's doing. Riggs is the best therapist there is, and when he asks you if your dick is working, just go with it."

McCormick shares a similar story, and by this time he's finished, Riggs is breathing fire. He's pissed, but not as pissed as I am.

How come I never got that speech?

He's never once asked if my dick works.

Maybe because it clearly does, but these guys are right. Sex is a great motivator to recover. And Riggs hasn't pushed me like that, not once.

The meeting wraps up early, and the guys high-five each other as they head out. I remain seated as Riggs starts stacking the chairs, banging the metal legs loudly together as he takes out his frustration.

"Is there a reason you're sticking around?" he asks tersely.

I'm angry, but also, I just feel… alone. Lonely . I'm so far away from where I want to be with him, I'm just nowhere . "Don't you want to know if my dick works?"

"It clearly does because you were rock hard the other night when I helped you to bed."

He caught that? My bad. "So how come I've never heard this speech from you? Or do you only save it for your special patients?"

Riggs loses his tether on his temper and throws the chair. It bounces across the linoleum floor. "By all means, Rhett, if you want to get fucked, then that's what you should do. You should push yourself even harder in the gym. When you're on your knees for some guy and he's slamming into you from behind, I hope you think of me and send me a silent thanks for getting you to where you want to be. Or better yet, when you're with a girl, and she's riding your cock, juicing it up real good, and she asks you to flip her over, you can think of me, and thank me for being able to fuck her the right way."

He picks up the chair he threw and stacks it with the rest. I'm fucking speechless. I can't believe he said that. Definitely not where I thought this conversation would lead, and now I'm even more pissed off.

He's fucking jealous . The thought of me on my knees clearly angers him. Is that why he didn't suggest I use sexual desire to motivate my recovery? It has to be . So why does he keep fucking denying me?

He storms out before I can ask, and like a fool, I just keep sitting here, replaying his words in my head. Finally, I pack up my paper and head out, but I don't make it far. Riggs is standing just outside the door, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. He snags my arm as I pass.

"Rhett, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say those things, and you don't…"

"You know what? I don't need an apology. An explanation, maybe, but not an apology. You do you, and I'll do me." I've nearly crushed the paper eagle in my hand, and I loosen my grip and offer it to him. "I'll see you in the gym. Apparently, I have a lot of work to do and I'm feeling very motivated."

I thought Riggs would have adopted a softer attitude toward me after our heart-to-heart the other night, but that shit didn't last two minutes. He's back to ignoring me again, giving me the cold shoulder, and after his temper tantrum after group, I really shouldn't be surprised. It's ridiculous; he's working with another guy right beside me, and his eyes haven't strayed to me once. I can practically feel his icy mood gusting in my direction.

And I look fucking good today. I chose a navy blue sleeveless compression top to show off the progress I've made on my arms.

I change out the weights strapped to my ankles for a heavier set and continue my reps, counting out another twenty leg lifts. I stare straight ahead, pretending like I don't hear Riggs conversing with the guy beside me. He's pleasant but professional, even making the guy laugh at some of the things he says. It makes my blood pressure boil over.

Has he given that guy the sexual desire motivates recovery speech?

The signs on the walls have been taken down and replaced with the original motivational posters. It looks boring as fuck. Our neon signs were much better.

From the corner of my eye, I spy Riggs putting his hands on the guy, grasping his thigh as he leans over his legs.

"You feel tight. Are you cramping?"

"Yeah," the man grunts, sounding wiped.

Riggs positions the man's foot against his chest, still gripping his thigh. "Push against my chest."

I grit my teeth and grab a heavier set of weights. Sweat drips off my forehead as I bend over to strap them on my ankles.

"That's good, push harder. Give me all you've got," he jokes, making the man laugh again.

Fuck me for glancing over, but Riggs is massaging the guy's calf muscle, and all I can see is the color red clouding my vision. Or maybe it's green.

"How does that feel?" he asks, the sound of his voice way too gruff for my liking.

Adrenaline courses through my blood, giving me the strength to lift my leg higher, to increase the speed of my repetitions until… The pop in my knee is loud enough to be heard by everyone in the immediate area. Several of them look at me to make sure I'm okay. Riggs drops the guy's leg and plants his feet in front of my bench. He rips the weights off my ankles and throws them to the floor.

"Are you purposely trying to injure yourself?"

"No," I grit. "Why would I?"

"I don't know," he sneers. "Maybe so that later on, when your leg is so inflamed that it locks up on you, you can call me again to help."

"Seriously?" I'm actually shocked. "Is that what you think I was doing?"

He leans closer so that he can't be overheard, his voice an angry hiss in my ear. "I get it, soldier. Your dick works and you want to use it. You want me to fuck you. But I told you, it's not going to happen. Don't you think that's why I haven't given you that speech?" His lips actually brush the shell of my ear, making me shiver. "I'm not going to stop you if you're hell-bent on getting fucked, but it won't be by me. But I will stop you from damaging your knee further because, despite what you think, soldier, I do care. I care very much."

My heart can't beat any harder without giving out on me. I feel like I can't catch my breath. Without another word, he returns to his patient beside me, and I continue to sit here, staring at my ankle weights on the floor.

"Marsh," a deep voice booms, echoing off the gym walls. "Rhett Marsh! Front and center, soldier." My head snaps up along with many others as four soldiers in full uniform stomp through the doors.

"Holy fuckin' shit," I breathe. Warren, Ormen, Villaro, Mandell—my unit came home. They came for me .

I'm on my feet in the blink of an eye, moving as fast as I can one second, and then in the next, my body hits the ground hard, and I'm on my face.

I had to overdo it, didn't I? Just had to fucking push myself past my limit. And now, my knee is locked up again. Tan boots appear in my line of sight, the only thing I can see as I stare at the floor, and I feel their hands on me, helping me to my feet. "Rhett, you all right? You okay?"

But Riggs's deep voice supersedes everyone's. "Don't touch him. Back up."

"Hey man," Warren says. "That's my brother."

"No, that's my patient. Back. The fuck. Up."

"Riggs," I plead, picking my head up off the floor.

"On your feet, soldier," he orders.

"I can't; my leg."

"I said, on your feet, soldier." His voice is harsh and direct, like a drill sergeant.

Swallowing hard, I try to do as he showed me, rolling to my left side and getting my knee up underneath me for leverage. My buddies are glaring at him like they want to bury him six feet under, but I get it—because I know him. Four of my brothers, my former unit, dressed in fatigues and fresh from deployment, are standing on their feet, and here I am, a recovering patient, former Army, critically injured, in workout clothes, lying flat on my face at their feet. The differences between us are wide enough to fit an ocean, whereas we used to be on even footing.

Them helping me off the floor is a bridge too far.

Neither will Riggs help me up.

I've got to do this on my own, to show them I'm strong enough, that I'm still a soldier, still their brother, still a member of their team, even if it's only in my heart.

My body is suffering, but I refuse to let my pride suffer with it, and Riggs is making sure that it doesn't. I owe him for it. He doesn't deserve my anger from earlier. He only deserves my respect and my unending gratitude for this, and for everything he's done for me.

I have to physically manipulate my leg to get it to bend so that I'm kneeling on both knees, lunging with my left into a squat to push myself up. I'm breathing like I ran a marathon, my skin flushed with heat and sweat, red-faced and out of breath.

When I straighten up to my full height, my brothers stand at attention and salute me. Hot tears burn my eyes. "Welcome home," I say in as strong a voice as I can muster.

The tears fall down my cheeks, but I'm not going to wipe them away and draw more attention to them. I'm just grateful that I'm on my feet, and that they're here in front of me in one piece, all of them. They all made it back home safely.

That's all that matters to me; not my pride, not my leg.

I nearly fall over again when they crush me in a hug, the four of them at once.

"Come on, brother, show us where we can get something to eat around here."

"I'd give my left nut for some greasy wings or a burger," Ormen adds.

"And some beer," Villaro says.

When I glance back at Riggs, he's gone. He returned to his patient, but he's watching me. He gives me a nod.

"Come on, I know a place," I say, winding my arm around Warren's neck for support.