Chapter 19

I fought in a war.

For nine months, I lived under the constant threat of gunfire and mortars.

I jumped into a hot zone and nearly lost my life.

But none of that compares to the danger I pose to myself right now.

My head is the most dangerous place I've ever been.

I don't know whether it's day or night, nor do I care. It's always dark under the covers.

I'm exhausted, but I haven't done shit. I just feel… empty. Numb. I guess there comes a point when grief stops hurting. I think this hollow feeling might be worse.

I hear a knock at my door. Shit, I'm not in the mood. I wish everyone would just go away. Stop texting, stop calling, stop coming around.

I bury myself deeper under the blanket, hoping they'll go away.

A minute later, they knock again.

"Dammit to fuck." Slowly, I lift the covers off my head, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Another knock, this one louder. I roll out of bed and grab my crutches. "Keep your fuckin' boots on," I grumble as I shuffle down the hall.

When I pull the door open, seven ugly mugs stare back at me. "Great, it's a fuckin' party." Company is the last thing I need.

They push past me, not even waiting for an invitation, which is good because they weren't getting one. The guys make themselves comfortable on my couch, some leaning against the breakfast bar, and West rifles through my fridge, tossing bottles of water to each of them.

"Thought you said you were bringing lunch," he accuses Nash.

"I did. Should be here any minute." He's got some ugly, ass-green sling around his shoulders and chest, and I swear to fuck as I'm staring at it a black kitten pokes his head out and stares at me curiously.

Brandt grabs the remote control and flips through the TV channels, settling on an action movie with lots of loud explosions. "Does this trigger anyone?" he asks politely.

It's like I'm not even here. Did they really come to check on me, or did they just want to use my TV and eat my food?

"Yo Rhett," Stiles calls. "Take a seat, man. You can't be standing around on that leg."

He scoots over and pats the space beside him. "The fuck are y'all doin' here? Is this because I missed group?"

McCormick shakes his head. "Group was canceled today. We had a Code Black."

That sounds serious. "What's a Code Black?"

"You know, a blackout day," he answers. "When one of the Bitches can't get out of bed. When their head's not right."

He pulls a skein of black yarn from his knitting bag and points his bamboo needles at the TV screen. "Oh my God, watch this next part. He totally fucks this guy's day up."

I hobble to the couch and lean my crutches against the wall, fitting myself into the tight space between Stiles and McCormick. Concern makes me ask, "Who's having a shit day?"

"You," Stiles snorts.

That one word hits me like a punch to the gut. "You canceled the entire group for me?"

He shrugs like it's no big deal. "We didn't cancel. We just brought the group to you."

They continue with the movie, ignoring me, and I look up and catch West's eyes. "You're part of the group, bonehead. You're one of us," he tells me.

"Yeah," Mandy adds, leaning across McCormick to punch my thigh. "You're a fucking Bitch."

Well, fuck me. There's absolutely no use in trying to keep these guys at arm's length. They're like a bad rash, they just keep coming back.

The right side of Mandy's face is covered in white gauze. I feel like a piece of fucking shit stuck to the bottom of my boot after latrine duty. He texted me several times, even called once or twice, and I ignored every one of them.

"How do you feel?" I ask, knowing it's too little too late.

He rubs the spot where he punched me and then pats my thigh. "About as good as you do," he winks.

At least they get it. I may not have an obvious injury with a bandage, but grief hurts just as badly. It bruises your soul from the inside out.

From outside, a loud, obnoxious horn blares, followed by the sound of a mariachi band. "Lunch is here," Nash calls, jumping up.

Brandt follows, craning his neck out the window. "Is that Nacho?"

"Tacos," they shout, rushing through the door at once like someone rang the dinner bell.

I can't eat a thing. My appetite is nonexistent. While the group is outside, I return to my room and grab the camouflage blanket off my bed, wrapping myself up in a cocoon of safety. It's harder to walk like this, but more comfortable when I'm sitting on the couch surrounded by so many bodies. Before I sit, I peek through the window and see a food truck parked behind my car. Nacho's Cantina, it reads. Suddenly, the mariachi band makes sense. It's blaring through a speaker attached to the truck.

A little blond jumps out carrying bags of food. He's dressed in cut-off denim shorts and cowboy boots. His cropped tank reads, "Do you wanna taste my tacos?" I realize he's coming inside, and when Mandy sees him come through the door, he immediately tries to cover his face, his body going stiff.

"You must be Rhett," he guesses, placing a brown bag in my lap. "I'm Tex."

His light hair has darker strands that offset all the blond. The mussed locks barely kiss his shoulders. He smells like watermelon and I squint, realizing his skin shines like he's wearing body glitter. He takes a seat beside Mandy, placing his hand over Mandy's as he urges him to drop his hands from his bandages.

"Does it hurt?" he asks. Mandy nods. The man sighs sadly, shaking his head. "You don't deserve to hurt. You're the bravest man I know. Are you hungry? I brought you tacos, the mango habanero ones you like best."

"Thanks," Mandy says gruffly. "I'll eat in a minute."

"Don't let them get cold, big guy," the blond says before placing a kiss on Mandy's good cheek. Then he sashays out the door, the heels of his boots clacking against the concrete outside.

Mandy looks at me and I swear he's blushing, which makes me crack a smile for the first time in days. "Was that the guy, the one that works at Hooters ? Friendzone guy?"

If his face gets any redder, that bandage is going to catch fire and burn away to ash. "That's him," he confirms.

"Oh, man," I cackle. "You're so fucked. How does he look in those little orange shorts?"

"Don't worry about how he looks," Mandy snaps.

I grab the bag of tacos from my lap and place them on the table next to his bag. "You can have my tacos if you want them. I'm not hungry."

This time, he laughs. "You look like a taco, wrapped up in that blanket."

"I feel like one, ground up and deep fried." I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and head. "Maybe tomorrow night we can go out for wings," I suggest wickedly, thinking of the little blond with the Texan accent.

"Maybe you can fuck off."

Mandy isn't Brian. In fact, he couldn't be more opposite. Mandy isn't loud or witty, he's not sarcastic, and his jokes are actually funny, unlike Brian's were. He's quieter, more reserved. I guess that's what happens when you suffer as badly as Mandy has, as I have. Tragedy and grief change your brain chemistry. It's something that only someone who's been through it can understand. A shared experience that fills the silence between our words in a way that isn't awkward, just comfortable. Although Mandy and Brian are as different as night and day, they're both good for me, and I guess I can call both my best friends.

But Brian's gone, and that just leaves me with Mandy.

I think that's enough for me, though.

I never moved off the couch after the guys left. Going back to my bedroom felt too far away, and I just don't have the strength or will to get there. If I never move again, it'll be too soon.

An incredibly inconsiderate person knocks on my door. "Fuuuuccckkkk," I moan. "Go away!"

"Rhett, open up. It's Riggs."

I poke my head out of the blanket, sitting up. "Riggs?" I might be able to muster the will to move for him.

Slowly, I hobble without crutches to the door and open it to find him standing there looking tired and irresistible. He's always irresistible looking, though.

"Hey," he greets me with a lopsided half-smile. Then he moves aside and…

"Mama?" I can't believe my lying eyes!

"My sweet Pecan." She wraps me in a bear hug, nearly knocking me off my feet.

"What… How? How are you here, Mama?"

"Riggs came and got me, baby. You gonna invite us in?" she teases.

I stand aside to let them in, and when Riggs brushes past me, I grab his hand and squeeze. "Thank you," I whisper, on the verge of tears.

He squeezes back and winks. "Anytime, soldier."

Fuck me, this man went and got my mama. This man, who I already thought hung the fucking moon, drove all the way to Ruston to bring my mama back, 'cause he knew I needed her.

Yeah, forget holding back the tears. I don't have the strength for that, either.

I follow them to the couch and sit between them. "Let me see your leg, baby."

Obediently, I prop my leg on the coffee table, but Riggs moves it to his lap. He lifts my pajama pants up to expose the ugly maze of scars.

"Here and here are where they inserted rods," he explains. "And this is where the pins were placed." His finger traces the long, jagged scar and raised patch of grafted skin. "This was all torn and hanging, and most of the tissue died, so they grafted fresh skin from his thigh." He raises his dark eyes to mine and smiles softly. "I think it's healing nicely."

My mama has tears in her eyes like me as she reaches out to touch my skin. "Sweet baby, my God, you've suffered!" She swallows her anguished sob and smiles valiantly. "I'm here now and I'll take good care of you while you heal."

Her words are a soothing balm on my ravaged soul. No matter how old I get, or how tough I'm supposed to be, I'm never not gonna want to crawl into her arms when I feel like shit.

Riggs lowers my leg and I regret the loss of his touch. Mama envelops me in her arms and I breathe in her sweet perfume, letting it wash over me until my tears dry up.

"How long you stayin', Mama?" Forever?

"As long as you need me, baby."

Thank fuck.

"Show me your place. I need to find a bathroom."

Grabbing my crutches, I hop to my feet, feeling a rush of energy for the first time in days. "Isn't it nice? Riggs picked out everythin'." Mama gives Riggs a knowing look. His expression remains passive. "Down here's the bedroom. I've got my own bathroom. First time I've ever had one all to myself."

"Just one bedroom?" she asks, taking in the full-sized bed.

"Plenty big enough for me." Then I realize what she's saying. "You can have my bed, Mama. I'll sleep on the couch."

"I won't hear of it, you sassafras fool. I'll check into an affordable hotel."

I know for a fact my mama can't afford nothing like that long term.

"I have a guest bedroom, Retta. Rhett can stay with me while I oversee his recovery."

Retta? He's on a first name basis with my mama? Fuck, my heart's melting. But all I can focus on is that I'm apparently bunking with Riggs… indefinitely .

Forget my heart. My dick feels all perky and interested in that suggestion.

"There you go, Mama. I'll bunk with Riggs."

"That settles it, then," she grins with satisfaction. "Now shoo. I gotta powder my nose."

While she's using the bathroom, I start packing a bag, seeing how it's already dark and getting later by the minute. They must be exhausted from driving all day.

Riggs's eyes follow me around my room. I catch his gaze and grin. I can't help it. Feels like I just won the lottery. "You really got an extra bed, or you just sayin' that for the sake of propriety?"

He barks out a laugh. "I actually have a second bedroom. And yes, you'll be using it for more than clothing storage."

Killjoy .

"Let's get her settled and we'll leave and come back first thing tomorrow morning."

"Riggs, I can't thank you enough. I needed this."

His throat slides as he stares into my eyes. "I know you did, soldier. I refuse to let you slip away. I've got you."

Fucking tears again! I swallow them back and nod.

When my mama is settled in for the night, we take off in Riggs's truck. "How far out of town do you live?" I ask after passing our third exit on the interstate.

"Just after this next exit. Wait until you see the view in the morning. Kind of hard tonight, with it being dark already."

I take a deep breath and hold it in my chest, waiting for my heartbeat to slow before breathing out. Less than an hour ago, I could barely get the thing to beat for how slow and depressed I felt, and now it's threatening to come out of my chest, pounding away like a jackhammer from excitement and my nerves. I'm not sure how long my mama plans to stay, but I have at least a week with Riggs in his home. A week to convince him I'm a good bet, a solid guy, and serious about my recovery. Yeah, the last couple of days my motivation was slightly derailed, but this is my chance. If I want this man, and I do, I need to make sure he finds me absolutely irresistible.

I've got this. Even with a shattered leg, grief, and depression threatening to swallow me, and no future prospects, I can be charming as fuck.

When I look over, he's watching me, and he looks a bit worried.

"Your mama is really excited to be here, to spend time with you and to take care of you, but maybe you could keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't push herself too hard."

It's like he's giving voice to the quiet fears in my head, the ones getting louder every time I talk to her, setting off warning bells when I saw her tonight. "You think there's something wrong with my mama? She's got me worried."

"I think maybe you need to talk to her, one-on-one, without me around. See if she'll open up to you." Anything concerning my mama sends me into a panic. Riggs notices, looking over at me when he stops at the red light. "Hey, whatever it is, we'll get through it."

We'll? Does he realize he's including himself in my problems? The same guy that told me it's complicated, that he's not interested in a relationship. But the idea he's all in with me makes me feel less scared to face my future, to face the possibility that something might be wrong with my mama, or that I may never find a better job than tending bar.

The thing is, with Riggs, I really don't have to try to be charming. He seems to like me best when I'm just being myself.

Minutes later, Riggs pulls his truck down a long, gravel drive and parks in front of a small beige house landscaped with short grass and trimmed hedges. The house doesn't have much personality save for the landscaping, but Riggs mentioned the view, and I bet it's spectacular.

I grab my bag and my crutches and follow him inside. Thank God it's one story and I don't have to navigate any stairs.

"The place is small, but I didn't buy it for the layout," Riggs explains. He continues toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back deck, and I drop my bag and follow him outside.

"You've got a hot tub?" Even though it's dark, the glow from the moon is enough to illuminate a partial view of the valley below. I can make out dark shadows, the sound of rushing water, and the sounds of the nightlife coming alive. An owl hoots in the distance, crickets buzz, and a squirrel runs across the deck. "Can I rent a room here? Hell, I'm not leaving!"

Riggs laughs. "I figured you'd say something like that. I know it's late, but do you want to get in?"

Hope soars. "Is this a trick question? Are you joining me?"

"Yeah, I'll join you for a minute. Did you bring a bathing suit?"

"No. You didn't mention anything about needin' one. Can I just borrow one of yours?"

Riggs looks away and then down at his shoes. "We can do it another night."

"Seriously? You won't let me borrow your bathing suit? Did I miss the part where I have a contagious skin rash?"

"No," he chuckles. "I don't have any. I don't wear one when I soak."

Instant fucking boner. "Well, then, I don't need one either," I say casually, playing it off like it's nothing.

Riggs chuckles harder. "Good night, soldier. Don't stay up too late."

He disappears inside, and after a minute more, I follow. Grabbing my duffel, I search out my room and pull my sleep pants out of my bag. The bed is soft, made up with black sheets and a gray comforter. My head hits the pillow, and I release a tired sigh, letting go of everything—the long day, the excitement of my mama's visit, the sexual tension with Riggs, and the loneliness I feel over saying goodbye to my team, again.

That sexual tension, though. Fuck , he's right down the hall. Literally in the next bedroom. Close enough to hear me snore tonight. I could easily slip into his bed while he's sleeping. Maybe sneak into his shower in the morning and surprise him. I could… "Riggs, I'm?—"

"Don't even try it, Rhett," he calls.

I get the feeling he expected this. "Night," I say with disappointment.

"Night, soldier."