Chapter 22

I wake with a smile on my face because I can feel Riggs's solid body behind me, his arms still wrapped tight around my waist. The warmth his body creates feels like I'm cocooned in a weighted blanket, cozy and safe. I've got to piss something fierce, but I'd rather hold it for hours than move from his embrace.

His body tenses as he comes awake, causing anxiety to spike in my chest. Is he going to give me the whole ‘ this-was-a-mistake ' speech? 'Cause if so, I might just kick his ass. I've waited months to get where we are now, and I refuse to go backward.

First, his arms disappear, and then he rolls over to his back, sighing heavily as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," I say, testing the waters.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Almost eight."

He tosses back the covers like that's it, he's done with me. He's gonna get dressed and head off to work, leaving me to wonder and worry all day about where we stand.

Fuck no.

Lightning quick, I roll over and pin him beneath me. "I said, good morning."

He pats my ass. "Come on, get up. We gotta get going."

"We're not going anywhere until we get somethin' straight."

"Rhett, I really?—"

"Look at me, Riggs."

"Rhett," he repeats, sounding exasperated.

"Look. At. Me."

Riggs looks into my eyes. "What?"

"We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

" This . Where you pretend like last night didn't happen."

"Of course it happened," he sputters.

"Well, then, pretending like it was a mistake."

He searches my eyes. "What was it then?"

" Not a mistake. It was long overdue. It was absolutely perfect. And it was the first of many more nights together in this bed."

A slow grin spreads across his kissable lips. "In this bed? I was thinking we could move over to mine. It's a little bigger."

Fucker . "Say it. Say it wasn't a mistake."

"Which part?" he teases. "The part where you sucked my cock like a Hoover vacuum or the part where I rimmed your ass until you forgot your name?"

I match his grin. "All of it."

"It wasn't a mistake," he agrees, popping a quick kiss on my smiling lips. "Anything else you want to discuss before we're late?"

"Yeah, I want to know whose bed we're doing this in tonight, yours or mine?"

"I don't know. I've got a really nice couch out there. It's wide and soft. Then there's the hot tub…"

I can't. I'm done with him. Sliding my arms beneath his neck, I get him in a headlock and noogie his head with my knuckles. Riggs wrestles against my hold, wrapping his legs around mine so he can flip our positions and pin me beneath his weight.

He stares down into my face, smiling and breathless, his dark eyes shining. Riggs dips his head, licking my lips before sucking them into his mouth and lavishing each one with his tongue before doing the same to my tongue.

"That's how I should have woken you up. I'm sorry. I'm not used to waking up with company."

"Better not be," I sass, still dizzy from his kiss.

"Let's go pick up your mom and have breakfast together and then we'll all head over to BALLS."

"Mama?" As soon as I walk into my apartment, I know something's wrong. My mother isn't in the kitchen cooking, or sitting on the couch, flipping through the morning news channels. "Mama," I call again, expecting to hear her voice muffled through the bathroom door. But when I walk into my bedroom, it's dark, but not so dark that I can't make out her shape in the bed. Switching on the bedside lamp, I sit on the edge of the mattress and stroke her back through the layers of the covers piled on the bed, many more than I usually have on there. "Mama," I call softly. "Wake up."

She turns, opening her eyes to half-mast. "What is it, baby?"

"Mama, it's almost nine in the mornin'. Are you feelin' all right?"

"I'm tired, pecan. Just let Mama rest."

Her words sound slurred, almost like she's drugged with medication. I press my hand to her forehead, but her skin feels cool. "Can I get you anythin'? A glass of water? Some Tylenol ?"

"No, sugar, just go do your therapy and leave me be. I'll be fine. Maybe we can have dinner together later."

"I have to work again tonight, Mama. But I'll call and check on you." She pats my hand and turns back over, hiking the covers over her face. A shock of her red hair peeks out, stark against the khaki green pillowcase. Worry gnaws at my gut like an ulcer.

She's asleep again before I even leave the room, and I tiptoe quietly down the hall. "Come on, we'll get breakfast on the way," I tell Riggs.

"Retta's not coming?"

"She's sleepin' in."

I count out ten more reps, struggling to keep my breathing even as sweat drips into my eyes. This machine is going to kill me today. My arms are wrapped around a long metal bar hanging by a suspension cable attached to weights. Heavy fucking weights. With each lunge and squat, I have to bear that weight, and it all feels like it's centered on my right leg.

"Ten," I grit, letting go of the bar. The weights settle with a loud clank, which catches Rigg's attention.

He's helping two other patients while keeping an eye on me, and I hate it. Hate that he's not giving me a hundred percent of his attention. I hate that the guys are good-looking and young, and I hate that I'm not his priority.

"Good, now the parallel bars, but with each step, do lunges," he calls out.

Hell . Easier said than done. My fingers white-knuckle the bars as I struggle to stay on my feet. After the last set of lunges, my legs feel like jelly. I'm about a third of the way finished when I stumble and fall. Thank God for the soft mat beneath my ass. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to center myself before I grapple to pull myself up.

"Come on, Rhett," Riggs barks from across the gym.

I swear to God, I'm done with this shit. Riggs claps his patient on the back, smiling and laughing with him over something I can't hear, some inside joke or something I probably wouldn't find funny even if I could hear. He gives that guy one more smile, and I'll fucking kick him. I'll kick them both.

I complete the parallel bars without even feeling proud of myself because I'm so fucking irritated and move onto the arm weights because it's closer to where Riggs is.

He glances at me and nods, but keeps on working with the guys. With each curl, I do a squat, but I can't make it past six reps before I'm plum wore out. I stumble back, knocking a weight from the rack. It falls heavy on my toe, which causes a dull throb that I feel throughout my entire foot.

"Fuck this, I'm done!" Hot, bothered, and done.

Riggs sets down his clipboard and approaches me. He plants his feet right in front of me and calmly says, "Pick it up."

"You fuckin' pick it up. I'm done!"

He crosses his arms over his chest, looking like a drill sergeant. "I said, pick it up." The words are slower, more drawn out with emphasis on each one.

"Fuck. Off." I snap, matching his tone.

Unholy light shines from his dark eyes. He's pissed now. Good, so am I.

"I'm not moving and neither are you until you pick that weight up. I'll stand here all day if I have to," he swears.

Fuck. Reluctantly, I bend and pick the weight up, returning it to the rack with a loud thud. When I straighten, I'm glaring. Riggs gets up in my face and lowers his voice.

"You're the only one of the two of us that sees yourself as less than. Don't taint my image of you."

That's what he thinks this is about? That I'm not strong enough? "Easy for you to say. You didn't shatter your legs. I hit the ground goin' thirty miles an hour, maybe more."

"Our situation could've easily been reversed."

"But they weren't!"

The vein at his temple visibly throbs, yet he remains calm in the face of my anger. "But they could've been, and you wouldn't have let me quit, so don't expect me to give up on you so easily. Ten more reps, soldier. Count them out," he commands.

I glare defiantly, but he stands his ground. "That's insane! You're sadistic."

Riggs shrugs, still maintaining that calm, blank expression. "Welcome to physical therapy."

"No! Look." I point to the posters on the wall. "Those guys look happy; they don't look like they're in pain. This isn't how it's supposed to be done. They're enjoying themselves. I'm not enjoying myself."

He taps his pen against his bottom lip and then does that annoying ass clickety thing with it. "I am," he smirks.

I lunge for him because he wanted to see me lunge, right? A pair of strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me back.

"Slow your roll, Rambo ." It's Nash. I didn't even see him move across the gym. "What do you say we go for a drive, cool down a little, and then I'll drop you back at home?"

Riggs nods at Nash, ignoring me completely, before rejoining his patients. "Yeah, sounds good. I'm ready to get the fuck outta here."

"Where are we headed?" I ask when he passes my exit.

"I need to make a stop. I've got to meet up with someone important."

Great, I just wanna go home. To check on my mama, take a cold shower, and then sit and do nothing for the rest of the afternoon.

"My partner always says you have to talk your way through a problem to get to the other side."

I snort, 'cause I was expecting some sort of therapeutic bullshit talk. After all, the guy's sleeping with a therapist. "Is that right?"

"Not me though," he smirks. "I say, if you can't get over something, try getting under it instead."

This time my laugh is genuine—and unexpected. "Did that work for you and Brewer?"

Nash shrugs. "It's working fine so far." He takes the next exit. "There's no avoiding talking, though, not with the people who matter to you most."

About two miles down the road, Nash pulls through an ornate wrought-iron gate. The sign reads ‘Western Carolina State Veterans Cemetery.' I have no idea who he's meeting up with, in a cemetery of all places, but I keep my mouth shut and follow his lead. He gets out of his truck and walks up two rows before coming to a stop in front of what looks to be a newer headstone. Nash runs his fingers over the engraved name.

Victor Gutierrez

Beloved and honored for his heroic

sacrifice and deeds on and off the battlefield.

He kneels in front of the marble stone and makes the sign of the cross before kissing the tips of his fingers and touching the man's name again. I remain silent when he bows his head. This is a private moment between him and the man buried six feet beneath him. I feel like a voyeur just standing here watching.

Maybe fifteen minutes pass before he pulls a small card from the pocket of his cargo shorts and places the blue envelope at the base of the stone. Nash straightens and takes a few steps back.

My curiosity gets the better of me. "Was this who you had to meet up with?"

"It's my best friend's birthday. I couldn't let him celebrate alone."

Fuck. This is his best friend? The man buried here was his brother.

Grief stabs me right in the heart. It's Brian all over again.

"He's been gone just over a year now," Nash says. His voice sounds thick with unshed tears. "He lived a great life, but he died a terrible death."

"What happened?" I ask, afraid to hear the answer. It's too raw, too real. The wound of losing Brian is too fresh.

"We got separated from our unit, kicking down doors, and fell through a trap in the floor. We were held captive for twenty-two days." He laughs harshly. "Just saying that doesn't even begin to summarize the hell we lived through day after day. You can't even imagine—" his voice cracks, and I watch his throat work furiously, trying to hold back the damn of tears. "We both were shot, but G, he didn't make it—sepsis. He died slowly, painfully, his organs shutting down one by one. We were together, though, right till the end. Right until they came for us and put us on the bird to take us home. I never saw him again after that, after I let go of his hand. I was laid up in the hospital recovering when they buried him."

"It was." I clear my throat. "It was the same with me and Brian. I was at Womack with two broken legs. I couldn't go and bury him."

"It's not too late. It's never too late to say goodbye. I think," he starts, pausing to swipe at his eyes and nose, "I think time stands still over there; that time is infinite. They don't know or care if it's one day or ten years, but when you finally make your way to him, he'll know. He'll hear you."

My chest feels heavy, and the pressure clouds my head. Hot tears roll down my cheeks. They blind me until I can't see outward, only inward. Memories of Brian flash before my eyes—laughing and smiling, drinking with me, grocery shopping and playing video games, running beside me during PT. I can hear his voice.

God, what if it fades someday? What if I forget what he sounded like, what he looked like? Remembering hurts, it fucking kills me, but I don't ever want to forget.

"Maybe, when I finish therapy and I'm a little stronger, I'll take a road trip. You ever been to Fort Worth, Texas?"

"No," he smiles, swiping at his eyes again, "but I'm down anytime you're ready. The first tank of gas is on me."

It's late when I come in from work, and Riggs's house is dark and silent. The curtains to the sliding glass door are drawn and billowing in the breeze, and I realize it's open. With a little smile of satisfaction, I strip my clothes off as I head out back. I can hear the hot tub bubbling as I approach. Riggs's dark head rests on the edge of the tub.

He looks momentarily surprised, probably to see me naked, but hides it well behind his usual mask as I climb in. Neither of us says a word, and I follow his lead, resting my head against the edge of the tub to stare up at the many stars above. It looks almost fake, it's so beautiful.

Finally, he reaches over the edge of the tub and grabs a glass from the little table there, and hands it to me.

"You skipped breakfast this morning."

"You made me a green juice? Aw shucks, you shouldn't have, really."

He laughs a little. But I'm touched, the way he takes care of me, always concerned about my health and recovery, even after the way I treated him.

"You want to tell me what that was about today?"

No accusations or pointing fingers, no raised voices and drama. I love that about him. Riggs is a great communicator, better than I am, for sure. It's good that one of us has a cool head most of the time.

I down the juice in three gulps and cringe at the nasty, bitter taste. "That shit is straight up disgustin'." He raises his brows, staring into my eyes. "Oh, you're still waiting for an answer?" I breathe out a heavy sigh and set the glass down on the edge of the tub. "My mom is sick, or somethin', but she won't tell me what. She's keepin' it from me because she thinks my problems are more important than hers."

"I figured as much. You've got to push her though. You've got to get her to open up."

"I can't—" the urge to swallow is so strong I can't resist, "I can't lose her, too. I've already lost so much. But my mama, I can't, Riggs. It'll kill me."

He moves closer, sliding his arm around my shoulders. He feels like a solid presence, like safety, like home.

"No, it won't. It won't kill you. Nothing will kill you, except maybe me if you ever blow up at me like that again in my gym." I glance sideways and chuff at his expression. "We'll figure it out, together. I promised you that, and I mean to keep my word."

All I can do is nod and trust in him, 'cause I've got no answers and no bright ideas. "So, about the sleeping arrangements tonight. Have you decided on the couch, your bedroom, or the tub?"

It's his turn to laugh. "You never quit, do you?" he asks fondly. "I guess it was a given the minute you saw me naked last night."

"Hell," I scoff. "It was a given when you asked me to move in."

"I didn't ask you to move in," he laughs incredulously. "This is temporary."

I smile knowingly. "Yeah, we'll see about that." He doesn't move his arm from my shoulders, and I'm in no rush to get up. "I'm sorry about today. I was sick with worry and slightly jealous."

Riggs hums. "Just slightly?"

"I don't like seein' you get handsy and smiley with the other guys."

"It's kind of my job, so you're going to have to work on it."

I slide my leg over his thigh, turn into his side, and cup his cock. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm not workin' on it enough."

"It?" he asks, smiling like he finds me funny.

"Mmmhmm. Definitely needs more work. More practice . So I have reasons not to worry so much."

"Do you really worry that I'm interested in other men?" Riggs sounds skeptical.

"I don't wanna lose the only thing that's mattered to me for the last six months. Sometimes it feels like you're the only thing keepin' me going."

"Rhett, that's?—"

"Shhh." I cut off his protestation with a kiss. I don't wanna hear him spout nonsense about how I have to find a balance, how I have to rely on my peers and start therapy. I only wanna hear more of me and him. "I like it when you call me soldier ."

I breathe the words over his lips, like a secret, and he swallows them and slides his tongue back into my mouth, wanting more.