Chapter 26

I'm exhausted, slurping from the straw of my iced coffee like it's Riggs's cock 'cause I need that extra hit of caffeine. We stayed up talking late into the night and this morning he set his alarm an hour earlier, so he could get to the gym and set up for the Warrior's Walk.

"So you only do these every three months or so?" I ask.

"Yep, stack those weights for me, would you?"

"When do you think I might be ready?"

He looks up and gives me that shit-eating grin that says ‘ I'm in charge ,' and I love it. "When I say you're ready. You haven't exactly been keeping up with your therapy lately with all that's been going on."

"I know," I blow out of breath. "I can't keep everything straight. Support group, work, flyin' lessons, therapy, and now with my mama, which supersedes everything. How am I supposed to find a balance?"

"By asking for help. There's no way you can do it all on your own. You have to delegate, ask for help, and be willing to receive it."

He goes back to wiping down the gym equipment with disinfectant wipes, and a smile teases my lips. Watching him is one of my favorite things. The way his sinewy muscles ripple like a big cat as he moves. His arms look hot as fuck stretching the sleeves of that T-shirt. The curve of his bubble ass as he bends over the equipment. Damn, I'm worse than a stage five creeper with a toxic crush.

The gym begins to fill up with vets trying to sneak in a few minutes of warm-up before everything comes to a halt for the competition. Nash and Brewer duck inside, and that damn cat is with them, slung across Brewer's chest in that ugly green sling.

Riggs gives Brewer a hug and tickles the cat between his ears. "Hey Valor, did you come to watch your daddy kick Uncle West's butt?"

"Kick it? I'm going to slaughter it," Nash jokes.

"You talking smack again?" West asks, coming up behind him and taking him by surprise. They laugh as they hug it out, and then I'm laughing when I catch the words written on West's T-shirt. Riggs also notices, doing a double take.

He reads it out loud. ‘ I walk like a warrior because I have BALLS. Do you have BALLS? '

"Fucking really?" Riggs asks, shaking his head.

"What? I got it from the gift shop," West swears.

Riggs snorts. "I'm afraid to see what else they sell."

"Did they have that in a double XL?" Nash asks.

"Quit yapping and go get warmed up," Riggs snaps, smacking him lightly in the back of the head. The whole exchange makes me laugh.

West and Nash hit the treadmill to warm up their muscles. I notice Nash has a slight limp, and I wonder if I will too, even after prolonged therapy. To be honest, I don't care either way; it doesn't stop me from flying, which is all that matters. West has his blade leg attached, and he's moving a lot faster than Nash. He's also not shy about letting him know.

"Just wait till I get warmed up, asswipe. I'm gonna leave you in my dust."

As they're trading insults, the rest of the Bitches file in, touching and making a mess of everything Riggs carefully set up.

"Okay, everybody stop touching my shit and find a spot along the wall. Let's get going. Nash and West are competing today, not that this is a competition," he clarifies. "But with them, everything is a competition, so go figure. They've been in my care for more than six months and have worked extremely hard through bad days and busy days and days where the pain seemed like it would bring them to a halt. I can't tell you how proud I am of these guys. Especially West. When we met, he was convinced that I was lying when I told him he would be able to do this someday.

Riggs's voice becomes emotional, which is uncharacteristic for him to give away how he's feeling. Listening to him is making me feel how proud he is of West. I'm starting to get choked up, which is the last thing I need. I'm sick and tired of crying, dammit. But God, I hope someday I can make him that proud of me . I hope I give him a reason to be.

Riggs continues. "I have no doubt these gentlemen will be able to complete the Warrior's Walk today, but the real question is, who will finish first?" All the Bitches cheer, and other vets that have gathered around to watch are clapping. "We're going to start with the mile. Both of these guys are at a point in their recovery where they can blow through this with ease. But can they do it in under seven minutes?"

"Shit, I used to do it in four," West brags.

"Bullshit. You never ran a four-minute mile in your life," Nash argues.

"No, it's true. I've seen it," Brandt swears. "I could never keep up with him."

"Let's see what you've got now, Wardell," Riggs says, and then blows his whistle. The sound of their shoes slapping the conveyor belt is the only sound in the room until they hit the halfway mark, and the crowd begins to cheer them on.

"Move it, West!" Brandt yells. "Pretend like I just put Top Gun on, and you're running from the room."

The excitement builds, and I can feel the energy of the crowd as we wait to see who will finish the mile first.

West slaps the stop button when he hits the mile mark. "Booyah, bitches," he yells.

"7.4," Riggs barks.

Grunting, Nash takes the lead out, increasing his pace. He's sweating already, and I can only imagine how hard he's pushing himself to finish what should be a simple mile. When he finally stops the machine, he collapses, bracing his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

"8.2," Riggs calls.

But there's no more taunting, no in-your-face remarks. West slaps Nash on the back. "You kicked that treadmill's ass!"

"Let's go, warriors. On to the bitch bars. I mean the parallel bars." Riggs smirks as he pretends to correct himself.

The parallel bars run about ten feet and are about three feet off the ground, or just above hip length. "God, you remember how much I hated these?" West asks. "We had some bad days on these bars," he recalls.

"I remember," Riggs says grimly. "Let's see how well you can do now. The challenge is for you to get from start to finish, but I want you to put your weight on your hands and walk the bars using only your upper body strength. Do not let your feet touch the ground."

"Piece of fucking cake," Nash says. He's broader across the chest than West, and he seems to have more muscle mass.

West knows he's been beat before he even begins. "Yeah, well, don't get too cocky. I gotta let you win something so it's an even competition." Nash laughs at him. I laugh at him. These guys are a mess, just like my buddies back home.

Riggs blows his whistle hard, and they start off evenly, until about the halfway mark when West slows considerably as he begins to struggle. Nash makes it across the bars first. West's feet touch down halfway, and he has to catch his breath as he works the kinks out of his biceps before continuing.

"Come on West, you can do it," I yell. By the time he finishes the full ten feet, his brand-new shirt has sweat stains under the armpits.

Riggs is waiting for him, glowing with pride. "I can't tell you how proud I am of you. You've come so far." He looks like a proud papa.

My heart fills to bursting. God, I love this man. I love the way he loves others, the way he supports them and encourages them, how he's fully invested in their lives and their successes. And the way he won't let them take their failures to heart.

Brandt moves into Riggs's spot, wrapping West in his arms. He claps him on the back. "So proud of you, babe. You've got this. You've got to close your eyes and visualize the finish line, and kicking Nash's ass with your big-booted foot."

"Fuck the boot, I'm giving him the blade," West jokes.

Riggs checks his clipboard and resets his stopwatch. "All right guys, take a water break before the last leg of the competition." I hand out bottles of water and the guys chug them in seconds. "For the last test of endurance, you have to climb the rope and ring the bell at the top."

"Fuck," West groans. Nash chuckles.

Riggs told me he tailors the Warrior's Walk to the individual limitations of the competitors. Sometimes, it's all a patient can do to simply walk on their own two feet from point A to point B.

"When you ring that bell, you're telling everyone, including and most importantly yourselves, that you are a warrior. That you are strong and relentless, and that in the face of opposition, you never gave up."

Unexpectedly, my eyes water, and I swipe them dry before anyone can see. No matter what else I have going on, I'm going to make my therapy the most important thing in my life. I want to see Riggs look at me with that same pride, to say to everyone that I'm strong and relentless and that I never gave up. I want to feel like a warrior, even though I'll never step foot on a battlefield again.

"Who's going first?" Riggs has his stopwatch in hand, ready to begin.

"Go ahead, Nash," West suggests. "Show me what I'm up against."

Nash smirks. He presses a kiss on his cat's nose. "Wish me luck, Valor." Taking hold of the rope with both hands, he looks up, his gaze settling on the brass bell at the top. "I'm coming for you," he tells it. Nash begins to pull himself up, using his feet, thighs, and hands to ascend. About halfway up, he slows and grunts with each inch gained. "I don't remember it being this difficult in gym class," he pants, sounding winded.

"You weren't old back then," Jax snickers.

It takes ten more minutes for Nash to reach the top. He smacks the bell hard and loosens his grip, sliding back down in a rush. Everyone, including me, claps for him, but nobody is clapping louder than Brewer.

"Shit, I was about to let go," he admits, struggling to breathe. "Your turn," he grins at West.

West stands under the rope, looking up at it skeptically. "You going to catch me if I fall?" he asks Brandt.

"Always," Brandt vows.

"You'd flatten him like a pancake," McCormick jokes.

West shoots him a dirty look before grasping the rope. He spits in his palms and rubs them together before he re-positions his hands again. "Wish me luck."

Unlike Nash, West doesn't start off strong. He struggles the entire way, biting off curses, grunting and sweating as he fights to maintain his grasp. "My hands are fucking burning from this rope," he complains, looking up at the bell to gauge his distance.

"You can do it, Professor. Just keep putting one hand in front of the other," Brandt encourages.

"Don't you quit on me, West Wardell. You get your ass to the top of that rope and ring that bell. That's an order," Riggs barks.

I can feel his struggle. He's fighting with everything he's got to hold on to that rope long enough to ring that bell.

When he's just inches away from his goal, his sweaty hands slip, and he dangles one-handed as he wipes his palm off on his shorts before trying to grab hold again. He must dig down deep and find the last reserve of energy he's got in his body, because he clinches the rope between his thighs and surges upward, barely tapping the bell. West screams a primal war cry as his hands slip from the rope again and he falls ten feet. I rush forward, but Brandt is quicker and catches West safely, although they both fall to the mat.

West laughs and his joy is contagious. He triumphed against the odds, against his limitations, and he won. He fucking did it. Soon everyone is laughing and clapping for him and he struggles to his feet, taking a hand up from Brandt. He hugs his partner hard, but then the Bitches surround him and it's a dogpile before they're back on the mat again.

Fuck it. I'm a Bitch as well, and I want in on this moment. I throw myself on the top of the pile of hard bodies, laughing and rolling with them. With my brothers.

"So, who won the bet?" Stiles asks Riggs.

Riggs grins, checking his clipboard for the stats. "Technically, Nash had the quickest time, but West had the harder challenge. I'm gonna call it a draw and let them settle it between themselves."

The guys help West to his feet again, since he was on the bottom of the pile. He rubs at his thighs and I wonder if they're cramping up. He snorts. "A draw, my ass. We've decided we're not exchanging money, we're going to let the rest of you Bitches treat us to lunch instead."

"Black Mountain Tavern for wings and beer, boys," McCormick calls.

"Uh-uh," Riggs says, putting the brakes on. "First, I want West and Nash to do a cool down with stretching. Then you can go and celebrate." He turns to me, clicking his little pen that reads, ‘ You're only as strong as you think you are .' "Are you going with them?"

"Yeah, I guess. Then I'll stop by the hospital and—" My phone rings, cutting off my words. The caller ID says Mission Hospital. My heart stalls, the breath in my lungs freezes to ice, and the phone continues to ring as I stare at the screen with dread.

Riggs reads my expression, and his face tightens with concern. "Answer it, Rhett."

"It's… it's the hospital."

Why can't I just answer the fucking phone? ' Cause you know it's bad.

Riggs grabs it from me. "Hello? He can't come to the phone right now. This is her nephew, Navarro Riggs. Can I pass along a message?" I watch his face for signs that it's as bad as I think it is. His eyes widen and he glances at me. "We'll be right there."

"Riggs?"

His throat slides and I can see the bad news written all over his face. "They're waking your mother up. We need to head over there."

Air rushes into my lungs, filling up my chest, and I can breathe. My heart begins to beat again. "Okay, let's go."