Chapter 8

Just over two weeks now.

I can't stop replaying the words in my head. He knew I was here; he obviously checked on me, or at least asked Liza about me. Otherwise, how would he know I'm folding fucking paper to keep from going nuts? But had he come to see me himself? No. No, he hadn't. The question is, is it because he couldn't be bothered? Or was there some other reason he stayed away?

I didn't expect that he'd lain awake thinking of me at night like I had him, but come on! Didn't he feel like we had a special connection? I did. I mean, he saved my life. I cried tears on his shoulder while he held my fucking hand. He stayed with me long after he could've walked away, and I'd bet my next cup of Jell-O it hadn't been because he felt it was his duty.

Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I imagined the connection between us because I had just lost my best friend and I was desperate to feel… something, anything. Maybe Navarro Riggs is just one of those good guys that stands above the rest, with his bleeding heart and his endless sympathy for his patients. Maybe I was just another face in the crowd.

My memory of that night is hazy. I was suffering from blinding pain in both my legs; the morphine and loss of blood made my brain feel soft, but some things stayed with me. His strong grip. His sweet, pungent musk—cinnamon and vanilla and oranges—like Old Spice . A totally old-school scent, which somehow fits him perfectly. I remember the look in his dark eyes and the teasing half smirk on his rugged face as he joked with me about how the blood on my uniform brought out the color of my eyes. I have a feeling Riggs is the only man on Earth who could make a joke like that on a helicopter under gunfire in the middle of a fucking battlefield.

I thought no one ever looked sexier than he had in my memory. Sometimes it's the small things that take up such a large part of your brain and stay with you forever. Just a look, a scent, one teasing sentence you can't get out of your head.

That's Riggs. He's stuck in my head. But apparently, he forgot all about me.

Riggs breezes into my room, catching me off guard while Liza is changing my bandages.

She looks up from her task with a curl of her glossy lips. "It's about time."

Riggs comes closer, and his face tightens when he sees the maze of scars and stitches that cover my leg from ankle to thigh.

"Pretty, ain't it?"

He catches my self-pitying look and snorts. "I've seen worse. At least you got to keep it."

Liza fastens the soft cast around my leg and smiles at me. "All right, Marshmallow, all done. I'll be back with your dinner tray shortly."

He waits until she leaves before taking a seat on the edge of my bed. "Marshmallow?"

I give him my best never-fail, flirty smile. "'Cause I'm sweet and soft on the inside."

Riggs laughs. "I bet."

The last time he saw me—the only time, really—I was suffering from so much pain and grief, that I wasn't myself. He never got to see the real me, the irresistible side of Rhett Butler Marsh. Riggs has no idea how much fun I can be. And although that version of me has been drowned in an ocean of grief lately, and just… numb, I can muster a trace of my former self for him.

For Riggs.

"You came," I murmur softly.

"I told you I would."

Fuck, he looks good. Even with the beard, I can't get enough of looking at his face. His brown eyes are the color of aged whiskey. His jaw and chin have squared angles that make him look tough and hard. I wouldn't say his peach lips are generous, but they're definitely kissable, especially now that they're framed by all that dark scruff. I've always been attracted to men like him, men who could clearly dominate me and kick my ass but would never because their granite exterior hides a heart of gold. I would bet anything that Riggs's heart is gold plated. Fourteen fucking karats.

When he looks away and clears his throat, I realize I'm staring at him, and I can feel the tension becoming thicker, pushing all the air out of the room. It's a strange feeling to feel so connected to someone, but not have any clue what to say to them. Like, I know him on a soul-deep level, but we're total strangers. At his core, I know the kind of man that he is, but I don't know anything about him other than his name.

I guess that's the awkward beauty of trauma bonding with someone.

"My contract is up in five weeks, and I have no idea what I'm gonna do."

His eyes fall back on me again. "Did you have plans to reenlist?"

Nodding, I swallow. "Me and Brian, we were gonna re-up. Four more years of Airborne. But now?—"

Riggs chuffs. "Your days of jumping out of planes are behind you, soldier. You're going to have to think of something else to do with the rest of your life."

Thanks for the reminder. "My heart just ain't in it no more." Without my best friend, without the opportunity to do the only job I've ever dreamed of, I just can't think about what comes next.

He leans forward intently. "Have you thought about taking a sabbatical?"

"What do you mean?

"Don't reenlist," he shrugs. "Take some time off, heal, and hit your therapy hard. Maybe go to school and put your G.I. Bill to use. Then, in a year or two, you can decide whether you want to go back. Maybe you'll have a clearer picture of what you want to do by then. If you can pass the fitness test, the Army will take you back in a heartbeat."

A sabbatical. School. I can't see myself in either role. I become restless easily, and I'm not the book-smart type.

"What am I supposed to do for work? While I'm recovering and going to school?"

"I don't know. Find a job."

I look away, out the window. My room is on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot. All day long, I see people come and go, and wish I could be among them, and now that I'm going to have the chance, I'm scared shitless. Probably because I don't have any direction.

"My unit comes back next month. It'll be good to see them again. I don't know, I guess I can apply at The Footlocker or somethin'."

Riggs shakes his head. "I guess you could. You could spend your weekends drinking with your buddies and reliving your glory days while you serve them shots. But I can tell you, you're just going to become bitter and resentful, and every time they tell a story you aren't a part of, it'll just dig into your heart that much deeper."

"Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?" I snap. Why does he think he has all the answers when I have none? He doesn't even know me.

Riggs's face hardens in the wake of my anger. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a glossy brochure that he throws down on my tray table.

"No, thanks. I'm not in the mood to make fuckin' origami."

"Neither am I," he counters.

"Then what's that?" I ask, glaring at the brochure.

"That is your ticket out of here. That is your next step."

Reluctantly, I pick it up. "BALLS?" I ask. "BALLS are the answer to my future?"

He chuckles, his expression losing some of its attitude. "Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers. It's a not-for-profit organization that helps guys like you."

"Guys like me? What, losers with no future? Former soldiers with two bum legs and no prospects?"

"Exactly," he replies smugly.

I squint, reading the fine print beneath the logo. "Black Mountain? Isn't that like four hours from here?"

"Three and a half."

"What's this ball legion gonna do for me?"

"Give you back your life. Or help you find a new one, one that you can live with, maybe even one that you can fall in love with."

I snort. "Sure. Are they magically gonna heal my legs so I can jump again?"

"No, smart ass. I told you, your days of jumping out of planes are over. It's time to find a new dream."

I can feel anger bubbling inside me like a pot boiling over. He says it like it's nothing because it costs him nothing to say. Get a new dream. Get over the fact that you spent your entire adult life training to be something you can no longer be. Get a new life, and a new best friend, and forget the old one that died. Move four hours away to Hicktown and forget about the team you've lived with for four years. My fist comes down hard on the plastic tray table, startling Riggs.

"Just like that, huh? Just walk away and get a new life."

His dark eyes narrow to slits, but other than that, his face smooths out in a mask of calm serenity. "Or you can kick around Fayetteville and hope that your buddies throw you a bone now and then when you're not too busy with work and school. And every time you pass an Army vehicle on the road or hear a plane or jet fly overhead, your heart can burn with nostalgia for the good old days."

His words are meant to paint a grim picture of what my life will be like if I stay, and as much as I want to deny it, I know he's right. Without the 82nd, I'd hate my life here. Like a pathetic ex-lover, hanging onto a life they're no longer a part of.

"And how do you know this place isn't just a bunch of propaganda bullshit?"

"Because I volunteer there."

I laugh again. "Really? Is there anything you don't do? You save lives in the desert and rehabilitate broken soldiers here at Womack, and now you're gonna tell me you're collectin' homeless veterans like stray dogs in Black Mountain, North Carolina? Do you even have time for a personal life?"

"Too busy saving the world," he smirks.

I'm not gonna acknowledge the rush of relief I feel at hearing he doesn't have a private life outside of work. The only downside is that I fall into that same category. I'm work .

"You drive four hours away to volunteer on your days off? Are you a glutton for punishment or a candidate for martyrdom?"

"Actually, you're not the only one considering a change of scenery. I've been thinking about spending more time out there and less time here."

"Why? Why would you do that?"

Riggs shrugs. "Because it makes me feel good, and lately, I just want to chase that good feeling. I'm ready for less sacrifice and more reward."

I'm not sure what that means, but the idea of following him out there is appealing, not gonna lie.

"What am I supposed to do for money out there? Can't be many job opportunities in a small town like Black Mountain."

"Like you said, slinging shots at the local bar."

"So really, the only difference between Fayetteville and Black Mountain is that I won't be runnin' into the ghosts of my past ‘round every corner? I'll still be workin' in some hole-in-the-wall beer joint?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. The Black Mountain Tavern is a step up from a beer joint. They've got live music on Friday nights." He smiles because he knows he's being an ass. "But seriously, I guarantee you won't be sorry. BALLS can help you live a better life. They can help you figure out what you're meant to do next, and I promise you'll fit right in with those guys. You're already making ball jokes."

"I'll think about it," I concede.

Riggs stands. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out another pamphlet, highlighting the importance of educating yourself on the risks and management of hepatitis.

"Make me an eagle."

He tosses it on my tray table and throws me a smile before gifting me with a view of his perfect ass, swaying side to side in his fitted black scrub pants as he walks away.

The man is seriously fucking fine. But fine enough to move four hours away to the middle of Nowhere-ville? That remains to be seen.