Chapter 9

The drive from Fayetteville to Black Mountain is breathtaking and unforgettable. Usually, I put my nineties rock and alternative soundtrack on and roll down the windows. Even in the summer, the breeze feels amazing, especially the higher in elevation you get. The views of the Uwharrie National Forest in the fall are spectacular, although it's gorgeous anytime of year. But when I pass the South Mountains and enter the Pisgah National Forest, I know I'm home.

That's what Black Mountain feels like to me—home.

I can breathe up here. My heart slows down and my head evens out. My heart and soul are in these mountains.

Years ago, I bought a little house up here. Nothing special, just a two-bedroom, one-bath place on five acres. It was the view that sold me. The backyard overlooks a valley below with the prettiest little stream. When the leaves on the trees turn colors, it looks like God himself painted an unimaginable canvas of fiery and golden hues that are to die for.

Not only that, but the people are friendlier, there's no traffic, and time just seems to slow down up here. It's the kind of place where you stop taking things for granted and start enjoying living.

I park my truck in front of the house, grab my duffel from the backseat, and check my mail. The first thing I always do when I get here is fire up the hot tub, strip down, and soak away my stress. The steamy bubbles and breathtaking view are the most effective elixirs. After my mail is sorted and my bag is squared away, I climb into the hot tub and sigh with pleasure as the hot water bubbles over my shoulders, loosening every tight knot beneath my skin. The sun is setting over the ridge, a rusty blazing ball of fire in a pastel sky.

If only I could stay forever.

Maybe… maybe I can.

My eyes drift closed and I focus on the hum of the jets and bubbles, on the steam bathing my face, opening up my lungs with each inhaled breath. The effervescent bubbles tickle my soft cock, and I brush my hand over it. Mindlessly, I tug at it a few times, and it feels good, good enough that I consider playing with it. I don't have my phone with me, so watching a video is out of the question. Instead, I try to recall a face or body to focus on, but the only one that comes to mind is his.

Rhett's .

I let go of my dick and open my eyes to clear my head. I refuse to jack off to him. His gorgeous face, those playful hazel eyes, and lickable dimples are not going to get airtime in my head. But no matter how many faces I run through, I keep coming back to his.

Fuck it. There's no one here to know I got off to him, and it certainly won't be the first time.

I close my eyes and reach again for my cock, recalling the strength and warmth of his hand in mine, the vulnerability in his eyes, and the intimate connection between us that was forged in the most unlikely circumstances. Those memories are replaced by newer ones—the electric light in his eyes when I walked into his hospital room. His smiling face and unadulterated joy when he discovered me in the therapy room. The fire sparking in his hazel eyes when he challenged me about moving on and starting over.

I imagine Rhett in new scenarios, instances where I make him laugh. His rugged, smiling face, shining with happiness. What if I touched him? Would I see fire in his eyes? Would they burn for me? What does his mouth taste like? I'd bet his tongue feels like warm velvet. In my fantasy, his nipples are tight and brown, and his chest is barely furry, just enough to remind me he's all male.

My dick is rock hard now, and my fist moves up and down in lazy strokes as I stoke the fire slowly building in my groin. I tip my head back, resting it against the edge of the tub, and draw another humid breath deep into my lungs.

I fantasize about an intense dialogue between us, where our verbal sparring has a flirty edge. Rhett seems like he could go toe-to-toe with me and hold his own, which I find incredibly hot. When he's not depressed and grieving, or in unimaginable pain, I bet he's a hell raiser. I have no idea if he's into guys or not, but in my dream, he's totally into me. Fucking me with his eyes, teasing his bottom lip to make me want to suck on it. If I ever got him beneath me, I would fucking wreck him. Rhett looks like he's built sturdy enough to take a good pounding.

The combination of the warm water and teasing bubbles and my strong grip brings me to the edge quickly. I imagine sinking my teeth into his lip, sucking his tongue into my mouth, and drinking up his sweet flavor. The muscles in my stomach contract and roll in a wave of pleasure. My tight fist milks the thick seed from my shaft as I shoot into the warm water with a satisfied grunt.

My body sags like an empty sack.

I feel loose. I feel satisfied.

Fuck, that was great. Rhett Marsh would be an incredible lay. I carefully tuck that fantasy away with the others and pretend that my mind never went there.

I pull my truck into the parking lot of the NC Mountain Region branch of BALLS and hustle inside. Margaret Anne is always ready with a smile and a warm cup of coffee. She heads the volunteer services department, but you can't pull her away from the front desk. She wouldn't dream of not being there, front and center, to greet someone when they came through the front doors.

"Afternoon, MA," I greet, taking the proffered cup of coffee.

Her sleek gray bob bounces as she smiles. "Afternoon, Riggs. Welcome back."

Sipping on the coffee as I make my way down the long corridor to Brewer Marx's office, I pass several veterans and staff I recognize and wave hello. His door is open and I slip inside, tossing my empty paper cup in his trashcan.

"You ready for lunch?"

He's seated at his desk going through patient files. Brewer looks up, removing his reading glasses, and smiles. "Back so soon? Feels like you just left," he teases.

"That's what I want to talk to you about. Come on, lunch is on me."

He chuckles, pushing to his feet. "You realize they serve free lunch here, don't you?"

Of course, which is why I offered to treat. "What can I say? I'm a big spender."

BALLS serves a hot meal every afternoon to vets and their families free of charge. On the menu today is a hot, open-faced roast beef sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes, gravy, and steamed vegetables. I snag an extra slice of bread so I can make a proper sandwich out of it. We take a seat, and I dig into my sandwich with both hands when I notice a man and his son seated two tables away. The boy smiles at me and waves.

"Hey, Dylan," I mumble around a mouthful of roast beef. Shyly, he waves back, his big grin showing off his two missing front teeth. He comes in here just about every day to eat with his dad, who attends physical and occupational therapy. "I'll be right back," I tell Brewer. The east wall of the cafeteria is lined with vending machines. I slip a dollar in the slot and press the buttons for a chocolate chip granola bar. It drops into the bin and I retrieve it and make my way back to Dylan. "Here ya go, kiddo," I offer, messing up his hair. He grabs for it happily. "Not until after you finish your sandwich," I insist. Dylan's father salutes me and I return the gesture.

I'm not a big fan of standing on ceremony, especially when I'm away from base, but I recognize the gesture as his way of saying thank you while still maintaining his dignity.

When I sit down, Brewer snickers. "What?" I ask. He just shakes his head. The downside of having a best friend who's a shrink is knowing he always sees right through you.

"You're such a Daddy," he whispers. His grin is decidedly mischievous.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment, and hope that you meant I'll make a great father someday." Brewer is aware of my sexuality, despite the fact I never date.

His snicker turns into a deep, shoulder-shaking laugh. "Take it however you want."

I spare him a glare before picking up my sandwich. "Just because I'm a hard ass with a soft heart doesn't mean that I…" I can't even finish defending myself because he's laughing so hard tears come to his eyes, and I'm just becoming more pissed watching him. "Fuck off, Brewer." Taking a huge bite of beef, I ignore him as I take my time chewing, and it isn't until I swallow minutes later that I continue. "I had a reason for asking you to lunch."

Brewer sobers, taking a sip of his tea. "What's going on?"

I take a deep breath and put my sandwich down, wiping my fingers on my napkin. "I'm leaving Womack. I put in my resignation this week."

He looks as surprised as if I had told him I was getting married tomorrow. "Wow, didn't see that coming. Ever since you got back from this last deployment, I've noticed a change in you. Is everything okay?"

I breathe out a heavy sigh and lean back in my chair. "You're right. I guess I've come to a crossroads and my deployment made things very clear to me. I don't know… I feel like I'm chasing my tail trying to treat the problem and not the solution. Placing bandages on cuts so they can go back out and blow off their whole fucking leg. I'm just feeding the war machine."

"Riggs, being a combat medic and an Army nurse is important work. Someone has to be there to save them and patch them up so they can return home to their families."

"I'm not saying it isn't important work. I get the purpose of the role and the good it does. I'm saving lives, but at the end of the day, they're still putting their lives at risk. I'm a healer more than I'll ever be a soldier. I'm tired of just stemming the flow of blood and stitching cuts. I want to heal. I want to change lives instead of saving them."

"That's… powerful. I know you didn't come to this decision lightly. Did something happen over there?"

I can tell Brewer anything, but the truth is, meeting Rhett did something to me. It shook something loose inside my head and my heart about the kind of soldier and the kind of healer I want to be. It just feels private, though, like something I'm not ready to share, even with my best friend.

"When I'm at BALLS, I feel like I'm finally making a difference. Being out in the field feels like filling a hole with water and watching the sand fill it back in. It's futile. The Army docs and the VA just treat the symptoms, not the solution to the problem. That's all we're trained to do. When I was over there, that truth was never more glaringly obvious to me, and when I came home, everything I saw just reiterated the idea that I wasn't really doing anything to make a dent in the problem. I want to be the solution. I'm tired of seeing soldiers get hooked on drugs to manage the pain instead of receiving the therapy they need. It would be so easy to help them if we could just offer them the right resources."

Nobody understands that better than Brewer. He's a recovering addict who never would have gotten hooked on drugs, if not for his old war injury. In the same vein, he'd fallen in love with Nash Sommers, another vet turned addict because of the war. Brewer ran the addiction support group here at BALLS, while I tried my damnedest to make a difference running the Bitches with Stitches, a trauma support group for veterans.

My gaze drifts over to the table where Dylan sits with his dad. Robert was a soldier serving his country proudly until he suffered an injury during training that they deemed his fault. He wasn't eligible for disability benefits and became hooked on drugs to manage his pain, which earned him a dishonorable discharge and disqualified him from receiving veterans' benefits. I'm proud to serve an organization like BALLS that doesn't turn guys like him away.

Thanks to Brewer, Robert is getting the help he needs so that he and Dylan can live a better life.

"Sounds like you've got a solid plan worked out," Brewer says. "Have you heard about the position you applied for yet?"

Weeks ago, a full-time position became available in the physical therapy department, and I put my hat into the ring immediately. "Should find out today."

"You'll get it," he says confidently. "Then I can take you to lunch to celebrate."

"Let me guess, you're treating me to a hot lunch here in the BALLS cafeteria?"

Brewer laughs. "I'm a big spender, like you."