Page 1 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

Fire eats my face.

It’s the first thing I feel, before sound, before fear, before thought.

Just heat. White-hot, blinding, sentient heat, licking up the side of my head.

My shoulder blows open, flesh split like overcooked meat.

Then my neck. My jaw. My uniform catches fire, and the fabric fuses to my skin before I can react.

I’m not on the ground yet, but I’m no longer standing. The blast hasn’t even finished echoing, and I already know… I’m not walking out of this the same.

I don’t remember the trigger. I was holding the wire cutters. I was standing back at a safe distance. Standard protocol. The demo tech had the primary. I was just there to assist. Just observe. I wasn’t supposed to take the blast.

But I do.

My bones rattle, and my brain turns to static.

I’m thrown sideways, weightless and heavy at the same time.

Sand fills my mouth. I try to scream, but I taste blood and burned rubber.

My eardrums shriek. The sky is gone. My body isn't mine anymore.

It's meat, sizzling and curling in places I can’t see.

I hear Thomas scream. Sharp… Panicked… Too close. His voice cuts off so suddenly it sucks the breath out of me. Something wet hits my cheek. I don’t know if it’s his blood or mine.

Time fractures. Sound becomes elastic. Then it comes rushing back all at once.

The pressure wave slams into me like a truck. My feet leave the ground. I hit hard, but I don’t remember falling. Just sand in my mouth, in my nose, in my eyes. I gag on it. Can’t breathe. Can’t speak. The inside of my head screams so loudly I don’t know if I’m still conscious.

The stench of copper and gasoline assaults my nose.

The pain is devouring. A searing, living thing that tears through the side of my head like it wants to unmake me.

Skin shrivels. Nerves misfire. I smell myself burning—hair, flesh, Kevlar—and I can’t move.

My left arm is gone. Not severed, but gone to me.

Numb and steaming. I try to lift it but fail.

All I can do is blink through the blur of blood and heat and smoke and think: I was supposed to help. I was just supposed to help.

Something is hissing. The air? My own breath? No. It’s fire. It’s still burning. Crawling over me and licking at what’s left of my skin. I can hear it chewing through debris, hear it snapping bone as it consumes Thomas.

I try to crawl. My good hand digs into the dirt—the burned one twitches, half-shriveled, refusing orders like a rebellious child.

I’m crying, I think? I don’t even remember starting. I can’t feel the tears. Half my face is numb, and the other half feels melted.

I want to scream, but there’s no air.

I want to die, but there’s too much pain to fade away.

I—

My eyes snap open.

My whole body flinches before I can stop it.

The world snaps back into place with the low hum of hospital lights and the bitter taste of my meds lingering in the back of my throat.

My heart’s hammering like it’s trying to outrun me.

But outside the nightmare, nothing moves.

The recliner groans under me as I shift.

“I’ve had enough of this place.”

The words slip out under my breath, but it’s not the first time I’ve said them.

The old recliner creaks as I press the cool side of my face against the headrest—the burned side still hums, a dull, permanent ache.

I can’t help but feel like I’m slowly being smothered by the monotony of it all.

The nurses, the endless rounds of meds, the sterile air that‘s more stifling than breathing toxic gases. All of it. I’m done.

The door swings open without a knock, of course. I’m not even surprised anymore. Privacy doesn’t exist here.

“How much do you love me?” my nurse, Amy, asks, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk plastered across her face.

I give her my usual deadpan stare. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

She holds up a small cup with a red lid, grinning like she’s holding the Holy Grail. “I came bearing bribes,” she teases, “Cherry-flavored ice. Your favorite.”

And she’s right. It is my favorite. There’s no better taste in this place. I can feel the dull ache in my throat loosen at the thought of that sweet, tart flavor. She rolls the little tray table over and sets it down in front of me, along with a flimsy plastic spoon.

Presentation, five stars.

I peel back the lid and scoop up a spoonful, savoring the sharp, refreshing bite. For a second, it’s almost like I’m somewhere else. Somewhere that’s not this bland room, somewhere with life. I chew slowly, letting the ice melt on my tongue.

“Was there something else you wanted?” I prompt, taking another bite. I’m hoping she’ll leave me alone and let me enjoy my moment of peace.

Amy doesn’t seem to take the hint. She pulls a clipboard from under her arm and starts charting, as if it’s a perk of her job to be entertained while she works.

“Are you going to miss this place when you go home next week?” she asks, eyes focused on her paperwork.

I roll my eyes. “I know for a fact you don’t want me to answer that one.”

“At least say you’ll miss me,” she adds with a wink, as if she’s expecting some heartfelt goodbye from me.

I lift the Styrofoam cup in mock salute. “I’ll miss these.”

There’s not a fucking thing I’ll miss about this place.

Well, that’s not completely true. I’ve made friends with some of the residents here.

With nothing but time on my hands to recover, I’ve heard all their stories, at least, the ones they can remember.

I’ve met their families, I’ve played bingo with them, made arts and crafts, played board games, watched movies with them, and shared meals together in the dining room.

Mostly, I’ll miss the sense of feeling a part of something without feeling like I must participate. There’s always something happening around me—noise out in the hall, nurses and nursing assistants pushing their way in and out of my room.

When I go home, there’ll be nothing but silence and solitude.

No visitors. No friends.

Nothing but four walls and my own thoughts.

Amy finishes her paperwork, gathers up her things, and heads out with a final, “I’ll be back with your meds soon.”

I tilt my head back against the padded vinyl and close my eyes. With my belly full and a sweet taste lingering on my tongue, I breathe a relaxed sigh, hoping for a little catnap before I’m interrupted again.

But just as I begin to slip into the comfort of sleep, there’s a knock at the door. I groan and consider ignoring it, wishing whoever it is will just go away. But I know better.

“Yeah?” I call out in a flat voice, not bothering to hide my irritation.

The face that steps through the door isn’t one I recognize. He’s tall, with dark hair and a scruffy beard. His clothes—cargo pants, boots, and jacket—look like military issue. He stands there, large and in charge, as if he’s got every right to be here.

“Can I help you?” I ask, giving him the once-over. He doesn’t belong here. This guy looks more suited to be the star of an action movie.

He smiles as if he’s amused. “Hopefully, I can help you. My name is Navarro Riggs. I got your name from a mutual friend.”

I narrow my eyes. “I doubt that. I don’t have many friends.”

He puts his hands on his hips, widening his stance like he’s confident he’s in the right place. “Liza says hello. Also, full disclosure, she asked me to call her with an update when I leave.”

Liza ? That tracks. Liza’s the nurse who treated me at Womack Army Medical Center when I was still enlisted at Fort Bragg. She’s sharp-tongued, overbearing, and annoyingly persistent. She’s also one of the few people I trust in this world.

“So, is that why she sent you? To spy on me? Because she could have just called and saved you the trip.”

“No, that’s not why. I have an ulterior motive.”

“Of course you do. Are you here to sell me an insurance policy? Some cleaning products from a pyramid scheme? An extended warranty for my car? Because I’ll be straight with you, the only thing I’m interested in buying is more of these,” I tell him, holding up my empty Italian ice cup.

Riggs slides a brochure from his pocket and lays it down on the rolling table in front of me.

I glance at it, puzzled. “What’s this?”

The glossy pamphlet shows off smiling men and women with various injuries and disabilities. Like they’re saying, despite my leg having been blown off, I’m living my best life!

It reads B.A.L.L.S. in big black letters across the front.

“Balls? What the hell are they selling? Sports equipment?”

He laughs, unfazed. “Not quite. It’s a nonprofit for veterans—Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers. It’s a place where vets can go to get their lives back on track.”

Well, that’s got to be a long fucking line. No, thank you.

I sit up straighter, the name catching me off guard. Legion of Love Soldiers ? The acronym alone makes me want to laugh, but I hold it in. “What’s the catch? What do they have that the VA doesn’t?”

“Everything,” he says confidently, crossing his arms over his chest. “BALLS offers a state-of-the-art gym with on-site trainers and physical therapists free of charge.”

Damn, that alone is enough to impress me.

“They offer free hot meals, indoor swimming and basketball, massage therapy, physical therapy to restore range of motion, occupational therapy, and job skills training. They also offer support groups, and there’s a trained psychologist on staff if you need more help than group therapy.”

Christ, what am I supposed to say to that? He makes it sound like the Disney World of post-active duty. “Gotta tell ya, man. I’m not sold on the name.”

Riggs chuckles softly. “It’s part of membership. You have to tell stupid ball jokes. Otherwise, they kick you out.”

“I’m not much for therapy,” I mutter, barely able to meet his eyes. “I’ve been poked and prodded enough in this place to last me a lifetime. I don’t need more.”