Page 13 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

The apartment is too quiet.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, but I haven’t moved in minutes. My reflection stares back—scarred, tired, and still a little haunted. The burn scars on my cheek and jaw pull when I frown, twisting my mouth into something grim.

I look like someone who’s been through hell.

And I feel like someone who never really came back.

I set the toothbrush down and run a hand over my face. My cheek. The skin there is thick, tight, and almost numb in places. The surgeon said they could try to fix it. Smooth the tissue, help me speak more easily, and even get some sensation back.

But all I heard was: someone else’s skin, stitched onto mine. Like patching a cracked foundation with leftover parts. Like Frankenstein.

And Tex saw it, too. I saw it in his face. That little wince when the doc said “cadaver tissue.” Like he didn’t mean to react, but couldn’t help himself.

I can’t blame him. Who would want to kiss a man sewn together from someone else’s leftovers?

I turn away from the mirror. God, I fucking hate them. After I came home from the rehab center, I kept the bathroom mirror covered with a sheet for months, afraid to look at myself. Disgusted with my reflection.

I barely recognize the man I am now.

My chest tightens, and I press my fists against my thighs and sink onto the edge of the bed, bent over like I’m trying to fold in on myself.

You don’t get it—it’s not that… just leave, I’d told Tex back at the burn center clinic.

But it wasn’t the truth. Not really.

The truth is… I’m scared of what I might do if I let him in. If I let myself believe he could love me back. That I could have something soft and good and glittery and infuriating and Tex in my life, and not lose it.

Because the minute he touched me like that, held me like that, needed me like that, and I wanted it …

I stopped feeling in control. And that scared the hell out of me.

It’s easy to chase someone who you know isn’t going to stop long enough to let you catch them. There’s safety in that.

I breathe through my nose. A long, shaky, measured breath. I don’t want to be scared anymore.

Brewer said once Love is messy. And sometimes it hurts. That’s where the trust comes in.

Maybe he was right. Hell, he’s always right.

Pushing to my feet, I walk to the window and stare out into the night.

Somewhere out there, Tex might be curled up in his ridiculous pajamas, maybe writing in that journal he thinks I don’t know about.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s pacing his room.

Maybe he’s spiraling. Maybe he’s already decided I scared him too much to come back.

And really, who could blame him?

He saw a version of me I keep locked up tight. The one I’ve spent years trying to bury beneath calm words and routines and the illusion of control. And when that cage cracked open, I didn’t just snap, I exploded .

I told myself it was to protect him. But maybe it was also about me. About not being able to stand the thought of someone hurting him the way I’ve been hurt. About watching him pull away, and feeling the ground give out under my feet.

I don’t know if Tex will come back from that. I don’t know if I deserve for him to. That’s the worst part. Not the silence, not the guilt. It’s the not knowing.

And maybe that’s what scares me most.

All I can do is try and do better. Be better. For him. For me. For the people who have come to love me.

Like Brewer says, just for today. All we have is today. Tomorrow is a new day.

Starting tomorrow, I’ll do better.

The circle is full today. All Bitches are in attendance. I stare down at the yarn in my lap, deep violet, and soft as hell. Not exactly regulation issue, but I’m not knitting for me. These socks are for Tex.

His feet are always cold. He’s always tucking them under my thigh on the couch, or rubbing them against me when we pretend to “accidentally” fall asleep during movies. He laughs when I call him a human ice cube, but he never stops doing it.

Purple feels right. He calls it regal. Or "queer royalty"—his words, not mine.

I love how proud he is, how he embraces his flair. I’ve always been quiet, reserved, and shy, even before the accident.

Riggs clears his throat at the head of the circle. He’s fresh from the gym with his ever-present stopwatch still hung around his neck.

“Alright, ladies, gentlemen, and people who are emotionally constipated,” Riggs says, looking straight at me with that deadpan face. “It’s share time. Who’s got the guts today?”

Stiles raises his hand first, talking about how he stabbed himself in the thumb trying to knit a scarf for his sister, and now she wants him to make her a matching hat. The room chuckles.

McCormick teases him as he knits a hat in the same color yarn as Stiles has, which means he’s helping him out.

Rhett is folding origami parachute men, because he sucks at knitting. And Brandt has finally moved on from making Christmas trees that resemble butt plugs, thank God, and is now making little grenades.

“What’s that for?” I ask, motioning to the Army green yarn on his lap.

“Love bombs,” Brandt explains, grinning as West rolls his eyes. “Whenever West is having a blackout day and hiding under the covers, I’m tossing one of these under there with him, to remind him I’m always there, always got him on my mind, and never farther than a shout away.”

West tries to play it cool, but the way his jaw twitches says plenty. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he knits in that stiff, practiced way of his, like every stitch is an act of defiance against whatever the hell still haunts him.

Riggs smiles like a proud dad. “Damn, Brandt. That’s actually kind of beautiful.”

“Right?” Brandt smirks, holding up his latest woolly grenade like it’s a holy relic. “Healing through tiny explosions.”

“Not how that works,” Rhett mutters, folding another tiny parachute and launching it toward the floor. “But carry on, Private.”

“That’s Staff Sergeant to you, grunt,” Brandt teases, giving Rhett’s boot a playful kick.

Riggs gestures at me with a nod. “Mandy? You've been quiet lately.”

The sock in my lap feels heavier than it should. I give it a stretch, more for something to do with my hands than to check the shape.

“They’re for Tex,” I say quietly. “Purple. Because his feet are always cold.”

A few raised brows but no surprise.

“Cute,” Nash says, and no one disagrees.

I run a thumb over a finished row, watching the yarn catch the light. “I don’t know how to talk to him, not really. He’s like… sunlight. Loud and shiny and impossible to hold. And I’m a fucking thundercloud, always on the edge of a storm.”

Rhett frowns. “Sunlight still needs shade.”

Stiles nods. “And sometimes thunderclouds bring rain so stuff can grow.”

“Wow,” McCormick deadpans. “That was almost poetic. Did someone give you decaf today?”

Stiles flips him off without looking up.

Jax smirks. “In case you haven’t noticed, he likes the big, strong, silent type. You’re doing just fine, Mandy.”

I let the laughter fade before speaking again, and I take a breath, fingers tightening around the yarn.

“He saw a part of me I didn’t mean to show anyone.

Got scared. Of me. I think I got scared, too.

Of what I’m capable of when I lose control.

And I hate that—that I can still lose it like that, after everything. That he had to see it.”

Brandt tilts his head. “Was he hurt?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Not physically.”

“Then maybe,” Jax offers softly, “he saw the truth. That you’d burn the world down for him.”

“Yeah, well,” I sigh, “he didn’t ask me to.”

They nod like they understand. Because they do. Every man in this circle has loved someone they didn’t think they deserved.

I look down at the sock. “I just wanted to do something that doesn’t scare him. Something small. Something warm.”

No one says anything for a second. Then Brandt gently tosses one of his knitted grenades into my lap.

“Boom,” he says. “That’s for when you forget that love’s allowed to be fierce.”

I swallow hard. The yarn grenade is soft, dense, and weirdly comforting. A lot like the people in this circle. Knotted together from torn threads and still managing to hold each other up.

Riggs leans back and nods. “Knitting isn’t about perfection. It’s about repair. And no one here’s beyond mending, Mandy. Not even you.”

Instead of answering, I go back to the sock, purple and hopeful in my hands.

Because it’s easier than admitting I believe him. “I think we’ve reached the end of our little two-step we’ve been dancing around each other. It’s time to either hold on tighter… or let go before we trip over our own damn feet. It’s time to stop pretending we don’t know the steps.”

The room goes quiet for a beat. Even the usual smartasses hold their tongues.

I let out a slow breath, knuckles whitening around my knitting needles.

"I’m scared, man. Not of him. Of me. Of what I might do if he ever actually says yes. Because I don’t know if I’m built for the kind of love that doesn’t come with conditions or caveats. I’ve only ever known pain dressed up as care."

Brandt nods slowly, his voice unusually soft. “That’s the real shit, right there.”

Stiles is the first to speak. “Man, I used to think love was just another kind of bomb. Timer ticking down, just waiting for the detonation. So I’d pull the pin myself before anyone else got the chance. But that’s not love. That’s fear wearing love’s jacket.”

McCormick snorts. “You pulled the pin because if it worked out, it meant letting go of me.”

I laugh along with the group as Stiles rolls his eyes.

Pharo nods, his empty hands shoved in his pockets.

The man doesn’t knit, nor tries to pretend to be interested in learning.

“My mami once told me real love isn’t supposed to feel like a dare.

It’s supposed to feel like a place you can rest. I didn’t get it at the time, but I think she meant it’s okay to be scared, just not to let that fear drive the car. ”

Brandt leans back in his chair, tossing another grenade from one hand to the other. “Look, I don’t know Tex well, but I know you. And I know that if he ever does say yes? You’ll move heaven and hell for him. You already are, in your own stitched-up, scar-covered way.”

West glances up from his knitting, his voice quiet but steady. “You want to protect him, but sometimes the real strength is letting someone stand beside you. Not behind you. Not under you. Beside you.”

Nash, seated with his yarn barely touched, adds, “Sometimes I think we’re all just stray dogs pretending we don’t need the pack. But we do. Even the alpha needs someone to lick his wounds.”

That earns a snicker from someone, probably McCormick, but it doesn’t break the moment.

Riggs finally speaks, calm and grounded like always. “You’ve done the work, Mandy. Doesn’t mean the fear disappears. But it means you’re strong enough to stand in the face of it. Love doesn’t need you perfect. It needs you present.”

“Maybe I don’t know how to love him yet. But I know I want to try. And I think… I think that counts for something.”

The group nods, in that wordless, bone-deep way only men who’ve been through hell can.

And for the first time in days, I don't feel quite so alone. Or scared.

In fact, I feel weirdly hopeful.