Page 2 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

Riggs breathes out, like we’ve finally reached the tough part of the conversation.

“Liza told me a little about your injuries. I’m a combat medic with the reserves and a physical therapist at Womack.

I didn’t meet you because you were recovering upstairs in the burn unit, and they have their own therapists on staff. ”

“So what’s that got to do with BALLS?”

“I also volunteer there. It’s important to me to see my patients get the help they need. So many of them go home feeling hopeless, not knowing which direction to turn next. An organization like BALLS has the resources to help so many people, if only they knew to ask for it.”

“Sounds great, but I’ll tell you, I’m ready to go home next week, kick my feet up in my recliner, and take it easy. I’m so fucking done with hospitals and treatments, I can’t even tell you.”

“Look, I get that. I do. I can only imagine the hell you’ve been through.

” His eyes track the burns that cover my face and arm.

“But you have to be honest with yourself. You’re a long way from being done with your recovery.

The VA is going to waitlist you for future surgeries because, according to them, you’ve had all the important ones necessary for skin grafts and tissue repair.

They think you’re good enough as is. They’ll probably even deny coverage for any future work you’d like to have done.

But BALLS can pay for skin dermabrasion, skin grafts, and fast-track future surgeries.

God knows what new technology they’re coming out with to help burn patients.

They would pay for it. Not to mention all the other perks. ”

It doesn’t sound like a boon to me. It sounds like fucking hell.

My worst nightmare. If I never meet another surgeon again, it will be too soon.

My voice comes out hoarse, full of emotion that betrays my fear.

“I, uh… I’ve got a lot of anxiety about hospitals and doctors and medical treatments.

I’m not really interested in having any more.

I guess the VA is right for once. Whatever they’ve done is good enough. ”

Riggs looks defeated before he recovers with a grin. “You’re in luck. BALLS also has this nifty program called BALLS Buddies.”

“Is that one of those massages with a happy ending? Because I’d be willing to consider that.”

“Unfortunately,” he barks, swallowing his laughter, “it’s not.

It’s a volunteer program. They pair you up with another vet, someone who knows what you’ve been through, to get you through the hard stuff.

The days when you can’t forget, when the memories get to you, or you have to face something terrifying like another surgery.

It’s just someone to be accountable to, someone easy to talk to. ”

“I sort of like the idea of the happy ending a little better. But thanks for stopping by. Riggs, is it?” He nods. “Well, I’ll hang on to this.” My fingers trace over the brochure. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, I glance at the brochure on the table.

I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone. The only thing I want is to get out of here.

But even that feels like a lie, because deep down, I know I’m not done yet.

I’m not done recovering, and I’m definitely not done processing all the emotions I’ve buried.

Maybe one day, I’ll let someone help. But today isn’t that day.

Six months later

I will never get used to the smell of hospitals, no matter how many times I visit, or who’s sitting next to me, holding my hand.

Today, it’s a guy named West Wardell with one leg and a smart-ass sense of humor. He uses it to mask the dark shadows that haunt his brown eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him again, more for my sake than his.

“No problem,” he says with a grin. “You're my first Ball Buddy. This isn't so bad.”

Yeah, not for him. He’s not the one getting the skin blasted from his face.

“I was expecting worse,” West admits, still studying me, that grin barely hiding the tension.

“Just wait,” I shoot back, my voice rough. “I promise not to disappoint you.”

He chuffs, then leans in, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle. “What was your MOS?”

“Demolitions expert. Eighty-second Airborne. FOB Arian, Afghanistan.”

“Well, that explains the…” West gestures at my face, a trace of sympathy flickering in his eyes.

“Yeah. Pretty self-explanatory,” I mutter, trying to make light of it, but there’s nothing simple about the hell I’ve been through.

“Armando Cahill,” the nurse calls, and my stomach drops. I stand up, legs a little shaky, but West is right there with me.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask, giving him one last out.

“I signed up for the whole enchilada. We’re doing this, nutter buddy.”

“Nutter Buddy?”

West laughs. “I can’t keep calling you my ball buddy, man. It’s fucking weird. Two balls, one sac. Nutter buddies.”

Despite my eyes rolling, I laugh. “Let’s do this.”

During the exam, my heart rate spikes twice. West guides me through breathing exercises, something he picked up from his own therapy for panic attacks. It’s awkward as hell, but somehow it works.

Then the doctor explains my next procedure, the one that’ll make this all even worse.

Weeks of painful recovery.

Meds that don’t allow me to drive.

Depression.

Anxiety.

Just another round of the same endless cycle.

“No problem, Doc,” West says, cutting through the gloom. “Mandy's staying with me while he recovers. I’ll drive him to checkups, pick up his meds, and keep an eye on him. He’s in good hands.”

I can’t even process what he’s saying at first. “You will?”

“That’s what buddies do.” He says it as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it doesn’t cost him a thing.

That lump in my throat makes a return, swelling up thick and painful. I nod at the doctor, but words can’t escape.

When we finally head out to his Jeep, West surprises me again.

“Listen, I might have to pawn some of that shit off on my partner, Brandt,” he admits, running a hand through his dark buzz cut, looking anywhere but at me. “Some days, I can’t even get out of bed. But the truth is, I need you just as much as you need me.”

“Really?” I’m stunned. He’s been nothing but tough, nothing but the smart-assed, sarcastic guy he seems to be.

“Yeah,” he nods, his expression softening. “We’re in this together.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, gripping it firmly.

“Deal, nutter buddy.”