Page 33 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

TEX

I pick the seat closest to the refreshment table and furthest from the door, like maybe I’ll forget how easy it’d be to leave.

I’ve been dreading this night all week. Knowing I need to share, to come clean about who I am.

Not my personality or my jobs, or my service in the Army, but about my past and the things that brought me here.

The reasons I earned my seat in this circle.

Brewer claps my back once, then drops into a chair beside me. Nash raises two fingers from across the circle, all quiet encouragement. Nacho’s here too, nodding his head like he’s green-lighting me to raise my voice.

The speaker finishes telling their story and opens the meeting up to anyone with a burning desire to share.

My throat threatens to close up and cut off my words, but I swallow past it and wipe my damp palms on my jeans.

“My name is Tex,” I say in a thin voice. “And I’m an addict.”

A few voices answer. “Hi, Tex.”

“I’ve been clean two years. And in that time, I’ve told pieces of my story, little bits, in different places. But not all of it. Not like this. I never say the really hard stuff out loud.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. I keep my eyes on the speckled floor tiles before I raise them again.

“I used to think if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t be real. That if I stayed silent, it wouldn’t touch me.” I breathe slowly. “But silence is where it grows. Where it hides. And I’m tired of hiding.”

My hands grip my knees.

“I joined the Army to escape a lot of things. Poverty. My parents. Myself. The law and the consequences of my actions. I thought if I became someone else, someone strong, I could earn the love I didn’t feel growing up. That maybe… I’d become someone I could at least like.”

I dare to look up. Brewer nods once, telling me to keep going.

“Instead, I got used like I was nothing. I was sexually abused in the Army. That’s the part I don’t like saying out loud. Not because it’s untrue, but because it is true. Because I still feel like saying it brands me. Makes people look at me differently.”

Nobody moves. Nobody looks away.

“They used my body, passed me around like I was a party favor, like I was their property. And afterward, they used my silence. Again and again, week after week. A vicious cycle that made me feel hollow. I felt like a fucking object. Like something disposable. Something that had already been used up before I even turned twenty-one.”

My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. “My body didn’t belong to me for a long time.

” I swallow hard. “And I thought that made me worthless. I thought that made me trash. I didn’t report it.

I couldn’t. You don’t, when it’s someone with more rank.

Someone who has your name and your future in their hands.

I convinced myself it wasn’t rape. That maybe I deserved it. That maybe I’d led them on.”

I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it.

“That’s how deep it gets in your head. That’s what it does.”

I scan the room. No one moves, and that makes it harder to hold the grief back.

“After that… I used anything I could find. Pills. Powder. Sex. I traded one form of being numb for another. I didn’t care who I fucked or who fucked me. I just wanted to disappear. And when that didn’t work, I wanted to die.”

A throat clears softly somewhere behind me.

“I learned to confuse attention with affection. If someone wanted me, even for a night, even for ten minutes, that meant I was worth something. I wrapped myself in desire like armor, but it was fake. It was killing me. I thought being desired meant being safe, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. I hated myself too much to believe anyone else could love me.” The air in my chest is tight, but I suck in a deep fortifying breath. “But I was wrong.”

Brewer shifts in his chair. He already knows some of this. Nash doesn’t. Neither does Nacho. My hands are shaking, and I put them between my knees, squeezing tightly to keep them from bouncing.

“I hated myself too much to believe anyone else could love me. I thought if someone ever saw all of me— really saw me—they’d leave. Or worse, they’d stay and use me too.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “But I was wrong.”

“I’m still here. And I’m not alone. Not anymore.” I look at Nash, then Brewer and Nacho. “I have people who’ve seen me fall and still stayed.”

I think of Mandy. Of the way he looks at me like I matter. Like I’m not something broken he has to fix, but someone he wants to love, just as I am.

“There’s this man in my life now. He’s quiet. Strong. Kind. He’s got his own wounds, and he’s not afraid of mine. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to earn his love by giving him pieces of myself I don’t want to give. He just… loves me.”

I blink fast and let out a big breath, trying to settle into my body.

“I’m more than what they did to me. I’m more than what I survived. And I’m still learning. Still healing. But I wanted to say this out loud… because shame dies when we bring it into the light.”

Nothing but silence, the good kind. “I don’t know what comes next. I still have bad days. But I’m not going back. And I’m not disappearing. Because I’ve finally got something to lose.” I nod. “That’s all. Thanks for letting me share.”

For the next twenty minutes, I stare at the floor, memorizing the pattern in the linoleum.

When the meeting draws to a close, I walk out on shaky limbs that feel like jelly, and Brewer’s there when my legs almost give out.

He doesn’t say a word, just pulls me into a hug.

Nash is close behind, and Nacho gives me a fist bump with misty eyes.

“You can have all of my pineapple salsa,” he sniffs.

I sit in the driver’s seat with the engine off and my seatbelt unbuckled. My hands are still shaking.

The tears hit before I’m ready. Not loud. Not angry. Just a quiet stream down my cheeks like something’s leaking from deep inside me, and there’s no use trying to plug it up anymore.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel. My breath hitches, and my chest feels hollow and full at the same time.

I said it. All of it. Well, most of it, and I’m still here.

My voice is hoarse, my eyes burn, and my shirt collar’s damp. But my spine is straighter. My lungs feel bigger. It’s like there’s just a little more room in me now. Like I carved out space for something new.

Not forgiveness. I’m not there yet. But maybe… peace?

A tiny flicker of it, anyway. It might not stay long, but it came.

I stare out at the dim parking lot lights, at the empty spaces and the shadows. I still feel haunted. Maybe I always will. But the ghosts are quiet for now. They’re not screaming in my ear.

I pull my phone from the console and scroll past a dozen unread messages until I find his name.

Mandy.

I want to call, but I don’t, not when I sound so close to tears. I’ll just suck him down with me. I stare at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering, my heart finding a calmer rhythm. I don’t need to hear his voice to know he’s with me.

I feel it in the warmth in my chest from just thinking of him. In the part of me that believes, really believes, I might actually deserve to be loved. And for tonight, that’s enough.

I don’t see him until the tap on the glass. The unexpected sound makes me jump, and I wipe at my face fast. Nash stands just outside, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He doesn’t look surprised to see me wrecked, and he doesn’t ask if I’m okay.

He just says, “We’re going for coffee. Come with.”

I blink at him, throat tight, and roll down the window. “I’m not really?—”

He leans down and braces his hands on the window frame. “You don’t have to talk. Just sit with us.”

I look past him. Brewer’s already pulling out of the lot. Nacho’s riding shotgun. Nash circles the car and gets in the passenger seat without asking. He shuts the door and immediately winces.

“Seriously?” He gestures at the stereo. “Is this Shakira ?”

I shrug. “It came with the car.”

He laughs hard. “You better hope the guys never hear this.”

He flips through the presets like he’s on a mission and lands on a local alt-rock station. Gritty guitars, drum-heavy. Nash leans back in the seat, looking smug. “There. We can cry to this like men.”

I don’t say anything as I reverse out of the spot. But I’m smiling a little. And I don’t stop him when he rolls the window down halfway and sticks his hand into the wind like a kid.

The diner reeks of syrup and burnt coffee, but it’s close to the church, and they serve the fluffiest pancakes.

We get a booth by the window, and the waitress who knows Nacho’s name doesn’t bat an eye when he orders five pancakes and a burger.

Nash does the same, but adds a side of hashbrowns and eggs. Brewer and I stick with coffee.

Nash pulls out his phone and shows off pictures of his cat, Valor, like a proud dad. “He lets me spoon him now,” he says, swiping to a blurry shot of a black paw draped over his arm. “That’s basically emotional consent.”

The waitress and another server drop off our plates, because the two human garbage disposals ordered more food than one woman can carry.

Nacho leans across the table, mouth full of pancake, and says, “You’re emotionally constipated and that cat is the only one who tolerates your bullshit.”

Brewer just sips his coffee and watches them like they’re some kind of reality show he didn’t know he subscribed to but can’t stop watching.

There’s a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth that never quite breaks through.

He’s always been more of an observer—probably why he sees more than most people want him to.

I don’t say much, just nurse some absurd latte I ordered because the specials board said it had vanilla and cinnamon, and hell, maybe I wanted to feel special. A touch bougie. And like I’m worth the extra effort it took her to make this for me. It’s sweet, and the heat is comforting.

I stare at the foam swirling around the inside of the mug and just… listen.

To Nash ramble about Valor’s grooming schedule like he’s a show dog instead of a rescue with terrible taste in men and resting bitch face.

To Nacho talk with his mouth full, syrup smeared on his cheek, already eyeing Nash’s hashbrowns like he’s got plans for them.

The man can cook like nobody’s business.

He makes the most delicious food, but you wouldn’t know it by watching him eat.

He’ll shove absolutely anything in his mouth with a smile.

And to Brewer, who finally breaks his silence when he laughs out loud when Nash pulls up a video of Valor knocking over a full glass of water onto his laptop and calls it “a calculated act of war.”

And something inside me starts to unwind.

It’s not just that I’m safe. It’s that I’m wanted. There’s room for me at this table, in these lives, in these conversations that don’t require me to bleed out in order to be seen. I’m not fighting to prove my worth here. I just… get to be.

These men are my brothers. Not by blood, but more than that. They chose me.

Brewer turns to me eventually. His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp. “How’s your Sixth Step coming?”

I trace the rim of my mug with one finger and think about all the amends I haven’t made yet, the ones I’m not sure how to make. The names I don’t want to say out loud. The people I can’t face, not yet.

“I’m working on it,” I say, finally. “Slowly. Like a turtle with trauma.”

Nacho snorts. “You are shaped like a turtle.”

“Excuse me,” I say, putting down my mug. “I am a majestic sea creature. Slippery, mysterious, and likely to ghost you at any moment.”

Nash leans across the table, stage-whispering to Brewer, “He’s a sea cucumber, and he has whipped cream on his upper lip.”

Laughing, I reach for my napkin.

“So fucking majestic,” Nacho teases.

I flip him off with both hands. Brewer chuckles into his cup.

The laughter buzzes in my chest, warm and effervescent, like it’s lighting up spaces that used to be hollow.

I don’t know if I believe in miracles. But I believe in this.

In these men. In this do-over I’ve been given at life. In Mandy’s love.

I’m not whole. Not yet. Maybe never.

But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel empty.