Page 34 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

The grill’s smoking, loud music’s playing, and Stiles already dropped an open beer into the hot tub.

I watch the chaos from the shade of the deck with a cold drink in my hand and Tex at my side.

He’s barefoot, smooth legs stretched out, flashing way too much thigh in a pair of shorts that he probably found in the kids’ section, judging by the size of them.

His hand rests casually on my knee, and every once in a while, he leans in to murmur something just for me.

It’s easy being here. Being with him. For once, I don’t feel like a ghost hovering around the edges of someone else’s life.

“Hey,” West calls, waving a hand as he jogs up the steps with a lopsided grin. “Can you come with me to the store? We’re running low on soda and ice, and Brandt says if he has to drink flat ginger ale again, he’s gonna defect to Riggs’s house.”

Tex glances up from his phone. “You volunteering as tribute?”

I shrug and hand him my cup. “Sure. Be right back.”

Tex tugs me down for a quick kiss. “Bring me something sugary and artery-clogging.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

West’s already halfway to the Jeep by the time I catch up. We don’t say much at first. The wind through the open windows does most of the talking.

After a few silent miles, he casually says, “So, you both finally stopped running? How’s that working out?”

“It’s…” I blow out a breath and feel my shoulders sag with relief. “It’s going. Who would’ve thought he’d be interested in a guy like me?”

West snorts. “Fucking everyone .”

We pull into the corner store, and West grabs a cart while I snag a couple of ice bags from the freezer case. Passing a display of boxed donuts, I grab a pack iced with pink frosting and sprinkled with colorful candy stars. Tex will love them.

The checkout is a little backed up, and we end up behind a woman and her young son, maybe six or seven years old. The kid’s got on a t-shirt with some shiny comic book hero splashed across it. He turns around to look at us, and his gaze lands on me.

He stares and I tense up, waiting for the inevitable ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ or worse, fear. I smile at the kid. Just a polite, nothing-to-see-here smile. But he flinches like I barked at him and ducks behind his mom like I’m the monster under the bed.

That old familiar sting hits, right behind the ribs. Doesn’t matter how many times it happens, it never stops feeling like the first. Like I’m too much to look at. Like I should’ve stayed home.

I brace for it. The look. The whisper. The apology.

But West steps forward like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.

“You like superheroes?” he asks the boy, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.

The kid nods, hesitant.

“Well, you’re in luck,” West says, pointing at me. “Because this guy right here? Real-life superhero.”

My fingers tighten around the cart handle. My first instinct is to walk away, to deflect. To hide. But I can’t move.

“He dismantles bombs with his bare hands,” West continues like he’s narrating a movie trailer. “Jumps out of planes. Flies through clouds. And when he lands, he tracks down the bad guys and makes sure we’re all safe.”

The kid’s eyes widen. He looks at me again, different this time. Like I’ve grown ten feet and sprouted a cape.

“Really?” he whispers.

“Yup,” West says. “And see that stuff on his face? That’s ‘cause he walked through fire. Straight through. Didn’t even blink.”

My throat tightens so fast it hurts.

The boy’s gaze bounces between us. “Are you a superhero too?” he asks West.

“Sure am,” West grins, pulling up his pant leg just enough to flash the metal of his prosthetic. “I’ve got a bionic leg. I can kick villains through walls and run so fast you can’t even see me. Like a blur.”

“No way!”

“Way. But I can’t show you. Top secret. Gotta stay in disguise. Like Batman.”

The kid nods solemnly.

“And when you meet a superhero,” West says, “you’re supposed to walk up, show no fear, shake his hand, and say, ‘Thank you for keeping me safe.’”

The boy looks at his mom, who gives him the smallest nod. Then he steps forward. Just a little.

West makes it sound like what happened to me made me powerful, not ugly or frightening.

It knocks the breath out of me in a way I don’t expect.

I want to tell him to stop, to not draw attention to me, to just let me vanish back into the air like I usually do. But I can’t move. Can’t speak. I just stand rooted to the floor and listen to him talk about me like I’m brave. Like I’m whole. Like I’m worth admiring.

When the kid reaches out his hand, I take it with fingers that feel numb. I’m holding it together by a thread. His little palm presses into mine for a second, and it’s like something in me… releases. Like I’m not the villain in this story anymore. Maybe I never was.

“Thank you,” he says in a small voice.

I barely make it to the car before the tears hit. I don’t want West to see me cry, but of course, he does. It’s not loud and dramatic. It just breaks loose, quiet and overwhelming. I press my palms over my eyes.

“I meant it, you know,” West says after a minute.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd me. Just leans his head back and speaks like it’s a fact.

“You’re not just my nutter buddy. You’re my hero.

You’ve been through darker shit than me and came out twice as strong.

I’m still hiding under the fucking covers some days.

” He sighs. “Thanks for keeping me safe.”

For years, I’ve tried to stay invisible, hide the burns, the pain, the whole story. And now this man—this stubborn, kind, ridiculous man—is holding up a mirror and showing me someone else entirely. Someone good. Someone strong. Someone he’s proud to know.

I don’t know how to carry that yet. But I want to learn.

I laugh, or try to, but it comes out strangled and wet. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Nobody’s gonna debate you on that. Here,” he says, handing me the bakery box, “sparkly donuts for your man.”

When we return to the barbecue, the deck smells like grilled meat and chlorine, and laughter carries like smoke around the yard.

Someone’s hooked a speaker to a playlist that refuses to stay in one genre, and nobody’s complaining.

Pharo and Jax are wrestling on the grass, arms flailing, grunting, and sweaty.

They’re going at it like they have a personal vendetta to settle.

Brandt mans the grill, swearing under his breath as he tries to salvage the last of the skewers from a grease fire. West supervises with a drink in hand and no intention of helping. They make a good team like that.

“Those look a tad burnt, Reaper,” West points out needlessly.

“ You’re fuckin’ burnt,” Brandt snipes, plucking the last skewer from the fire.

Tex breezes past in a purple Speedo that leaves almost nothing to the imagination.

He tosses a wink over his shoulder aimed at me, towel slung across his bare shoulders.

His blond highlights catch the porch light.

A few catcalls rise from the deck, mostly from Rhett and Nash, who I’ve no doubt live to fuck with me.

“You coming in, Big Guy?” Tex calls, sinking below the water.

“Can’t. It’s too hot for my skin.” Even thinking about the heat makes my skin twitch, still too new in places.

Tex doesn’t push me. He never does. But minutes later, he climbs out and comes to kneel by my chair, dripping a little on my legs, and presses a kiss to the scar that curls beneath the corner of my mouth.

“It’s healing nicely,” he adds, and his fingers skim down my arm like he believes every word.

Goddamn, what this guy makes me feel. Like I’m the most important man at the party. Maybe to him, I am. If that doesn’t make me feel like I own the world, nothing will.

“I dare you to swallow it whole,” Jax presses Pharo, dangling a jalapeno in his face. He’s clearly feeling sour about having had his ass beat.

“So I can shit fire for the next two days? Fuck no.” Pharo laughs and walks away, leaving Jax staring after him with daggers.

No matter that those two are a couple now, they’ll always be at odds with each other. It’s entertaining as fuck.

McCormick insists he can beat Stiles in an arm-wrestling contest, and everyone clears the patio table like it’s about to host a championship match.

They go hard, too hard. A grunt, a sharp thud, and suddenly the table's down a leg and Rhett is trying to revive it with duct tape while Stiles cradles his elbow. Nobody’s hurt.

Not really. But Brandt tosses a pack of frozen peas at him and tells him to rub some adulthood on it.

Tex lays his head in my lap, and I can feel the vibration of his laughter ghost my skin.

He raises his head with a glowing smile and slips back into the chair next to mine, legs damp, eyes bright.

He talks to Nash for a long while. They exchange quiet words and honest looks, their heads bowed together, not in shame or secrecy, but in shared understanding.

I don’t listen. Don’t need to. It’s enough to see them like that.

To know Tex has someone who sees him, just like he sees me.

Brewer and Riggs are arguing about the best superhero movie. Rhett keeps threatening to turn on karaoke. Brandt already has the mic in hand, waiting.

It’s chaos as usual whenever the Bitches assemble in one place, and it feels familiar, and I realize, this is what saved me .

This bullshit, these idiots. They brought me back from whatever hell I lived in after I was discharged from the nursing home.

I thought my life was over, that I had nothing to live for, and that fate had robbed me of my future, and these guys proved me wrong.

And then I found Tex, and I learned that I could do more than just survive. I could live .

My arms rest on the table, hands relaxed. It takes a minute to realize I’m not bracing for anything. Nobody’s staring. Nobody’s avoiding me either. I’m just... here. Laughing when the jokes are funny, joining in when someone raises a toast, slipping a chip from Tex’s plate when he’s not looking.

The night hums with the kind of peace I never thought I’d earn. Not this kind. Not among this many people.

Rhett drops onto the bench beside me and throws an arm around my shoulder like we’ve done this a thousand times. “So. Hot tub next week? My place? You can supervise while we all steam our asses.”

“Only if I get to hold the water hose like a bouncer.”

“Deal,” he grins. Then he leans in, mock-whispering, “Also, your boyfriend’s ass in that Speedo? That’s a crime against pants.”

I snort. There’s no use denying it. Not only is he trying to get a reaction out of me, but it’s the truth. I’m more stuck on the word boyfriend. How many months have I pined for Tex? Damn, I’ve lost count. But now… He’s mine.

Tex catches my eye and smiles. “Need more chips?” he asks, politely saying he knows I’ve been swiping them.

Something flickers in my chest. Warmth. Love. I used to come to these things and count the seconds until I could leave. Now, I’m counting the reasons I want to stay.