Chapter 3Stiles
CHAPTER
THREE
STILES
I tighten the last screw on the soft tail I’ve been working on for the past two days and wipe my hands clean on a rag just in time to grab my phone when it dings.
Mac:
We gonna workout our balls?
Mac:
*at
I laugh at his typo. McCormick’s fingers are as thick as mine—Not conducive to texting.
Let’s meet @4 so we can get an hour in before group.
I love BALLS.
I eat, sleep, and breathe BALLS.
Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers saved my life when I considered throwing it away. The resources they offer are invaluable to veterans struggling to recover, rebuild, and adapt to life after the Army. It’s tough, real fucking tough, and for some…well, they don’t make it. More than eight thousand vets take their lives each year. Eight fucking thousand . Thank God I haven’t lost one of my BALLS brothers yet. West tried. Nash came close. And Rhett, fuck, it was touch and go for a while there, after he lost his mom, but we’re all still kickin’ this side of the dirt, and I thank BALLS for saving us.
The Bitches with Stitches trauma support group meets twice a week, officially, but unofficially? We meet up just about every damn day. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t see or hear from them. I’d be worried if I didn’t.
With the bike now finished, I pack away my tools and wash my hands in the utility sink. Even with the abrasive orange degreaser soap, I have to repeat the process three times before my hands look clean enough. The grease lives permanently under my blunt nails, the trademark of any mechanic.
“Hey, James,” I call across the garage, “Imma take off.” I hike my thumb toward the parking lot and he waves. James owns the garage, and also happens to be ALR, an American Legion Rider, so he’s pretty lenient about my coming and going, as long as I complete my work ticket. One thing he can’t stand is dealing with angry customers, not that I blame him.
I throw my leg over my bike and settle into my seat. The classic Road King is built for comfort, and easier on big guys like me who ride long distances. I’ll never understand why McCormick prefers his Super Glide to this bad boy. It’s even got a fuckin’ radio.
It’s just about four when I pull into BALLS. And here comes Mac. I can hear his engine growl when he guns it after slowing to turn into the parking lot. He parks next to me and grins as he removes his helmet, blinding me with his bright orange hair.
“Perfect timing,” he says, pulling his gym bag from his saddlebag.
I grab mine and we head inside.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” Margaret Anne greets with a warm smile.
She’s a doll, always manning the front desk so she doesn’t miss a single person who visits. She makes each one feel welcomed.
McCormick rests his elbows on her counter. “Hey, MA, did you do something to your hair? You look lovely.” He frowns, and adds, “I mean, you always look lovely, but today you look extra lovely.”
“Nice going,” I snort, jabbing him in the gut. It’s no wonder he’s in a dry spell. He sucks with compliments.
“She knows what I meant.”
Margaret Anne pats her short sleek gray bob and blushes. “Thank you. I had it cut and conditioned.”
“See?” he glares at me.
We make our way to the gym. Right away, I spot Riggs putting Rhett through his paces. Rhett grunts, struggling to count out loud as he does a rep of squats. His leg, once shattered during a jump with the 82nd Airborne, is now on the mend, pieced back together with rods and screws and metal plates. He might not have ever walked again if not for Riggs kicking his ass every day when he wanted to give up. If he hadn’t wanted Riggs’s dick so badly, I’m sure he would’ve.
“Hey, knuckleheads, watch this,” Rhett calls. He tries for a deep lunge but his knee gives out and he falls on his ass. “Damn, almost.” He struggles to his feet and tries again. “The day I finally get it, y’all ain’t gonna be here,” he predicts.
McCormick chuckles. “Keep chipping away at it, Rhett. You’ll get it.”
“Let’s go, soldier,” Riggs calls to his lover. “Walk it out on the treadmill so your leg doesn’t cramp up later.”
“Should we join him and warm up before hitting the weights?” I ask.
McCormick sets his bag down and reaches in to grab his sweat rag. “Sounds good.”
I keep my speed and resistance intentionally low to keep pace with him. His prosthetic doesn’t allow him to move as easily as I do. He weight-trains, but he’s not an athlete by any means. Hell, I blame his weight and hot dog and donut addiction more than his damn leg for his low cardio endurance.
“I finally closed that case for the guy with the stutter. They approved him for thirty percent disability and he paid me, so lunch is on me today,” he huffs, reaching for his water bottle.
“That’s awesome. I’m flat broke, so that works out great.”
His rust-colored brows draw down tightly. “What do you mean, you’re broke? You just got paid.”
I pass my hand over my sweaty head, dreading telling him. “I had some chick over last week. She brought her dog. A little hairy yappy thing. It had fleas, which I didn’t know at the time, and now my place is infested. I had to hire a pest control company to come out next week and spray.”
My infestation is lost on him as he focuses on just one thing, as I knew he would.
“You had a girl over? Did she stay the night?”
I just nod, not meeting his eyes.
His meaty fist connects with my bicep. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Instead of saying, ‘Cause you can’t get laid,’ I just shrug.
“It fucking serves you right, keeping shit from me,” McCormick says smugly.
He's right, and now I feel like a total ass. I just hate telling him I got some when he can't find any. He blames his leg and his scars, and feels like shit about himself. “Sucks about the fleas though,” he laughs, not sounding at all sympathetic.
“Yeah, they're fucking everywhere. I can't even sit on the couch. I think I've got flea bites on my ass.”
McCormick laughs so hard he has to pause the treadmill so he can catch his breath. Even Rhett, who overheard, is laughing.
“You gonna see her again?” Mac asks.
“Nah, she don't like my taste in TV shows and I don't like her dog.”
“You have great taste in TV shows,” he defends.
Of course he'd say that. We watch all the same shows together. “I know, right? Anyway, it was fun while it lasted.” Except it wasn't, because I had to stand while drinking my coffee this morning cause I can't trust my couch.
We power through our lifting routine with the weights until it's time for group. Riggs blows his annoying ass whistle, letting us know it's time. Grabbing our bags, we head down the long hallway to the back of the building where the classrooms are. Nash has Brewer pinned against the wall, practically blocking the doorway as they suck face.
“Can't you find an empty classroom?” I whine.
Brewer chuckles, pulling away from the kiss. “I'll see you after group,” he promises, heading into the classroom next to ours.
Brewer runs the addiction support group, and although Nash is a recovering addict, he prefers to join the Bitches with Stitches. What can I say? Our group is just superior.
“If we were both gay, who would be the top and who would be the bottom?” McCormick asks.
“Jesus Christ, Mac, where do you come up with this shit?”
“I don't know, I can't help it,” he laughs. “My head is full of weird shit.”
“Who says I would be fucking you if I was gay?”
“Just hypothetically speaking,” he insists.
“Hypothetically, I think your fucking head is bent.”
Rhett passes us, laughing. “Agreed.”
He watches him pass, followed by Riggs, who heads our meeting. “Which one of them do you think tops and which one bottoms?”
“No, you're not putting this shit in my head! I do not want to think of that.”
He cackles evilly. “What about West and Brandt? Which one of them do you think….”
He’s cut off by the couple in question who sneak up behind him. West gets him in a headlock and drags his knuckles through McCormick's thick orange hair.
“I'll call you over the next time we fuck so you can watch and take notes,” he jokes.
We take our seats around the circle, pulling our yarn and needles from our bags. I'm working on a scarf for my mother for Christmas. McCormick pulls out a deep red ball of yarn. He won't tell me what he's making, but it's usually some kind of sex toy. He has a whole collection of knitted ones that I have no clue what he does with. Nor do I want to know.
“Dude,” he says to Jax, who's already seated two chairs over. “You gotta check out this new spot I found. Off highway nine just after the big turn, right before you get to the little turn. The view is sick.”
How dare he give my spot away! “That's my spot!” What a fucking jackass.
McCormick looks unconcerned. “You said I could borrow it.”
“Borrow it, not steal it. If you start telling everybody and their mother, it won't be my spot no more.”
He just shrugs like he doesn't care. “Whatever. Anyway, you gotta check it out. Amazing sunsets.”
My eyes roll back in my head. Idiot . Last time I tell him anything. The rest of the Bitches find their seats— Mandy, Nash, and Pharo.
Riggs glances around the circle. “All right guys, let’s get started. Brandt, kick us off.”
“All right, well, I went to the doctor this week, and I got pretty good news. My hearing loss hasn’t gotten worse. I’m sure it will, but for now, it’s holding steady.”
Relief for my brother flows through me. A bomb blast—well, three, actually—took his hearing in one ear, and he’s down to thirty-five percent in the other.
“I’m also getting more comfortable using the hearing aid, except when West is around.”
West snickers. “What’d I do?”
“You know what you do,” he says, knocking West in the arm. “You pretend the TV is at max volume when it’s only at like ten, so I turn my hearing aid all the way up and then you raise the volume on the TV and fucking blast me out of my goddamn head.”
I hate to do it to Brandt, but I can’t help but laugh.
West goes next. “Anyway, I'm thrilled about his hearing. And I just can’t help fucking with him because I don’t want him to take it so seriously. It’s the same psychology he used on me about my damn leg. Remember when you painted the toenails of my prosthetic pink?” I remembered. I dared Brandt to do it. “Maybe I’ll get some nice earrings to dangle from your hearing aid.” He shoots Brandt a wink. “On a personal note, my buddy's wife sent some pictures of her new baby. It kills me, you know? If he hadn’t died….” West trails off, and he swipes the moisture from his eyes.
I can hear his emotions in his voice. My throat becomes thick and I think of Brandon, who I lost in service the day I got blasted out of my fuckin’ boots.
“He would have made such a great dad. God, I miss him.” He swipes his nose. “I miss all of them.” Brandt squeezes his thigh, and West gives him a grateful smile. “I’m okay. I promise. I just… I can’t imagine not being there to see my kid grow up.”
He waves his hand in front of his face, and I guess he’s done talking for now. Mandy picks up the slack. He looks like he’s struggling to find the right words. A range of emotions play across his face.
“Sometimes… people suck. Life sucks.”
We’re all here to share our honest feelings, the hard days where we don’t want to get out of bed, the flashbacks that haunt us, but Mandy is raising all kinds of red flags right now. The big guy is usually pretty positive, considering all that he’s been through.
“Some people, all they can see is my face, my scars, and some people don’t see me at all. Like, they purposely look away and avoid meeting my eyes because I make them uncomfortable. Sometimes, I hate feeling invisible, and sometimes, I wish I were actually invisible. If I’m out somewhere, walking in a crowd, I notice things. I notice the guy in front of me, or beside me, how no one ever looks twice at them. They don’t get stared at like a freak show. I’m not a fucking freak.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, conspicuously wiping the corners of his eyes dry. “When they look at me, they don’t see the man behind the scars. They don’t wonder how I got these scars, fighting for their fucking freedom, serving my country. They don’t know that I have a degree or that I can knit. They don’t care that I lost everything. All they see is that I have nothing now. Do they think I want to look like this? The only time I ever feel like myself is when I’m here with you guys.”
If he was going to say more, he doesn’t because he’s all choked up now. West crouches down in front of him, bracing his hands on Mandy’s knees.
“I don’t know who they are, but fuck them. You’re my best fucking friend, and I’m so grateful to even know you. You have no idea the impact you’ve made on my life.”
Nash, who’s sitting beside Mandy, wraps his arm around the big guy’s shoulders. “What he meant to say is that you’re my best friend, and you don’t know how many times you saved my ass. I can’t even measure all the goodness inside of you.”
Rhett, who’s seated next to me on Mandy’s right, adds, “Fuck them. You know you’re really my best friend, no matter what they both say. When I lost my mama, I realized I’d be okay ‘cause I still had you. Well, you and Riggs, and all the rest of these Bitches. I know it hurts, I know it feels lonely, even though you know you have all of us, and I think you’re so fucking badass for even admitting how you feel.”
He squeezes Mandy’s shoulder, and I’ve got to wipe my eyes dry. “We love you, Mandy,” I call out.
Riggs passes the torch to me, skipping Rhett while he’s busy consoling Mandy.
“I, uh, I changed the oil in McCormick’s bike.” What the fuck am I supposed to say after the last three Bitches made me cry? My week wasn’t very profound. “We tried that new Mexican restaurant on Forty-second and Belle. Uh, I think that’s it for me.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jax mutters.
“What? Sorry, my life isn’t falling apart,” I defend.
“McCormick?” Riggs prompts.
“Uh, I don’t know what to say. That place had really good salsa, though, didn’t it?”
“Hell yeah. We should go back.”
Mac bumps his fist against mine. “I got this new mustard from the store. It’s got wasabi in it. Totally changes my hot dog game.”
“Okay,” Riggs says, cutting off the rest of his sharing. “Anyone have anything of value to say? Jax?” Jax waves him off, shaking his head. “Pharo?” He also shakes his head. “Fine, then we’ll wrap it up early.”
“Hey, Riggs,” I call, crossing the circle to him. I tug at my shorts, pulling them partway down my ass. “Are these flea bites on my ass? Or is it something else I should be concerned about?” He would know with his medical background.
His face scrunches in distaste. “Pull your fucking pants up, Stiles. I don’t wanna see your ass. You should be more concerned about how you got flea bites on your ass.”
“Oh, I know exactly how I got them. I sat on that?—”
“Nooooo,” Riggs called loudly, covering his ears. “Can’t hear you.”
Shrugging it off, I tug my pants back up. “Do you wanna grab lunch?” I ask McCormick.
“Sure do. Let’s hit that Mexican place again. And when we’re done, we can head back to my house and I can take pictures of your butt and Google them on Web MD.”
“You two scare the fuck out of me,” West says, shaking his head.
“One hundred percent,” Jax agrees.