Chapter 6
RIGGS
Now
When my phone rings, I know who it is before I even reach for it.
It’s Reese.
I know it’s Reese because my mother is the second most tenacious woman I’ve ever met in my life. She’d never been one to give up—especially when it comes to her children.
“It’s 5AM,” I inform her by way of greeting. “Who the fuck raised you?”
“A man who thinks bologna is a health food and sunrise is just a suggestion,” she shoots back before giving me a long, heavy sigh. “Your mother called me.”
“Yeah,” I shoot back. “I got that.”
“She says you’re being ridiculous.”
“That’s me—Ridiculous Riggs.”
“Ridiculous is my word,” Reese informs me. “Her words were Riggs is being a pig-headed asshole again.”
I laugh, the sound of it rough in the back of my throat because I never did get the water I asked for. Turning my head, I can see the outline of my plastic pitcher lying on the floor, across the room. A casualty of my earlier bitch fit. “My mom’s always had the soul of a poet.”
Laughing despite the fact that she called me to yell at me, Reese gives me another sigh. “You’re not going to Houston.”
“I’m not?” I knew this was coming. My mom might not be back tomorrow morning but that doesn’t mean she’s given up.
No—my mother won’t be back because she’s smart.
She knows I won’t listen to her about this.
She knows that no amount of pushing or pleading from her will move me.
Siccing Reese on me is her parting shot on her way back to Galveston, and her best chance at getting me to do what she wants.
Pushing is Reese’s specialty but pleading isn’t her style.
“No, you’re not,” she tells me. “You, Riggs Wheeler, are coming home.”
“No,” I tell her, her declaration killing the laughter in my dry throat. “I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are,” she tells me. “You’re coming home and you’re going to let Dr. Ragnar fix you.”
“The fuck I am,” I growl at her, glare aimed at the ceiling above me.
“The fuck you’re not,” she growls back. “You’re coming home, Riggs.” She says it again, her tone telling me that as far as she’s concerned, it’s a done deal. “So you might as well quit being such a goddamned baby about it.”
“I’m not,” I practically snarl at her, my face falling into a scowl.
“You’re not what?” she asks on a laugh. “You’re not being a baby or you’re not coming home?”
“Both. Either.” I bark at her, feeling my jaw snap tight when I hear her laughing at me from the other end of the line because she’s right. I’m being ridiculous and I know it.
“One of the top spinal surgeons in the country operates out of a hospital fifteen minutes from where I’m standing and you’re telling me that you’re not willing to at least consider it?
” She says, her tone caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you aren’t a baby. Maybe you’re just dumb.”
“Fuck you, Redford,” I mutter into the phone, my gaze narrowing down to slits. Lifting my hand, I give my face a hard swipe. “You can still walk. You can?—”
“You could too if you’d just get over yourself and fucking try, you selfish prick,” Reese cuts me off in a hard, even tone that shames me instantly.
“Jesus, Reese…” Scrubbing my hand over my mouth again, I drop it away from my face on a heavy expel of breath. “I’m sorry. Shit, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You weren’t,” she tells me bluntly. “At least not about anyone but yourself.”
Ouch.
“You’re right.” ALS took her mom when she was nineteen after a long battle that started when Reese was twelve.
The fact that I’m lying here, refusing to at least try after watching her own mother being slowly robbed of her life, day after day—her ability to walk.
Her ability to hug her children. Hold her husband’s hand.
Breathe—must make her hate me. “I’m an asshole. ”
“You are an asshole,” Reese confirms on a hoarse bark of laughter, the sound of it telling me she’s battling back tears.
There isn’t much Reese Redford hates more than crying.
“A lucky asshole. It might not feel like it right now, but you are. You’re lucky, Riggs, because you’re still here. You still have a chance.”
“Reese…” Even though I know I’m being an asshole—a ridiculous, crybaby asshole—I still can’t do it. I still can’t say yes. Still can’t make myself go back there.
Not if I have to see her.
It’s been years. Chances are, Gemma Pierce is happily married with a gaggle of kids. She’s somebody’s mother. Somebody’s wife.
Jesus, just the thought of it makes me want to scream. And maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe it’s not about me being afraid to see her. Maybe it’s about me being afraid to see her happy. Taken care of and loved by someone else.
Someone who isn’t me.
You’re probably nothing more than a footnote in her personal history. An embarrassing memory. Her brother’s best friend—the one she had a crush on once. You’re the only one with the problem here, Wheeler. Everyone else has moved on. No one else gives a shit about the past but you.
“Dr. Merrick saved my dad, after…” She trails off because she doesn’t like to talk about it.
How close she came to losing him after what that psycho, Ethan Pryce did to him.
“If she thinks Dr. Ragnar can help you, I know she can, Riggs. I know she can and I won’t let you waste the opportunity she’s offering you.
I won’t just sit here and watch while?—”
“How would it even work?” I ask, trying to appeal to her sense of practicality.
“Mom and Dad live in Galveston. Cam lives in New York. Beck’s in California,” I say, ticking off my far flung support system, one by one.
“You live with your dad and little brother and the last thing you need is another lame duck to worry about.” Shaking my head, I realize that it’s not her I’m trying to convince that this isn’t going to work.
It’s me. “Rehab will take months. I’d have to?—”
“I’ll figure it out,” Reese says in a rush because she can hear the indecision in my voice. She knows she has me on the ropes and she’s not going to let up until I give in. “Just say yes and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Shit.
“Reese…” I can hear it in my tone, even if she can’t. Panic. Hopefully if she can hear it, she’ll attribute it to the fact that I’m afraid to try, not that I’m afraid of Beckett Pierce’s little sister. “I don’t?—”
“You’re my best fucking friend, Riggs Wheeler, and I am not taking no for answer,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Just get your ass to Texas and I’ll handle the rest.”