Chapter 50
RIGGS
I’ve done some crazy, stupid shit in my life.
Shit that’s nearly ruined me. Shit that’s nearly killed me. Shit that should have. But this—what I’m doing right now—takes the crazy, stupid cake.
I’m not sure how long I sat at the bottom of the stairs, hating Gemma for stranding me down here, refusing to talk to me.
Long enough to listen her watch the last half of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Long enough to listen to her run a bath.
Long enough to listen to her carry on a full-fledged conversation with who I can only assume is her cat.
Long enough to decide that enough is enough.
Wheeling myself away from the stairs, I take myself to the kitchen sink. Locking my wheels, I stand so I can open the locked cabinet above it to retrieve the nearly full box of Churu treats.
“Good talk,” Gemma shouts from somewhere upstairs and I turn around to find obstacle number one, watching me with abject interest from the bottom of the stairs.
“Ohhh, so now you want to listen…” Pulling a paper plate from one of the cabinets, I reclaim my seat in my chair. Probably smarter to save my legs for what comes next. “You’re a fickle bitch, Janet.”
Blinking at me, Janet saunters over to her instruments of torture to slap at one of them in reply.
Angry
Patsy Cline starts to sing about falling to pieces from some unnamed room above me.
“You’re fuckin’ right I’m mad,” I mutter at her while I snatch the kitchen scissors from the knife block and start snipping and squeezing. “She left me down here and ignored me all goddamned day while she…”
While she what? What is it that you think Gem’s been doing up there all day?
Jaw clenched, I shake my head. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me who was here.”
Janet’s gray tufted ears prick forward and she flicks her tail. She might be an asshole but she’s no snitch.
“Didn’t think so.”
Angry… bitch
“Considering the alternative, I’ll take it,” I tell her, snipping and squeezing until the entire box of Churu is squeezed into a thick pool of cat treat on the plate in front of me.
Plate in hand, I wheel myself around to look at her.
“Don’t tear up the plate this time—it’s a dick move.
” Tossing it on the floor, I don’t wait for a reply.
Pushing myself over to the back stairs, I lock my wheels again.
Gripping the handrail that must’ve been installed for Dent before he was too far gone to navigate them, I pull myself out of my chair, regarding obstacle number two.
Alright Marine—you did what? Ninety whole minutes of dexterity training? Yeah—you totally got this.
Lifting my foot to the first step, I find my center, engaging my core to keep my balance before pulling the other up after it.
And I start to climb.
First one foot and then the other. Planting both on the same tread and finding my balance before I tackle the next. It’s agonizingly slow and more than a little humiliating. The same stairs I flew down as a kid, two at a time, a million times over, have become my Everest.
By the time I land on the switchback, ten measly steps behind me, my chest and back are slick with sweat, my T-shirt clinging to my skin. My knees are wobbling and there are a million niggling ants trapped beneath my skin. Not biting. Not stinging. Marching.
Dutifully relaying orders between muscle and brain. Doing what my nerves can no longer on their own.
As usual, Bruce was right. I pushed myself too hard during therapy.
I’ll be lucky to make it. I briefly consider sitting my ass on the bottom step and taking the rest of the stairs backward, bumping myself up on my ass, step by step, but I don’t.
Not only would that be admitting defeat, I’d also have to figure out a way to turn myself around and actually stand after reaching the top.
Quite frankly, I don’t trust my legs enough to say with confidence that I wouldn’t end up at the bottom of the stairs in a broken heap. One spinal injury is enough, thank you.
Focus up, Marine. Gem catches on to what you’re doing before you have her cornered, she’s just gonna run in the other direction and you’re not equipped to chase her down.
Right.
Listening to Patsy lament about lost love, I keep climbing.
First foot.
Second foot.
Balance.
Repeat.
Over and over until I finally reach the top.
Not giving my legs time to recover, I release the railing and pitch myself forward, angling for the open bathroom door where I see candles flickering.
The music is louder up here. Loud enough that I make it to the open bathroom doorway without her hearing me stumbling down the hallway like a drunk.
Catching myself on its frame, I stand here and look at her.
She’s soaking in the huge, claw-footed tub like I thought, honey blonde hair piled on top of her head to keep it dry.
A mountain of bubbles scraping the underside of her chin.
Scented candles flickering on the back of the toilet tank.
A white styrofoam take-out box on the small table next to her.
Her phone, the source of the music, propped on the sink and about twenty forks scattered on the floor between me and tub.
“No wonder I can’t find a fuckin’ fork in this house.”
When she hears me, Gemma lets out a loud, panicked bleat, her eyes flying open as she sits up so fast the movement sloshes suds and water over the edge of the tub.
“What the hell,” she screeches at me, mouth gaping when she sees me standing in her bathroom doorway, quickly putting two and two together.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Sitting up, just enough to show me the swell of her breasts, she leans over the side of the tub to glare at me. “You could’ve killed yourself.”
“Could’ve.” Widening my eyes, I give her a quick head bob. “Almost did a few times—those last three steps almost took me.”
Looking past me for a moment like she’s looking for someone behind me, she sharpens her startled gaze to a glare before it refocuses on my face. “What did you do to my cat?”
Her question reminds me I’m on a bit of a time table.
Levering myself away from the doorframe, I push myself into the bathroom and close the door.
“Sorry, Gem.” Locking it for good measure, I turn back to her, a shitty smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.
“But I just gave her an entire box of Churu treats—” Leaning my hips against the sink, I toe off my trainers, first one and then the other, before kicking them into the corner behind the door. “Pretty sure she’s my cat now.”
“You’re insane.” Shaking her head at me, Gemma grips the edge of the tub, her intent to climb out of it obvious.
“Yeah…” I let my gaze dip from her face to the tantalizing view below it before I force myself to meet hers. “You should definitely do that.”
Retreat stalled by the warning in my tone, Gemma lets go of the tub and sinks until her shoulders disappear into the water. “What do you want, Riggs?”
“Oh… we’ll get to that.” Hooking my fingers into the neckline of my sweat soaked T- shirt, I drag it up over my head. Tossing it into the corner on top of my shoes, I flash her an insolent grin while hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my track pants. “First things first.”
Reading my intentions, her eyes go round, like she isn’t the woman I had naked and coming all over my bathroom counter last night. Dragging her shocked gaze away from my obvious hard-on, she shakes her head. “If you think, for one?—”
“There’s no think about it.” I say it like it’s a foregone conclusion because it is. “I’m getting in that tub.”
“Water displacement is a thing and you’re roughly the size of a bus,” she says, trying to reason with me. “If you get in this tub you’re going to flood my bathroom.”
“I’ve already told you—you should probably get out while you still can.
” Thumbs hooked in my waistband, I start to work my pants off before I stop.
“You might want to avert your virgin eyes,” I warn her with a wicked smile that stains her cheeks and pulls a strangled, cock-jerking scream up the length of her throat.
“Whoops.” Testing her resolve, I work my pants down another inch while she glares at me with equal parts frustration and murderous intent. “Too soon?”
Averting her glare, she aims it straight ahead, fixing it away from me. “I hate you, Riggs Wheeler,” she hisses, cheeks flushed, that pretty jaw of hers cocked at a stubborn angle. “I hate just about everything about you.”
Like it used to, hearing her say it nearly guts me.
Probably because I know, one of these days, she’s going to mean it.
“No you don’t.” Pushing the thought away, I focus on here.
Now. “I wish you did though—” Jerking my pants down, I step out of them, hand braced on the sink, steadying myself for the handful of steps between me and the tub.
“It would’ve made staying away from you a helluva lot easier. ”
“No need to make it easier,” she reminds me, gaze still averted while I cover the few steps that separate us. “You seemed to be doing just fine on your own.”
“I wasn’t.” Reaching down, I grip the edge of the tub while force feeding my intent down the length of my spine and across the network of artificial neuropathways that connect my brain to my legs.
Lifting one of them slowly, I barely get it over the side of the tub to sink it into the water.
“I wasn’t doing fine. I was dying, Gem. I was fucking dying. ”
When she hears my confession, her head jerks on her neck like she wants to look at me, but she doesn’t. “Riggs…”
“I already told you, Gem.” Foot planted in the tub, I lift the other and repeat the process, gripping either side of it while I ease myself into the water behind her, situating my legs on either side of her.
The water makes it easier. My movements smoother.
She was right to be worried about the water level.
My considerable weight has lifted it to the curled edge of the tub.
Not wasting time or giving her a chance to get away, I reach for her.
Hands wrapped around her upper arms, I pull her toward me.
Ignoring the way the water leaks over the side of the tub, I keep pulling until I feel the top of her head graze the underside of my chin before is slips past it to rest on my shoulder. “First things first.”