Page 16 of Proof Of Life

“Duly noted, Nurse Ratched.”

She glares, unamused, and then, in a sweeter voice dipped in sugar, she asks, “Staff Sergeant, may I get you a dinner tray? I’m sure you’re hungry by now.”

“Thank you, Liza, I would appreciate that.”

She leaves, and he sits up. “Don’t go,” I half-joke, “your presence makes me more likable, apparently.”

“I’m not sure much of anything can make you more likable. And I’m not leaving, just going to sit up in a chair so I can eat.”

I take his measure as he settles into the plastic chair beside my bed, checking his phone for messages. He looks more rested than before, and in less pain, which brings me a small amount of satisfaction.

“You know,” he muses, without looking up from his phone, “there was a time when your vanity wouldn’t allow you to treat her like that.” Now he looks at me and smirks. “You had to be the most popular guy in the room, the most liked.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Those days are long gone. I’m at my worst. What the fuck do I care if she likes me? Getting laid is a thing of the past. I have bigger problems.”

Brandt sobers. “You’re right, you do have bigger problems. Tomorrow you begin physical therapy, and I won’t stand for you not taking it seriously. You better eat up and get some rest tonight because tomorrow begins a new chapter. The first day of the rest of your life.”

If I thought my life sucked lately, it’s nothing compared to how bad it’s going to get now that I’ve met my physical therapist, Navarro Riggs. The man is a fucking sadist. In fact, I’m convinced his calling in life is to make me suffer.

His six-one frame is packed with tightly defined muscle, and his dark eyes and hair highlight a harsh, sinister face. And if all that isn’t enough of a caution flag, his don’t-fuck-with-me attitude sure is.

“Sergeant Wardell, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Navarro Riggs, but you can just call me Riggs. We’ve got a lot of progress to make in a short time. Are you ready to get to work?”

Is he fucking kidding me with his clipboard and his Boy Scout pep talk? He’s even got a pen tucked behind his ear, like a real go-getter. He can fucking get gone for all I care, because I’m not here to work.

Apparently, my lackluster response really burns his ass because he leans down low to get right up in my face, gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, and lowers his voice at least four octaves.

“I hear you hate being in that chair. Which is great because when you’re in here with me, you won’t be using that chair whatsoever.”

Taking the bait, I reply, “Where in the fuck am I supposed to sit, then?”

“You’re not going to be sitting at all.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I sure as fuck can’t stand.”

An unholy light illuminates his dark eyes, putting me on guard. “I promise you, not only can you stand, but you’re going to walk, run, swim, ski, and do any other fucking thing you wish to do when I’m done with you.”

I snort right in his face, but it lacks humor. “You’re fucking dreaming. You can sell that bullshit to your other patients if they’re dumb enough to believe it, but I know better.”

Riggs smirks, looking completely self-satisfied. “I’m going to make you eat those words, Sergeant. The only thing standing in your way of getting out of this hospital is me. If you want to go home, you better fucking cooperate and prove to me you’re ready.”

His attitude is only igniting my temper further, and at this point, I just want to challenge every word that comes out of his mouth. Then again, I’m dying to get the fuck out of this hospital, and I’ll do just about anything he wants if it means getting him to sign off on my discharge.

“So what do I have to do to be a good little patient?” I sneer.

“You can start by losing the attitude. It’s not doing you any favors. And you’re wrong, you are going to get out of that chair. And you’ll be able to do all the things I promised you.”

Fuck this guy, with his two good legs and his you-can-do-it attitude. Who the fuck does he think he is, talking to me like that? “In case you haven’t noticed, Riggs,” I stress his name with all the attitude I can muster, “I only have one fucking leg.”

“That’s pretty fucking obvious,” he says, standing up and gripping his clipboard again, arms crossed over his wide chest.

“Exactly, so I won’t be swimming, running, hiking, skiing, or fucking—” He stops me there, smiling like an asshole.

“Why not? Did your dick get blown off in the blast, too?”

“What? No! I’ve still got my dick.”

“That’s good to know. Does it work?”

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