Page 61 of The Darkness Within

“I was never sane.” I laugh, tipping my mug to him in salute.

“Okay, enough,” Brewer concludes. “You have to get to work,” he says to Tex. “You have a morning meeting you’re going to be late for,” he reminds Nacho. “And you,” he says, looking at Miles, “I don’t know what it is you do all day, but go do it. Nash, you’re with me. I’m heading into BALLS early, and you have an appointment with Riggs in the gym. Bring a change of shorts or a bathing suit. Something you can get wet.”

Hell yeah, he wants to go for a swim with me after my workout? I’m down. Studying Brewer over the rim of my mug, I ask teasingly, “Do you ever feel embarrassed when you have to tell people you work at a place called BALLS?”

“No, never,” he deadpans. “I love BALLS.”

“We all love BALLS, Brewer,” Nacho jokes, slapping his dish rag down on the counter.

We pass Margaret Anne with a wave and continue on down the hall.

“I thought when I retired from the military that sweating before the morning sunrise was a thing of the past,” I bitch.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Brewer informs me with a smirk. As I’m about to head into the gym, he says, “Come see me when you finish. I’d like to start your EMDR today.”

“EMDR?”

“Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing Therapy. It helps with PTSD. It’s still a controversial and experimental treatment, but I don’t believe it’s harmful, and I think you’re the perfect candidate.”

“I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

When I enter the gym, I see Riggs heading toward me.

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“I did.”

“Go change in the locker room and meet me in the pool.”

Meet him in the pool? Not Brewer?

After changing into navy swim trunks, I find Riggs in the pool area, except he’s not dressed for swimming. Still wearing his track pants and BALLS T-shirt, his ever-present clipboard and stopwatch in hand, Riggs stands poolside like he’s not getting in.

Am I putting on a show for him? Water ballet?

“Here, hold this for me,” I say, depositing a little black ball of fur in his lap before he can object.

Riggs’s eyes roll. “Come on, not again.”

The echo of voices filter through the door leading in from the locker room.

“Sommers! You’re joining us, man?”

West Wardell? And McCormick? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot—what the fuck?

“Joining you for what? A leisurely dip in the pool?”

McCormick laughs. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

No, no, no, this is not what I signed up for today. “Brewer made it sound as if we were going for a swim together.”

“I bet he did,” West jokes. “Hey, Riggs, do you think we have enough members now to form a synchronized swimming team?”

Riggs smirks. “We’re getting there. Get in the pool.”

“Don’t start without me,” Brandt calls out, jogging out of the locker room. He executes a beautiful dive, and when he breaks the surface of the water, he shakes his head, sending droplets flying into West’s face.

“Damn man,” he complains, wiping his face, “give me a hand.” West and McCormick are seated on the side of the pool, removing their prosthetics.

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