Page 19 of Warrior's Walk

“Too busy saving the world,” he smirks.

I’m not gonna acknowledge the rush of relief I feel at hearing he doesn’t have a private life outside of work. The only downside is that I fall into that same category. I’mwork.

“You drive four hours away to volunteer on your days off? Are you a glutton for punishment or a candidate for martyrdom?”

“Actually, you’re not the only one considering a change of scenery. I’ve been thinking about spending more time out there and less time here.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

Riggs shrugs. “Because it makes me feel good, and lately, I just want to chase that good feeling. I’m ready for less sacrifice and more reward.”

I’m not sure what that means, but the idea of following him out there is appealing, not gonna lie.

“What am I supposed to do for money out there? Can’t be many job opportunities in a small town like Black Mountain.”

“Like you said, slinging shots at the local bar.”

“So really, the only difference between Fayetteville and Black Mountain is that I won’t be runnin’ into the ghosts of my past ‘round every corner? I’ll still be workin’ in some hole-in-the-wall beer joint?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. The Black Mountain Tavern is a step up from a beer joint. They’ve got live music on Friday nights.” He smiles because he knows he’s being an ass. “But seriously, I guarantee you won’t be sorry. BALLS can help you live a better life. They can help you figure out what you’re meant to do next, and I promise you’ll fit right in with those guys. You’re already making ball jokes.”

“I’ll think about it,” I concede.

Riggs stands. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out another pamphlet, highlighting the importance of educating yourself on the risks and management of hepatitis.

“Make me an eagle.”

He tosses it on my tray table and throws me a smile before gifting me with a view of his perfect ass, swaying side to side in his fitted black scrub pants as he walks away.

The man is seriously fucking fine. But fine enough to move four hours away to the middle of Nowhere-ville? That remains to be seen.

The drivefrom Fayetteville to Black Mountain is breathtaking and unforgettable. Usually, I put my nineties rock and alternative soundtrack on and roll down the windows. Even in the summer, the breeze feels amazing, especially the higher in elevation you get. The views of the Uwharrie National Forest in the fall are spectacular, although it’s gorgeous anytime of year. But when I pass the South Mountains and enter the Pisgah National Forest, I know I’m home.

That’s what Black Mountain feels like to me—home.

I can breathe up here. My heart slows down and my head evens out. My heart and soul are in these mountains.

Years ago, I bought a little house up here. Nothing special, just a two-bedroom, one-bath place on five acres. It was the view that sold me. The backyard overlooks a valley below with the prettiest little stream. When the leaves on the trees turn colors, it looks like God himself painted an unimaginable canvas of fiery and golden hues that are to die for.

Not only that, but the people are friendlier, there’s no traffic, and time just seems to slow down up here. It’s the kind of place where you stop taking things for granted and start enjoying living.

I park my truck in front of the house, grab my duffel from the backseat, and check my mail. The first thing I always do when I get here is fire up the hot tub, strip down, and soak away my stress. The steamy bubbles and breathtaking view are the most effective elixirs. After my mail is sorted and my bag is squared away, I climb into the hot tub and sigh with pleasure as the hot water bubbles over my shoulders, loosening every tight knot beneath my skin. The sun is setting over the ridge, a rusty blazing ball of fire in a pastel sky.

If only I could stay forever.

Maybe… maybe I can.

My eyes drift closed and I focus on the hum of the jets and bubbles, on the steam bathing my face, opening up my lungs with each inhaled breath. The effervescent bubbles tickle my soft cock, and I brush my hand over it. Mindlessly, I tug at it a few times, and it feels good, good enough that I consider playing with it. I don’t have my phone with me, so watching a video is out of the question. Instead, I try to recall a face or body to focus on, but the only one that comes to mind is his.

Rhett’s.

I let go of my dick and open my eyes to clear my head. I refuse to jack off to him. His gorgeous face, those playful hazel eyes, and lickable dimples are not going to get airtime in my head. But no matter how many faces I run through, I keep coming back to his.

Fuck it. There’s no one here to know I got off to him, and it certainly won’t be the first time.

I close my eyes and reach again for my cock, recalling the strength and warmth of his hand in mine, the vulnerability in his eyes, and the intimate connection between us that was forged in the most unlikely circumstances. Those memories are replaced by newer ones—the electric light in his eyes when I walked into his hospital room. His smiling face and unadulterated joy whenhe discovered me in the therapy room. The fire sparking in his hazel eyes when he challenged me about moving on and starting over.

I imagine Rhett in new scenarios, instances where I make him laugh. His rugged, smiling face, shining with happiness. What if I touched him? Would I see fire in his eyes? Would they burn for me? What does his mouth taste like? I’d bet his tongue feels like warm velvet. In my fantasy, his nipples are tight and brown, and his chest is barely furry, just enough to remind me he’s all male.

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