Page 6 of Hot Doggin'
I eat, sleep, and breathe BALLS.
Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers saved my life when I considered throwing it away. The resources they offer are invaluable to veterans struggling to recover, rebuild, and adapt to life after the Army. It’s tough, real fucking tough, and for some…well, they don’t make it. More than eight thousand vets take their lives each year.Eight fucking thousand. Thank God I haven’t lost one of my BALLS brothers yet. West tried. Nash came close. And Rhett, fuck, it was touch and go for a while there, after he lost his mom, but we’re all still kickin’ this side of the dirt, and I thank BALLS for saving us.
The Bitches with Stitches trauma support group meets twice a week, officially, but unofficially? We meet up just about every damn day. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t see or hear from them. I’d be worried if I didn’t.
With the bike now finished, I pack away my tools and wash my hands in the utility sink. Even with the abrasive orange degreaser soap, I have to repeat the process three times before my hands look clean enough. The grease lives permanently under my blunt nails, the trademark of any mechanic.
“Hey, James,” I call across the garage, “Imma take off.” I hike my thumb toward the parking lot and he waves. James owns the garage, and also happens to be ALR, an American Legion Rider, so he’s pretty lenient about my coming and going, as long as I complete my work ticket. One thing he can’t stand is dealing with angry customers, not that I blame him.
I throw my leg over my bike and settle into my seat. The classic Road King is built for comfort, and easier on big guys like me who ride long distances. I’ll never understand why McCormick prefers his Super Glide to this bad boy. It’s even got a fuckin’ radio.
It’s just about four when I pull into BALLS. And here comes Mac. I can hear his engine growl when he guns it after slowingto turn into the parking lot. He parks next to me and grins as he removes his helmet, blinding me with his bright orange hair.
“Perfect timing,” he says, pulling his gym bag from his saddlebag.
I grab mine and we head inside.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” Margaret Anne greets with a warm smile.
She’s a doll, always manning the front desk so she doesn’t miss a single person who visits. She makes each one feel welcomed.
McCormick rests his elbows on her counter. “Hey, MA, did you do something to your hair? You look lovely.” He frowns, and adds, “I mean, you always look lovely, but today you look extra lovely.”
“Nice going,” I snort, jabbing him in the gut. It’s no wonder he’s in a dry spell. He sucks with compliments.
“She knows what I meant.”
Margaret Anne pats her short sleek gray bob and blushes. “Thank you. I had it cut and conditioned.”
“See?” he glares at me.
We make our way to the gym. Right away, I spot Riggs putting Rhett through his paces. Rhett grunts, struggling to count out loud as he does a rep of squats. His leg, once shattered during a jump with the 82nd Airborne, is now on the mend, pieced back together with rods and screws and metal plates. He might not have ever walked again if not for Riggs kicking his ass every day when he wanted to give up. If he hadn’t wanted Riggs’s dick so badly, I’m sure he would’ve.
“Hey, knuckleheads, watch this,” Rhett calls. He tries for a deep lunge but his knee gives out and he falls on his ass. “Damn, almost.” He struggles to his feet and tries again. “The day I finally get it, y’all ain’t gonna be here,” he predicts.
McCormick chuckles. “Keep chipping away at it, Rhett. You’ll get it.”
“Let’s go, soldier,” Riggs calls to his lover. “Walk it out on the treadmill so your leg doesn’t cramp up later.”
“Should we join him and warm up before hitting the weights?” I ask.
McCormick sets his bag down and reaches in to grab his sweat rag. “Sounds good.”
I keep my speed and resistance intentionally low to keep pace with him. His prosthetic doesn’t allow him to move as easily as I do. He weight-trains, but he’s not an athlete by any means. Hell, I blame his weight and hot dog and donut addiction more than his damn leg for his low cardio endurance.
“I finally closed that case for the guy with the stutter. They approved him for thirty percent disability and he paid me, so lunch is on me today,” he huffs, reaching for his water bottle.
“That’s awesome. I’m flat broke, so that works out great.”
His rust-colored brows draw down tightly. “What do you mean, you’re broke? You just got paid.”
I pass my hand over my sweaty head, dreading telling him. “I had some chick over last week. She brought her dog. A little hairy yappy thing. It had fleas, which I didn’t know at the time, and now my place is infested. I had to hire a pest control company to come out next week and spray.”
My infestation is lost on him as he focuses on just one thing, as I knew he would.
“You had a girl over? Did she stay the night?”
I just nod, not meeting his eyes.
