CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Riggs
“How long have you been having these episodes?” Dorian asked, his arms crossed. The fabric on his shirt pulled tight against his biceps, revealing his tattoo with his mother’s name, Evelyn. The man’s normal, permanent smirk that women had claimed to find charming was gone. Instead, the serious expression he’d worn in their two tours in Afghanistan marred his face. The dark stubble was thicker, too.
Fitting, this pointless conversation would happen as clouds rolled in, raising the humidity in the already stifling air.
“Just a few times,” Riggs lied, propped against his truck’s tailgate outside the gym. “I didn’t sleep well the night before.”
“Seems to happen more often.” D glanced at Roarke, who nodded. “Has it been like this since we returned stateside?”
He shook his head. Two years of rough nights? Hell no. That would’ve driven him insane long ago. The lack of sleep had started recently. But exactly when, he wasn’t sure.
“He said you went to the hospital, too.” Dorian swiped through his phone. As if checking his email or texts.
Until Riggs noticed the website—a medical page on PTSD.
“A horse kicked me in the shoulder. I needed a patch-up.”
Laurel’s tantrums had gotten worse after his parents announced a longer vacation than they’d intended. But he’d continued to diligently care for the horses every day. That had nothing to do with PTSD.
PTSD, seriously. It’s been nearly three years since that day.
Then it hit him like a hoof to the groin.
That day.
With Roarke at his parents’ barn. The hot water spray in his face.
Which had felt so much like the heat from the Humvee explosion in the middle of the desert. That trigger brought him straight back to the horrible day where he lost his XO, and one of his best friends.
“You need to see someone,” Dorian announced quietly. “I’m no expert, but I’m observant enough to see that.”
Riggs shook his head again. “I’ll figure it out on my own.”
His friend’s jaw flexed, but his expression was unreadable. “Why not?”
“Nothing they say or do can change what happened. What’s the point?”
“They can still help you with how you process it. You’re clearly reliving that day.” The way Dorian said those words—that day…
He knew exactly which one, which moment, replayed in his mind like a violent Groundhog Day.
How many times do I have to see Murphy’s vacant stare?
“Stop analyzing me, man.” Riggs scraped his hand down his face.
“There’s not much to analyze, shit-for-brains. You’re not that complex.” The smirk was back. His friend was an inch or two shorter, yet more than capable of holding his own in a scuffle. But he wasn’t here for a scuffle. As much as Riggs wished he could punch these weaknesses out with a good sparring session.
He curled his fingers into a fist, itching to throw a punch. He’d never been the violent type. Not even in battle when required. He still did his job, and did it well. He’d never enjoyed that part.
Nevertheless, he’d rather take another week in that hell hole than talk to someone about his feelings.
His nightmares.
Dredging all that up…nothing good could come from it.
Dorian stepped forward. “If this is about your pride—some self-reliance, macho trip—get over it. You don’t think I haven’t swallowed down vomit every now and then, remembering? I can guarantee every man in our unit has.”
“Enough.”
“You’re not the first to need help. Trust me. You sure as hell won’t be the last.”
Riggs pushed him back and stormed off, brushing his shoulder into his buddy’s.
“Murphy,” Dorian called behind him.
He froze.
Their unit’s code word. For the one who stayed behind so the rest could escape. He’d taken six bullets in the back to do it. Now, the name was used as a promise; an ironclad agreement to help whomever used the name.
That name meant more to Riggs than it did to the others in his unit. Because Murphy had died in his hands. He’d stared into the man’s face when the bullets ripped through his Kevlar, both lungs, and three chambers of his heart.
A red haze blurred his vision. As if the boiling resentment spilled over the brim. He whirled on his friend, and gripped his shirt in his fists.
“Don’t you ever say his name to me.”
Dorian didn’t shove him off, or even glare. The stone-faced Marine didn’t back down either. “Even Murphy would call a Murphy on this.”
Roarke and Bennett watched silently. Both alert, but their stares wary.
He let go of Dorian’s shirt, as if dry-ice seared the inferno in his chest. Now, all he felt was drained.
Every ounce of energy evaporated in the steam of guilt and repressed grief.
“I know somewhere we can go,” his friend continued. “Battle Buddy meeting, over at the Red Cross building. Grace looked them up for me. Just for vets.”
“What’s the point?”
“Let’s start with so you can have a decent night’s sleep.” Dorian grabbed his shoulder, his stare harsh, piercing, and way too intrusive. “If you go, I’ll give you a sleeping pill.”
“You’re bribing me with drugs?”
“If it’ll get you to come with me, hell yes. Either that, or a hand job, but I don’t think Renner’s available.”
Riggs snorted, and shook his head. “You’re such a jackass.”