Page 38 of Proof Of Life
“Sit down,” I hiss, tugging on his arm.
Riggs looks entirely too pleased with himself, and I realize we’ve been had.
“Oh, did I forget to mention…we knit? Wardell, Aguilar, these are the Bitches with Stitches, a support group for disabled vets.”
West shrugs off my grip. “I don’t knit, and I don’t bitch.”
I practically choke on my snort. “All you do is bitch,” I say with a roll of my eyes. Some of the guys snicker, including Riggs, who’s heard West’s bitching firsthand.
He beats me to the door, and I charge after him, grabbing his shoulder. “You can’t leave.”
“Fucking watch me. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
“West–”
“Fucking knitting Brandt? Really?”
“Look, keep your voice down. I can hold my own in a fight, but some of these guys look like they can kick my ass with their hands tied behind their backs. Plus, you promised me.”
That seems to take some of the wind from his sails and he sags with defeat. “You owe me so fucking bad.”
And I chuckle because I can’t help it. “I know I do.”
West allows me to lead him back to the circle, and thankfully no one makes a big deal of it. They keep on stitching and bitching, as if we aren’t even here.
“Stiles, how’s the new job coming along,” Riggs asks, kicking off the group discussion.
Stiles is a big bear of a man, with shaggy black hair and a matching goatee. He’s using lime green yarn to knit what appears to be socks.
“They canned me.”
“You just started there,” someone points out.
“Yeah, I might’ve had one too many to drink and showed up late one too many times.”
He doesn’t sound bitter about it, and he hasn’t dropped one stitch while spewing brutal honesty about his shortcomings. Either this was a very safe space, or the guy had huge balls.
Riggs sighs. “We’ve talked about this, Stiles. No drinking past nine o’clock when you have to work the next day. I guess you’ll have to start looking for something new again.”
“Yeah, I know,” he admits with a heavy sigh. “I have to do better. What about you, McCormick?”
McCormick is the man who put his two cents in. He’s got to weigh at least two-fifty, and he’s got a nasty-looking scar across his cheek. His hair and full beard are a dark burnt orange.
“Went on a date last night. Crashed and burned.”
“Again?” another man asks.
“She never even showed. I mean, she probably did, saw me sitting there and took one look at me and my bum leg, and turned tail and ran.”
His bum leg was missing at the knee, like West’s, but unlike West, he didn’t hide it under pants. McCormick showed off his prosthetic with pride in a pair of cargo shorts.
“Can I ask where you’re finding these girls?” Riggs inquires.
“Tinder?” McCormick scratches his beard and lays his knitting down.
“Well, that’s your problem,” Stiles points out.
Riggs bites back a smile. “Are you mentioning in your profile about your leg?”