Copyright © 2025 by Raquel Riley

www.raquelriley.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All products and brand names are registered trademarks of their respective holders/companies.

This book contains sexually explicit material which is only suitable for mature audiences.

Cover design by Raquel Riley

Editing by Christy Ragle

For Pharo,

It took me a long time to figure out who you were.

Your heart is soft and your soul deep.

You were unexpected, in the best ways.

For Jax,

Pharo’s right, you’re a petty fucker,

but I’ve grown to love you for it.

I thought you would never tell me your story,

buried beneath layers of hurt.

I’m so grateful you opened up to me.

CONTENT WARNING

This book deals with heavy sensitive topics like mental health and depression, low self-esteem, and healing after loss and survivor’s guilt.

Death of side characters on page, vulgar language, disfigurement and amputation, anger, and self-hatred.

Alcohol consumption.

FOREWORD

I spent hours researching for this book, but I’m no expert on military life and law. There may be inconsistencies mentioned.

Mention of military bases with retired names, like Ft. Bragg, are referred to as such as this story takes place during the Obama administration before the names were changed.

Careful research and sensitivity screening was done for survivors of war and survivors of trauma. Any derogatory words mentioned by the main characters are his own feelings about himself, not others, due to his grief process.

With Love,

Raquel Riley

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Also by Raquel Riley

About the Author

Acknowledgments

BLURB

When a friendship sours and tempers flare, everything heats up.

Pharo-

Responsibility for human lives is the heaviest burden to bear, and it’s not something I ever want to shoulder again.

Jax used to respect me when he was under my command. Now, I can’t even pay him to breathe the same air as me. His hatred runs deep, but it’s misplaced—and frankly, I’m tired of being the target of his scorn.

Enough is enough. It’s time to show him how wrong he is—by reason or force. I shouldn’t be looking forward to this so much.

Jax-

If you can’t lead... don’t. But Pharo did. He took command of a team he never should have been responsible for, and I lost my best friend because of his bad judgment. I’ve spent years making sure he never forgets the pain he caused, and he’s spent years avoiding responsibility.

But Pharo isn’t running anymore. And I’m learning the only thing sweeter than revenge is the taste of his mouth.

Coming In Hot is the second book in the Bitches With Stitches series. A connected work of the Scars and Stripes Trilogy. Enemies to lovers, found family, mercenary action, hurt comfort, and badass men who knit.

CHAPTER 1

PHARO

“GSC, this is Havoc. Approaching the landing.”

The crackle of static fills my ear.

“Havoc, this is GSC, good copy,” Milo returns.

“I’ll be back at headquarters before you know it. Don’t you touch that sandwich. It’s mine. I licked it.”

His laughter filters through my headset. Milo handles communications at headquarters, and whenever I’m away, my lunch mysteriously disappears. Switching channels on my headset, I yell into my mic at my crew, “We’re coming in hot! They have boots on the ground. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. You are to provide backup support for the medical staff. If you encounter fire, return fire.”

Technically, we’re only supposed to return fire as a secondary option, after evasion, but fuck that noise. If someone shoots at me, they’re going to get shot at.

I hope these insurgent fuckers are prepared to swallow a bullet, because I don’t often miss.

On paper, we may not be at war, but in a country as divided in political conflict as Egypt, everything is war.

The rhythmic whup, whup, whup of the helicopter’s blades reverberates through the air like a steady pulse, drowning out everything but the voices in my ear. Each rotation cuts through the atmosphere with a powerful swish, causing a vibration that rumbles through the fuselage, shaking everything from the seat beneath my ass to the controls in my hand.

As a pilot, flying is a delicate balance of focus, intuition, and control. When I’m in the air and the might of the machine is at my mercy, I become one with the bird. Raven and I have a connection. We understand each other. But like any pretty girl, she’s high maintenance and demands constant attention.

Every motion is a conversation with the aircraft, a dialogue of subtle adjustments, and after piloting her for the past three years, I’ve learned to speak Raven’s love language.

“Touching down. Heads on swivel!”

My team is ready, goggles down and guns in hand. Well, not my team, exactly. I pilot them. Fly them in and out of danger, and get them where they need to go. But I don’t lead them. I gave up that responsibility long ago.

Willingly. Gratefully. And with a heavy heart.

The air is alive with an electric current—adrenaline, excitement, danger— that’s both thrilling and demanding. Once I land this bird, anything can happen. Lives lost, bodies injured, or the relief and satisfaction of completing our mission without obstacles or casualties.

Despite the ear-shattering noise, my focus is sharp and clear. Control must be maintained at all times when you’re handling this much power. The sound becomes second nature, a background hum to the complex dance of keeping the craft steady in the air. The pitch of the blades, the rumble of the engine, and the wind outside the cockpit combine into a singular soundtrack of flight that grows louder the lower we drop, as if the sound reverberates off the ground and roars back at us.

Hot, dusty air surrounds the chopper in a thick cloud as we touch down, diminishing our visibility. The team scrambles off the bird like it’s on fire. They yell Gehenna!—The name of our team.

Gehenna means a place of misery. Hell on Earth. The way God's justice deals with evil in the world, much like we do.

Jaw clenched tightly, I watched them clear the soccer field, the only place I could find to land quickly in the city. Greystone negotiated a deal with the Egyptian government to access common areas, such as parks, schools, and hospitals, making it easier for me to land my big-assed bird just about anywhere.

Gehenna disappears single-file into the tree line. There’s barely any perimeter as it bleeds into the asphalt jungle of the city. As always, I throw a prayer to whoever is listening up above that they make it back to me. They’ll rendezvous with the medical team and make sure they get wherever they’re going safely. There are too many factions in this region that want to see international aid programs fail. Mostly so they can take control of the region and claim power.

I may not work for Uncle Sam any longer, which was the greatest honor of my life, but I still have the satisfaction of knowing that I’m risking my life to keep others safe and to forward an agenda that will save thousands, if not millions, of people who can’t defend themselves.

There’s nothing I hate more than a bully, and no matter who signs my paychecks, fighting for justice, freedom, and knocking down the Brotherhood and others like them one by one is my sole purpose in life.

Transitioning from a hover, I tilt back on the stick and lift Raven off the ground and circle the area, checking to see if I can spot trouble lying in wait for my team. Only after I’ve cleared a five-mile radius do I take off and risk leaving them on their own.

They’ll be in touch soon enough. Greystone Security’s headquarters isn’t far. Less than seventy klicks. I can return in a matter of minutes.

When I return to Greystones’ concrete fortress, I head straight to my quarters. They’re not much, just a cot, a small desk, and four cinder block walls. What more do I need? Nothing about this facility is high-tech or luxurious, except for the equipment and the security.

God himself couldn’t breach these walls without setting off a dozen alarms and bringing every armed mercenary out of hiding to witness his swift death.

I don’t have much with me besides a large duffel shoved under the cot. When I’m deployed to Egypt, I travel light. My team moves around from base to encampment, making a home wherever we’re needed, wherever conflict arises. Sometimes that’s in a jungle, sometimes on the shores of the Mediterranean or the Red Sea as a pirated ship tries to dock illegally, and sometimes it’s in the desert or the Sinai Mountains, my least favorite of all.

Reminds me too much of my time in the Army.

Rolling onto my mattress, I grab my charcoal gray beanie from my go bag, stretch it over my head, and pull it down low over my eyes. Time to catch a few minutes of R&R before I inevitably get called to put a fire out somewhere.

Fuck, it smells like him. Like… coconuts and tropical vacations, the scent of his favorite vape.

Did I pilfer this hat from Jax’s backpack when he wasn’t looking? Yes.

Do I regret it now that I can’t get him out of my head? Fuck yes.

He makes these things by the dozen—probably because he sucks at knitting and a hat is all he can manage—so I didn’t think he would miss one. After all, it’s not like I can knit any better. I can’t even stitch a straight line.

Could I have simply asked him for one? Sure, but knowing Jax, he would rather set it on fire and watch it burn in front of my eyes than hand one to me.

Jaxon James is a petty fucker.

As always, thoughts of him bring back unwanted memories of the past. Memories I would love to keep buried six feet under the ground, except that every time I see Jax, he digs them up again with a blunt shovel. Blowing out a breath, I chuckle and sit up, whipping the beanie off my head. I won’t be getting any shuteye with my head such a mess.

Making my way down the maze of corridors to the dining hall, I search for my sandwich and find it untouched. Grabbing it from the refrigerated case, I unwrap it and eat as I walk. The communications room is where I spend most of my time when my team is outside the wire. It’s dark, illuminated only by the glow from the bank of monitors that line the wall. The screens feed advantageous views from all over Egypt, and a bird's-eye view of Sinai. Several screens show aerial drone feeds and grainy footage from the helmet cam on Gehenna’s team leader, Arlo Bacille.

That’s the one I tap into. Looks like they’re trekking through Beni Suef, a city trying desperately to climb out of poverty as they build a future in manufacturing textiles. The team of medical personnel wants to go into the factories and treat the workers who spend over sixteen hours a day in the shittiest conditions, trying to provide a living wage for their families.

The entire region is steeped in unrest as they muck through their first Democratic election. They’re quickly headed toward a state of emergency if they can’t get their parliament under control. The Muslim Brotherhood has been a constant thorn in our side during the political negotiations and campaigning. I’ve seen more death and violence here than I had in Iraq.

The crowd becomes larger, more densely packed together, and grows more restless by the second, shoving each other and shouting in Arabic. A protester rips the stick off his sign and bashes one of the medical personnel over the head. Chaos erupts as my team rushes forward to surround the healthcare staff. The feed becomes grainy before cutting out altogether, leaving the screen dark.

My heartbeat spikes, and my senses are on high alert. “What happened? Where did they go? Can you get it back?”

Milo scrambles to recover the feed, pressing buttons and typing code. “It’s gone, Havoc. Most likely that stick broke the camera on his helmet.”

Yeah, when they bashed him over the head like they did that nurse. Fuck this, I’m not waiting for a communication from them to pull off a rescue. They may not be able to even send it.

“I’m going in. Page Orson and tell him to move it.”

I don’t have a second to spare as I make a mad dash down the hall. The cold metal of the locker’s handle bites into my palm as I yank it open, revealing the neatly arranged go bag, packed with everything I’ll need. I toss it over my shoulder with practiced ease. It settles comfortably as I exit the supply room and dart down the corridor, the sound of my boots thudding against the floor a constant reminder of the urgency.

My copilot, Orson, jogs up behind me, go bag in hand. “Let’s go get our team and bring them home,” he yells.

I turn the corner, the helipad just ahead, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. I push myself harder, each step fueled by adrenaline as the wind whips across the open field. The bag shifts on my shoulder, but I don’t slow down—not for a second.

Despite my panic and worry for them, years of training beaten into me helped me remain calm as I focused on my extremely shortened preflight checklist. I've only been on the ground for three hours. She’s still good to go from my last flight.

“Come on, baby, be a good girl for Daddy,” I coo, running my fingers softly over the control panel as I check my gauges, powering her up.

“You talking to me, or to Raven?” Orson teases.

My belly flip-flops with anxiety as we lift off. Thankfully, the roar drowns out some of the thoughts swirling in my head. I don’t want to assume the worst, I just want to get there and assess the situation and bring my team the fuck home.

The twenty-six-minute flight feels much longer. I touch down on the roof of a textile factory about a block away from the massive crowd we flew over. We don’t have permission to land here, but technically, we’re just hovering. God willing, we’ll be in and out before it becomes a problem. If anyone is injured, we’re gonna have a hell of a time getting back to the bird, because we’re going to have to make a run for it. The crowd is angry. They feel we foreigners are interfering with their election, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Switching control to you,” I inform Orson. “Keep her hovering. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

“You’re getting out?” he asks, surprised.

But he shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time I’ve gone after them.

“Just keep her warm. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

Before I climb down from the helo, I reach for my ruck and pull out a black balaclava to cover my face and hair. My Egyptian heritage, through my mother’s side, gave me the rich golden skin that many of the locals have, but my father’s Caucasian European heritage sets me apart enough that I don’t want to risk standing out among the crowd. Also, my black cargo pants and shirt don’t exactly scream factory worker.

I need a quick extraction, in and out with no fuss, like a blind date gone bad.

Using the emergency stairs, I take them two at a time, clearing all four floors of the building before pushing out onto the crowded street. Immediately, I’m consumed by the mob, defending myself from being shoved in every direction. I keep my head down and shove back, cutting directly through the fringe of the horde to the heart of it.

Arlo saw my bird fly over. He shoots up a flare, the sparks bursting over the melee, giving away his position. I’m thirty yards out, but it might as well be six miles in this crowd. I head toward the spot where I saw the flare come from, my arm shooting out reflexively to block my face from a glass bottle being shoved at it. My cheek burns like fire, but I keep moving, head down, tightly clutching the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

The crowd parts, and I see them up ahead. Pushing harder, I shove my way through the pack until I reach Arlo.

“Havoc!” He shouts with relief. “We gotta move.”

“Let’s clear out.” A quick head count reveals we’re not missing anyone, including medical staff. I lead them back the way I came, but it’s slower going now that we’re plus twelve bodies.

I hate that my team is split in half, but that’s the way we do things. Half in front of the volunteers, and the other half bringing up the rear, protecting their six. But my focus is on clearing a path quickly and securing an escape route, and I have to trust that they’ll shoot their way out if need be.

I wish I had my helmet on with my headset, because I can’t hear shit over this crowd. Up ahead, I spot the building and the door I came out of and hustle my team across the street. Again, I take the stairs two at a time, and when I reach the rooftop, I run for Raven and climb aboard.

“Buckle the fuck in,” I bark, sliding my helmet over my ears. “It’s gonna be a rough ride. Quick and dirty, and I can’t promise nobody in that crowd is going to launch a rocket or some other shit at us.”

Arlo settles everyone and then dangles his legs out the side of the bird, his gun gripped tightly in his hands.

“They can fucking try,” he shouts. “I double dog dare them.”

Shit, he looks like he wants to shoot something. Or someone.

Opening up the throttle to increase the rotor speed, I wait impatiently until the rotation of the blades is sufficient for lift and tilt up on the cyclic stick.

“GSC, this is Havoc, over.”

“It's good to hear your voice,” Milo confirms.

“Exfil complete. Heading back over the blue route.” She shakes and rattles like an old jalopy as I push her to her limit, trying my damnedest to rush her speed and altitude. We don’t quite make it to five thousand feet before we clear the city, but at least no one tries to launch shit at us.

“We’re all clear,” Arlo says into the comms. “That was close.”

“Too close.”

Orson studies my face and motions to his cheek, touching it with his thumb. “You got nicked.”

I touch my cheek, and sure enough, my fingers come away red with blood. “It’s just a scratch. I can barely feel it.” Probably from the adrenaline. I’m positive my skin is bruising black and blue from all the shoving I endured. “Does anyone need medical attention?” I ask Arlo.

“One volunteer twisted her ankle. Another has a cut on his head, but the possibility of a concussion is low. Other than that, and a few scratches, we’re good.”

As the helicopter soars higher, the sprawling city of Cairo unfurls beneath me like a patchwork of ancient history and modern chaos. The sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the skyline, the lights of the city beginning to flicker on one by one as twilight falls. My lungs burn from the effort, but as the city comes into view, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

The scent of dust, heat, and metal mixes in the air, familiar yet jarring. The chopper banks, bringing me closer to the heart of the city, the streets below humming with life and movement, unaware of the storm heading their way. I let out the breath slowly, the tension in my body easing just a fraction. But only a fraction. There's still work to be done.

My hand grips the edge of my seat, steady now, but the adrenaline lingers beneath my skin, like hot embers.

We’re almost home. Well, home away from home.

CHAPTER 2

JAX

Of course, he’s absent. Again. Second time in two weeks.

Not that I’m keeping track.

I just hate liars, and Pharo’s a big fat fucking liar.

Stiles leans in and whispers, “If you stare any harder at that chair, it’s gonna combust.”

My eyes narrow to slits. I’d like to melt the fucking plastic… then he won’t have a seat in this circle when he returns—whenever the fuck that is.

“Jax,” Riggs calls. The former combat medic turned physical therapist is doing his best to keep the meeting on track.

“What?” I snap irritably.

“I asked if you’d like to share.”

“No.” I’d rather sit here and choke on my hatred.

Riggs sighs. “If that’s all, then I’d like to leave you with a quote to chew over. Holding onto a grudge is like swallowing poison and hoping the other person dies. You’re doing more damage to yourself than the person you’re angry with.”

I guess that was meant for me. Smooth, Riggs. I turn my glare from the empty chair to him. “Wow, that’s deep. Thanks for enlightening me.”

Several of the guys around the circle are staring at me with judgmental or pitying looks, shaking their heads. They don’t get it. They think Pharo’s some deeply misunderstood guy who wrongly became the target of my scorn. He comes across as a good guy, mysterious, enigmatic, noble… but nothing could be further from the truth.

The truth is, Pharo Kendrix is a rotten, lying, irresponsible, conceited, reckless piece of shit.

He’s got everyone fooled—except me. I can see right through him, which isn’t tough since he’s shallow as fuck.

As the meeting winds down, the usual shift in energy fills the room—less tense, more relaxed. The buzz of conversation fills the space as the guys stand up from their chairs, stretching out the kinks from sitting too long, and pack away their knitting supplies.

“So, who's up for lunch?” Brandt asks, a grin on his face as he stacks his chair away.

I already know they’ll end up at the tavern for wings. Why they have to discuss it every fucking time, like somebody’s going to introduce a new idea, is beyond me.

“Same spot as last time?” Nash asks.

“Hey, Jax,” West calls, “you coming with?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve got plans.”

West appears skeptical, but shrugs it off. “You sure you’re okay?”

“One hundred percent.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. “Well, I’ll save you a seat just in case you change your mind.”

* * *

Taking a seat in front of Cerberus, the three screens come to life, casting a blue glow over my face. Just like the three-headed ancient mythical creature who guarded the underworld, my monitors represent transformation, power, and the ability to overcome obstacles.

My disability pension covers the basics, but it’s the other work—the work I do in the shadows—that pads my nest egg. Information is power, and I’ve become a master at collecting it. Names, addresses, phone numbers—anything someone needs, I can find it, track it, and compile it.

People don’t ask how I do it, and I don’t offer up details. They don’t need to know the methods, the sources, or the risks I take to get the intel they crave. All that matters is that I get results. Financial records, property deeds, background checks—you name it. The price is steep, but there’s always someone willing to pay for the kind of dirt that can change the course of their world.

I should be working on an assignment for my latest client, but instead, I’m up to the usual… gathering information on Pharo, so I can bust his ass wide-open.

So far, I haven’t found shit, except for his known address here in Black Mountain. He has a mother in a nursing home in Asheville and a sister in the Navy. Other than that, I can’t find a lick of info on him. I thought maybe he was hiding a secret family in another town, which would explain his frequent disappearances, but if he is, I haven’t found them… Yet.

I’m starting to think there’s a more nefarious reason for his absences. Is Pharo involved in something dark? Organized crime? Special ops? It’s a stretch, but it wouldn’t surprise me. If anyone is cut out for that kind of life, it’s Pharo. When I was under his command in the Army, he proved himself a capable leader. Quick thinking under pressure, and the ability to command respect and provide direction for an entire unit. He was an ace navigator and an expert marksman. As my commanding officer, Pharo was someone I admired… until he wasn’t.

The tailspin I fell into after his betrayal wiped out my ability to remain effective as a soldier. I was strapped to a desk like a toddler in time out until the end of my contract, where I was honorably discharged with a diagnosis on my record that labeled me a head case, and still follows me to this day, effectively barring me from decent employment.

Thanks a fucking bunch, Pharo.

Just one more thing on a long list of things he took from me, including my best friend.

Another nail in his coffin. There are so many, he should be six feet under by now. But in complete defiance of all that is fair and just in this world, Pharo is still kicking, and Jordan is lying in Pharo’s grave.

To add insult to injury, I still have to see Pharo almost every fucking day. That bond we shared, the unspoken understanding and trust, he shattered in ways that still feel raw when I think about it.

Every time I look back, it’s as if Pharo’s been chiseling away at my life, carving out pieces of me with each betrayal, each deception. The person I was—before he started taking—feels so far away, like someone I used to know. And now, with his continued deception so clear, forcing me to keep after him, to get close to him to uncover the truth of his lies, it feels like there’s no going back. All that’s left are echoes of who I was, tangled up with the remnants of what he left behind.

I’m not sure what hurts more—what he took or how little he seems to care.

There is no justice in this world. Right and wrong, good and evil, who fucking cares? All that matters to me is my brothers—keeping the ones still alive safe and validating those I’ve lost.

Reaching for the roll of antacids lying on my desk, I break off two and pop them in my mouth, grinding the fruity chalky tablets into a fine powder between my molars. They’re always within reach because just thinking of Pharo makes my stomach churn and my chest burn.

Joey:

Boo

His message pops up on my screen, bursting the bubble of my negative thoughts. I grab my vape off the desk and take a long pull, the scent of coconut and tangerine filling my nostrils as I type out a reply.

Always lurking.

Joey is a bright spot in my dark day. My co-conspirator. If I come across a firewall I can’t breach, Joey finds a way around it. When my head free-falls into a downward spiral, Joey is always lurking, just a keystroke away to boost me up again. Joey is a mystery. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a hacker like me. His age, his whereabouts, and his former profession are all questions I might never have the answers to.

Joey:

You figure out that secret investor’s identity yet?

Not yet. Was just about to get to work.

Joey:

Bullshit. Quit lying to me and get after it.

I blow out a heavy sigh and chuckle. How does he know I was fucking around? He always knows. I swear to God he’s hacked my WebCam and is spying on me. Hence, the duct tape over the lenses.

It’s not paranoia, it’s a safety precaution. You can never be too careful. I met Joey in a hackers forum online. Located on the dark web, it’s a place where we trade information and resources. Basically, tips on how to breach firewalls. Joey slid into my DM‘s and we connected instantly.

Busting Pharo will have to wait. I have real work to do, paying work, and I need the money because my bike needs a new set of tires.

By the time I finish finding the information I need, the sun has set outside the sliding glass door of my living room. I stand up and stretch my back, twisting from side to side until I hear it crack. Time to figure out dinner. There’s nothing in my fridge except a jar of jelly and some cold cuts.

Damn, I should have joined the Bitches for lunch. At least then I would have some leftovers to eat now. Looks like dinner is going to be another PB&J sandwich. The third one this week.

Not that I mind, I’m not a fancy guy with highfalutin’ taste. Everything in my apartment was bought at a big box store. In fact, the most valuable things I own are my bike and my computers. Going to the Black Mountain Tavern with the guys is my idea of a night out on the town. If I’m invited somewhere and I can’t wear jeans and a T-shirt, I’m not going.

For years in the Army, I lived out of a footlocker and a rucksack. To this day, I still keep a go bag packed and ready in my closet in case of an emergency.

I don’t just travel light, I live light.

My buddy McCormick has this firebox analogy. According to him, if your house were on fire, you should be able to fit everything worth taking in a single box. Shit, I can fit everything worth taking in the pocket of my jeans. Basically, just my bike keys and the memory stick from my computer. Everything else can burn to the ground for all I care. None of it holds sentimental value to me. I carry my memories in my head and my heart so they can travel with me wherever I go. I can never lose them, and no one can ever take them from me.

They are a necessary part of me, like a vital organ. The anger I feel over Jordan's death keeps me going each day. It gives me purpose, a reason to wake up and keep fighting.

A reason to start each new day despising Pharo’s existence.

Every time I see his stupid, perfect face smiling, laughing, living life like he doesn’t have a care in the world, it fuels my anger and keeps me going.

His time will come. One of these days, I'll make sure Pharo pays for what he did.

CHAPTER 3

JAX

It’s a habit I can’t shake.

Every day, without fail, I find myself taking that extra exit, turning onto the street that leads to Pharo’s townhouse. It’s not exactly on my route home—technically, it’s a little out of the way, one exit past mine and six blocks west—but it’s close enough. Close enough that I can’t help myself, close enough that the curiosity always gnaws at the back of my mind.

I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m not really looking for his truck. But as I round that last corner, my eyes are already scanning, seeking the familiar black truck parked out front, the one that marks his presence like a scar on my mind.

Some days it’s there, sitting like an unwanted reminder of everything that’s happened. Other days, it’s gone, but I never stop checking. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Maybe it’s the hope that one day, I'll catch him in the act of something, or maybe I just need to see the truck to feel some kind of closure, even if I know it'll never come.

It’s a strange obsession, but one I can’t let go of. It’s like rereading a story I’m no longer sure I want to finish, but I can’t help myself. I pass by it, day after day, like some sort of silent ritual, and the knot in my stomach tightens each time.

My heart kicks into overdrive as I spot it—the unmistakable black pickup sitting just beyond the wrought-iron gate. The shock hits me like a lightning bolt, sending a wave of electricity through my chest.

He’s home. Finally.

I know I shouldn’t, that it’s stupid and reckless, but the curiosity is overwhelming. I have to get closer. Just a peek, that’s all. No harm in that, right?

I steer my bike into the subdivision; the streets are lined with identical homes that feel almost too perfect, too pristine. My fingers tremble just slightly as I punch in the code—the one I had to dig for online because Pharo would never give it to me, nor would I ask him for it. The gate’s mechanism whirs to life with a click, and the heavy metal bars swing open, granting me access to the private little fortress Pharo tries so hard to keep secure.

Once, the security guard busted me on his little golf cart, asking what I was doing idling in Pharo’s driveway, checking his mailbox. I lied and said I was Mr. Kendrix’s friend and that he’d tasked me with looking after the place while he was gone. Now, whenever I see him, I roll the empty garbage cans out to the curb and wave like the lying schmuck that I am.

I push down the rising tide of anxiety, telling myself it’s just a quick detour. A glimpse. That’s all. The subdivision stretches before me, quiet and still, as if the houses themselves are holding their breath.

The sun set two hours ago, but I don’t see any lights inside. It’s not that late, so I doubt he’s in bed already.

Suspicious.

I park my bike across the street from his driveway and creep through his yard. If I can just peer through the window, I might see⁠—

A shadow moves through the living room. There’s not enough light to make out his face, but I suspect from the large, hulking form that it’s him.

The fuck is he doing sneaking around in the dark?

Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me that I'm also sneaking around in the dark. At least Pharo has a legitimate reason to be here.

Actually, I have a completely legit reason to be here. If no one else is going to ask the tough questions, then I guess it’s up to me to investigate his suspect comings and goings.

His front door is framed by glass on both sides, and I press my face against the pane to get a better look. Without warning, the door bursts open, and I hear the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked in my face. My heart plummets down into my stomach, and my breath seizes in my lungs.

“Jax?” he asks, sounding as surprised as I feel. “The fuck are you doing out here?”

He clicks on the outside light above the door. I caught him mid-something. He’s dressed in soft, black pajama bottoms, barefoot and shirtless, with his shoulder-length hair tied up in a messy bun. Day-old beard growth and a fresh jagged scar covers his chiseled cheek.

My brain struggles to come up with a lie, a reason that I could be lurking outside his door past eight o’clock at night when I realize he’s clutching his ribs. When he moves his hand, I see an angry red gash marring his golden skin.

“You’re hurt.” I forget about the lie and the snooping as my training kicks in. Instinct and concern make me shoulder my way inside before I can think better of it. Maybe it’s my sense of duty as a soldier, or because he was once someone I regarded as my brother. Maybe it’s because if I keep him alive, I can torture him longer.

“I was just about to bandage it when… what are you doing here, Jax?”

I ignore his question, leaving it hanging in the air, and focus instead on the task at hand. The lamp on the console table is within reach, and I flick the switch. A soft, warm glow fills the room, casting long shadows against the walls and bathing Pharo's bare torso in light. It's then that I get a better look at the gash—deep, jagged, the kind of cut that doesn't heal well on its own.

I can see the blood, already beginning to congeal, but it’s the severity of the wound that stops me. His skin is a map of old scars, a history written in flesh, but this one is fresh. Too fresh to ignore.

Pharo’s the kind of guy who doesn’t believe in going to the ER unless it’s absolutely necessary. Nothing short of a bullet wound will get him to a doctor. Everything else is treated in the field, in his bathroom, or with whatever supplies he can scrounge up on the go. Self-care, to him, is a luxury. And right now, it's looking like that’s going to cost him.

His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, but the way he winces as he moves tells me this isn’t a minor cut. It’s bad. Really bad. And if he’s not careful, it could get infected—or worse, it could open back up at the wrong moment.

“You’re going to need stitches. Where’s your med kit?”

“In the bathroom.”

Not waiting for him to show me where it is, I shoulder past him and stomp down the hall, turning into the first bathroom I see. I swing the door on the medicine cabinet open, only to find it empty. A spare toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a tube of toothpaste, probably for guests.

Guests? Who the fuck does he have over?

Continuing down the hall, I find his bedroom and enter the attached bathroom. Sure enough, his medicine cabinet is stocked full of supplies. Gauze pads and bandages, iodine, alcohol, and lidocaine. I grab the suture kit and lidocaine. Pharo catches up with me, still clutching his side as he leans against the door frame. His massive size fills the entire doorway.

“Do you want to do this sitting down or standing up?” Eyeing the massive king-size bed behind him, I add, “Or we can do this lying down.”

He eyes the needle between my fingers skeptically. “You really think I’m going to let you near me with sharp objects?”

Smart man. Well, not really, but smarter than I gave him credit for. “We both know I’m better at this than you are. You can’t stitch for shit. I’ve seen your handiwork on some of my teammates.” The reminder of the guys we used to serve with, both alive and gone, is a bitter pill to swallow.

Why the fuck am I here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” Pharo asks, echoing my thoughts out loud.

“I was… I wanted to…” The question catches me off guard. There’s no good answer. I’m here because I was snooping, because I don’t believe a word he says, and because I would risk anything to expose him for the lying piece of shit he is.

And because I’m a nosy motherfucker, and Pharo is this mysterious, unsolvable Rubik's cube that I’m determined to figure out.

But, of course, I can’t say any of that.

“Do you want me to fix you up or not?” I snap, glaring.

Pharo chuffs and reluctantly slides his ass onto the counter. He’s so tall that he doesn’t even have to hop up. Spreading his thighs, he makes a place for me to stand between them, and my breath catches.

I don’t want to stand this close to him, between his legs, just inches from his chest and face. I don’t want to touch him or heal him, or show him even the smallest kindness, but I also can’t turn around and walk away, knowing he needs help. Damn my conscience!

His musky body wash invades my nose. God forbid he buy a common brand from the pharmacy down the street, like the rest of us normal people. No, Pharo has to buy some designer shit, probably made by the same company that sells his fancy cologne.

Christ, he smells incredible. Fuck him.

Either his body is throwing off heat like a furnace, or it’s hot as hell in this bathroom. I'm beginning to sweat, and if he were anyone else, I would even consider taking my shirt off. But he’s not anyone else. He’s Pharo Kendrix, and I hate him. And my shirt is staying on.

I douse his wound with more lidocaine than needed and smile with satisfaction when he hisses.

“How did you get stabbed?”

“Who said I was stabbed?” There's an unmistakable challenge in his golden eyes.

“Obviously, you were. It’s not hard to believe other people hate you as much, if not more, than I do.”

He chuckles, and the easy laughter makes me want to strangle him.

“Deployment is dangerous work. There are all kinds of unexpected hazards.”

My anger rises to the surface all too quickly. “Look, we both know you’re not in the reserves. You can sell that bullshit lie to someone else, someone who’s either gullible and dumb, or doesn’t care enough to fact check you, but I’m not buying it.”

He stares hard into my eyes as I focus on threading the needle. “Which one are you?” he asks with a catch in his husky voice, “the former or the latter?”

“Neither. I’m not stupid, and the only reason I’m here is to fact-check you.”

I press my thumb and index finger on either side of his wound and pinch the ragged sides together before stabbing his flesh with my needle. “This might hurt,” I warn a little too late.

His muscles tense beneath my fingers, creating a ripple of toned abs. “Careful, Jax,” Pharo warns. “It almost sounds like you care.”

The thought is so absurd I can’t help but snort. “You fucking wish. I just don’t need another death on my conscience to deal with. In fact, if you want to get yourself killed, that’s fine with me. I’ve been trying to write you off for years.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? Writing me off?”

I pierce his skin harder than necessary, and he flinches.

“I told you, I’m here to prove that you’re a fucking liar.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” His breath ghosts my cheek, and I have to fight back the urge to shudder.

“The fuck am I lying about?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Stitching me up. Tending to my wounds.” He says it with a smartass smile on his face. If only I could stitch his lips closed like this cut. “You think I don’t know that it’s you who takes my garbage cans from the curb and checks my mail?”

Fuck. “How would you know that?” I snap.

“I’ve never met my neighbors. Why would they care? This place is rigged up with the best security. I see you every time you stop by.”

Embarrassment colors my cheeks. I’ve been here at least six times, and he’s seen me every time. “I served with you in Iraq. The Internet was spotty and limited. Interesting how easily you can access your home security system from… where did you say you were stationed?”

“I didn’t,” he grins. “Looks like the only one of us busted in a lie is you.”

Seething with anger, I finish closing his wound and knot the thread. He must be fresh from the shower because the scab on his cheek has softened, and it’s seeping. I smear salve on it, feeling hyperaware of his eyes on me. I’m standing way too close. Breathing him in, touching him, it’s affecting my judgment. It feels like he can see right through me, like I have no defenses to guard against his prying eyes.

I have to get out of here.

“You’re good to go.” I duck out of the bathroom, leaving the med kit and trash for him to take care of.

Pharo follows close behind.

As I pass through the living room, my eyes land on the silver-framed photo on the console table. A five-by-seven photograph of our team taken in Iraq. Seven men leaning against a Humvee with the sun shining down on our dirty faces. Dressed in fatigues with rifles in our hands, we’re all smiles.

Because we were together.

Because we were all still alive.

Because we were brothers.

I grab it off the console and shake it in his face. “What the fuck is this?!”

Casually, he peers at the photo. “You should know, that’s you standing next to me.”

“Why do you have this? Displayed like you’re proud of it or some shit!”

I’m shouting, anger frothing from my mouth like bile. How fucking dare he!

Pharo takes the frame from me and carefully sets it back on the table. “I have every right to have that picture, same as you do.”

“You have no right! You lost that right when Jordan died. It’s your fault he’s gone.”

Pharo’s face tightens. “It’s not my fault. It was never my fault. I’m sick and tired of you placing blame on me where it doesn’t belong. You know what your problem is? You care too much. You need to care less.”

“Motherfucker! You don’t care at all!” I cock my arm back and let my fist fly, but Pharo stops it mid-swing, denying me the satisfaction of connecting with his stupid face.

His powerful grip crushes my fist, making my knuckles scream for mercy.

“That’s fine. You can hit me. You can hate me. You can wish for my death, but even if I’m gone, you’re still going to be angry and miserable. My death won’t absolve your grief.” Fuck him and his sage fucking wisdom. “You’re always going to be a miserable fucker until you learn to let go. Do you know why you hate me?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I snarl, not wanting to hear what comes next.

“Because I’m not miserable like you,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm.

“No, I hate you because you killed my best friend.”

“I didn’t kill him, Jax,” Pharo sighs tiredly. “It was fate, or the universe, or karma, or his own fucking blind stupidity, but it wasn’t me.”

The tone of his voice is calm, like he’s stating a simple fact, instead of his skewed version of our past.

“I guess we’ll agree to disagree.” My eyes rake contemptuously down his body one last time, landing on his newly stitched scar. Stepping closer to him, I raise my hand to his chest and lay my palm over his hard pec. He flexes the muscle beneath his warm, smooth skin, making me want to squeeze it. Instead, I twist his nipple between my thumb and forefinger until he doubles over in pain. “The next time someone tries to kill you, I hope they aim a little higher, in the place where your heart used to be.”

I stormed out the front door, wishing he wasn’t right behind me, blocking it with his body, so I could slam it shut. Pharo somehow finds a way to sneak in the last parting shot that robs me of the satisfaction of leaving.

He stands straight and tall, rubbing his abused nipple. “Hey, the next time you stop by,” he calls out, “don’t forget to water the plants in the flower bed. They’re looking a little dry.”

Stupid son of a bitch.

CHAPTER 4

PHARO

The wound on my left side burns like hellfire as I fold my six-foot-four frame into the tiny plastic chair. That Brotherhood fucker got me good before disappearing into the crowd. Burning hot from adrenaline, I didn’t even realize I’d been stabbed until much later.

The rest of the guys file in and complete the circle. The Bitches with Stitches. My lip curls as I laugh to myself. I guess I’m one of them, but I dare anyone to call me a bitch.

Years ago, I started coming to this group because of Jax. But it’s the rest of the guys that I stayed for. Guys like Mandy, with his horrible burns that disfigure half of his face and upper torso, are struggling to repair their self-esteem and confidence. Guys like McCormick and West, who lost a limb but are realizing it doesn’t change who they are or what they’re capable of. Guys like Stiles and Brandt, who are full of compassion and support despite fighting their own demons. And Nash, who’s so haunted by his nightmares he turned to drugs and alcohol to escape. Or Rhett, who is so young and so full of daring and courage. He reminds me of myself at his age.

They welcomed me with open arms, even though I don’t ever share anything about myself, and my attendance is sporadic due to my job. They’ve become my brothers, and although I would never tell them that, I appreciate each one of them. I look forward to coming to these meetings. For an hour twice a week, I can turn off my brain and just listen, just step back and absorb life happening around me without feeling like I need to lead or act.

Jax won’t share if I’m present. I don’t know if he shares when I’m gone, but I get the feeling he’s as closed off as I am. When I learned where he settled after being discharged from the service, right next door to my hometown of Asheville, North Carolina, I followed him out here under the guise of needing services at Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers—or BALLS. But the real reason was that he was in bad shape, and I felt compelled to keep an eye on him. I’m not responsible for his buddy’s death like he blames me for, but for some unexplainable reason, I feel responsible for Jax.

Maybe just to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.

Maybe because I was his Master Sergeant, and I busted my balls to keep him safe for two years while we served overseas.

Maybe it’s in my DNA to protect those who are doing a piss-poor job of doing it for themselves.

But whatever the reason, here we are. He hates my fucking guts. Jax can’t stand to even look at me, and I do my best to ignore his bullshit.

Except for right now, because I can’t stop my eyes from sliding to him every few seconds, wondering if he’s giving me his usual spiteful glare, or if he’s looking at me differently after last night.

After I discovered there was no one trying to break in, I laughed, realizing I’d busted him trying to be sneaky. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen his face pop up on my security camera, waving to the guard as he pretends to haul my cans to the curb or check my mail. Fucking hilarious. He thinks he’s so slick, but Jaxon James is the most obvious sneak I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.

He sucks at it. Almost as bad as he sucks at knitting.

My eyes slide to him. Yeah, he’s staring back all right, but looking more hateful than ever. Which means he’s overthinking last night. Jax surprised the shit out of me, pushing his way inside, and insisting he provide better medical treatment than I can give myself. Why would he care if I were bleeding out? Why did he want to play nurse to a man he can’t stand?

He’ll have even more questions now that he knows I was stabbed. I only piqued his curiosity further. He’ll be all over me like flies on shit. Jax knows I’m lying, and he’s determined to bust me. If I know him, and I do, Jax will stop at nothing to prove his point.

“We’re making plans for our first official vacation as a couple,” Brandt explains, sounding excited. “A ski trip planned for Valentine’s Day.”

“Dude, we’re not really going away. The ski resort is like forty-five minutes from here,” West points out. “And that’s all you’re getting out of us,” he tells the group, stabbing his knitting needle in each man’s direction. “I won’t have any of you Bitches crashing my plans.”

A glance around the circle shows a few slightly disappointed faces. I would go Armageddon-level ballistic if I planned a romantic getaway with my partner, and these guys invited themselves along. Or worse, Jax started his snooping bullshit and followed us. Hell-fucking-no!

Brewer, Nash’s partner, who runs the addiction support group next door, interrupts the meeting. Brewer uses his back to push his way through the door, carrying a casserole dish with both hands. He sets it on the back table beside the coffee and knitting supplies.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Brewer starts. “I don’t know who keeps dropping off food for our meeting,” he says vaguely, but he’s staring at McCormick, “but please stop. And by please, I mean you better fucking quit.”

“What’s wrong with the food?” McCormick asks, clearly giving himself away.

Brewer coughs politely. “Some of the group members have complained that it’s so bad it’s triggering them and making them crave a stiff drink to cover the foul taste.”

The guys snicker, including me. I can’t help it. I’ve never eaten anything McCormick made because it looks so inedible. I can only imagine what it tastes like. But if it’s so bad that it makes the recovering addicts next door want to use again, I thank God I’ve steered clear of it.

“That’s bullshit,” McCormick cries. “Those recipes are from my brand new cookbook, 1001 Ways to Cook a Hotdog. There’s some good shit in there. Right?” he asks Stiles, who’s sitting beside him.

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve eaten it and I’m still kickin’.”

A ringing endorsement, if I’ve ever heard one.

The guys laugh harder until Riggs quiets them. “All right, everyone, shush. McCormick, thank you for your contribution. Maybe save it for home next time.”

McCormick grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ungrateful bunch of Bitches. I brought that food for you guys, and you pawned it off on the people next door. Last time I cooked anything for you.”

“Promise?” West snarks.

The entire group dissolves into laughter again before Riggs brings the meeting to a close.

“Hey, Pharo,” Rhett calls, “you coming out to lunch with us?”

“Nah, I’m busy. But thanks for asking.”

I’m always busy, even when I’m not. I would love to take him up on his offer, just once, and go enjoy lunch with my friends, but it inevitably leads to questions about where I am and what I do when I’m not here. Also, it aggravates Jax to no end. A plus, but also counterproductive to my motives. I joined this group to keep an eye on him, to help him make peace with the past. I’m not trying to make his life more difficult.

Jax stacks his chair in the corner, and as he passes by me, he reaches out and grabs my side, in the exact spot he stitched last night in my bathroom. My gut twists with a stabbing sensation. The pain makes bile rise in the back of my throat. He digs his fingertips into the wound, and a wicked smile teases his lips.

“Maybe next time,” he patronizes, knowing full well I’ll always say no.

* * *

God dammit.

I glimpse Jax’s Indian Scout four car lengths behind me. His helmet disguises his face, but I could make out his bike with a blindfold on.

He bailed on lunch so he could follow me. Of all the damn days, he had to choose this one.

I speed up, hoping to lose him in traffic, and take the exit off I-40 toward Asheville. The sprawling single-story building comes into view ahead, and I pull into the parking lot.

No sign of Jax, but he’ll be back. He’s like a nasty rash–persistent, irritating, and always coming back when you least expect it. He's not the type to stay away for long, and no matter what I tell myself, I can’t help but anticipate his return. It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face again. When he does, it’ll be the same routine—push, pull, a game of cat and mouse that’s never quite over.

The woman at the reception desk greets me with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kendrix.”

“Hey, Allison.” I sign my name in the guest log. “Listen, if a man in a black leather jacket and dark hair comes in asking for me, please let him know that if he has any questions, he can ask me directly.”

“Is he on the approved visitors list?”

“No. Mine is the only name on that list.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Kendrix. I’ll do exactly as you ask.”

“Thanks, Allison.” She's a sweet girl, always ready with a smile when she sees me. “Uh, I like your earrings.” It’s a lame compliment, but how the hell else am I supposed to be nice without coming across as a flirt?

“Thanks,” she gushes, blushing prettily.

Jeez. Time to go.

I find her in the dayroom, her wheelchair parked in front of the TV, the soft hum of daytime shows filling the space. “Hey, Mami,” I greet her, my voice a little softer than usual.

She turns her head, and when her eyes—eyes the same golden hue as mine—rest on my face, her expression shifts immediately. Her lips spread into a smile, wide and radiant.

“Ramesses,” she beams. Her voice filled with that warm affection only a mother can give. “Son of the sun.”

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth as she says it. It’s always the same, that nickname. “Son of the sun.” Her belief in it is as unwavering as her love for me. She’s always told me that my coloring—my golden skin, the same shade as my hair and my eyes—was a sign of divine favor, a blessing from the gods, a mark of royalty passed down from the ancient pharaohs. Hence my name.

In Egyptian culture, gold and the sun are sacred, more powerful than any other symbols. Gold represents wealth, divinity, and immortality, while the sun is the source of all life, the giver of life itself. She says that I carry both those elements within me—that I was meant for greatness.

If only I had that kind of power. The kind that could push back the darkness, the kind that could rewrite history, or bring people back from the dead.

If I were truly blessed, I would have the power to make Jax stop following me like a damn dime store detective.

Her once dark hair, now peppered with gray, rests in a thick braid over her left shoulder. “You look beautiful today,” I say honestly. Even at seventy-five, my mother is still a beautiful woman.

She shooed me away. “You always say that.”

I take her frail hand in mine. “That’s because you always look beautiful.”

“Enough about me. Tell me about yourself. How is life as a security guard?”

I told my mother the truth, that I work for a security firm. I just left out the part about flying helicopters and dangerous missions. She believes I’m a rent-a-cop guarding a mall somewhere or traveling to different office buildings, safeguarding the lobbies.

“Boring.”

“Well, for someone who travels so much, I find it hard to believe your life is so boring.”

Ignoring her questions, I try to redirect the conversation to safer topics. “Did you play bingo yesterday?”

“Are you asking because you want my prize money?”

All fifty cents? “So you did win! Shame on you, hustling these ladies at bingo.”

“That one.” She points to a woman rolling herself into the room. “She’s a nasty piece. Stole my best shoes.”

Years ago, just before deploying to Iraq, I checked my mother into this facility because she showed signs of dementia, and it’s only getting worse. Her verbal filters are nonexistent. She says some outrageous stuff. Sometimes it’s entertaining as hell. Sometimes, it’s just heartbreaking.

“Mami, that woman didn’t steal your shoes.”

“What do you know?” she snaps, “Do you live here?”

“No, ma’am.” It’s best to indulge her, so she doesn’t get worked up. My mother angers easily when she becomes confused.

A nurse wearing pink scrubs hands my mother a paper cup with pills in it. My mother dumps them out in her hand and sorts them, inspecting each one carefully. “You can’t be too sure what they’re giving you,” she explains. “Always check.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I repeat.

“Linda, tell my son about how Miriam stole my best shoes.”

The nurse nods. “She did. Pilfered your mother’s favorite pair of slippers right out of her closet. It’s a shame what she did to them. We weren’t able to save them.”

The fuck did she do to them? I’ve learned it’s best not to ask when it comes to the residents here. My mother shoots me a superior look.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t believe you. I’ll bring you a new pair of slippers next time I visit.”

I make her a cup of tea from the wet bar in the corner, and we pass the time trading stories and catching up on the time I’ve been away. Just before dinnertime, I kiss her cheek and bid her farewell.

On my way out the door, I stop and ask Allison, “Did anyone stop by?”

“No, Mr. Kendrix. I haven’t seen anyone like you described.”

“Thank you, Allison.”

Jax didn’t need to come inside. He saw all he needed to from the parking lot. Jax is a capable hacker. All he needed was the name of the facility to find the reason I was here.

CHAPTER 5

JAX

My thighs press against the fuel tank, vibrating with the engine's hum as I roll into the parking lot of my building. This morning, I was climbing the walls with anxiety, popping antacids like candy, when a couple of guys from the ALR texted me they were going riding, and I jumped at the chance.

I’m not close with the guys from the American Legion of Riders, not like I am with the Bitches, but mostly, they’re good people and it’s safer than riding alone.

The narrow, winding roads of western North Carolina’s mountains are treacherous even in the best conditions. With fog, rain, or heavy tourist traffic, they quickly become a danger.

But the ride did me good. Cleared my head and brought everything into focus. After my run-in with Pharo the day before yesterday, my head is filled with questions. Having that asshole on my mind all day nearly gave me an ulcer.

I knew he had a mother in Asheville, which was confirmed when I followed him. I was hoping he would make another stop, somewhere that would give me more information, but he went straight home after his visit. After seeing the inside of his townhouse, I have more questions than answers.

Everything was nice, top of the line. The electronics, the furniture, the decor. None of it came from a discount store like my stuff did. None of his furniture came from a box that you have to assemble. Pharo lives in a gated community with twenty-four-hour security, drives a brand new truck, and his bike, a Triumph Rocket 3 GT, costs more than everything I own combined, including my bike and computers.

I did some digging and found out the nursing home his mother is in costs way more than what her insurance pays out. How does he cover the difference? And then there’s that vacant lot registered under his name on the outskirts of town. I drove by and saw nothing but a fenced lot with a bunch of weeds. What is he doing with it, and how does he afford all of that?

As I rode, I started piecing together what I knew about Pharo. What kind of job demands constant travel, pays a fortune, and gets you stabbed in the gut? The answer is obvious—Pharo's a hitman. It all adds up!

Maybe he got desperate when he couldn’t afford to pay for his mother’s care.

Maybe he figured since he already killed Jordan, what’s a few more bodies? Might as well make a living at it.

The only certainty I have is that Pharo’s up to something shady. I’ll need to keep a closer eye on him.

After grabbing a quick shower, I change into a fresh pair of jeans and my favorite Jane’s Addiction T-shirt, which has more holes than a cheese grater, and take a seat in front of Cerberus. The screens flicker to life as I move the mouse, unlocking my gateway to the world. From this portal, almost nothing is out of reach.

Joey:

Fucking finally! You’ve been offline all day.

Miss me?

Joey:

Nah. The warm glow from my keyboard kept me company.

The hours slip by as we trade one-liners, keeping things light, a rhythm we’ve fallen into without thinking. Each of us focused on our own tasks, the hum of my workstation fills the silence, punctuated only by our exchanges. There's a strange comfort in it, though—knowing he's there, just on the other end of the fiber-optic connection.

Joey and I don’t know each other intimately, not in the traditional sense. We’ve never shared the kind of moments that build deep, personal bonds. But the way we interact in this digital space—casual, easy, with no expectations—makes the hours feel less like time dragging on and more like something to get through together.

It’s funny. How someone’s virtual presence can fill the space between loneliness and connection. I don’t feel the loneliness of isolation as much when I know he’s there, typing away, handling his own business, but still within reach. His messages are a kind of reassurance, even if we don’t dive deep into anything personal. It’s enough that we’re just there—two separate worlds colliding, if only for a moment.

In this weird, disconnected way, I don’t feel as alone as I usually do.

The knock at my door cuts through the quiet, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me out of the comfortable haze I’d been drifting in. I reach for the vape on my desk, and I take a hard pull, inhaling deeply. The tropical beach flavor hits my lungs, a sharp contrast to the tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. I exhale slowly, watching the cloud drift lazily in the air before pushing myself up from the chair.

I wasn’t expecting anyone, but it’s probably a Bitch, coming to check on me because I haven’t responded to the annoying-ass group chat in hours.

“Riggs? What’s up?” Not the Bitch I was expecting.

His eyes move around my cramped apartment, taking in the small loveseat and TV, overshadowed by the dominating presence in my place: Cerberus. There's a slight pause before he steps in, like he’s unsure whether to cross the threshold. It’s not that my place is unwelcoming—sterile, maybe—but Riggs is the kind of guy who notices everything, and I’m not in the mood to pretend that everything is fine.

“How are you?” Riggs asks, his tone casual, like he’s testing the waters.

A normal greeting, an expected one, but it grates on me right now. I take a long drag from my vape, blowing the cloud out slowly.

“Good. Same as ever,” I reply, my voice flat, my eyes locked on him.

He walks past me toward the galley-style kitchen, his gaze flicking over the mess of dirty dishes stacked in the sink, probably judging how long they've been sitting there. It’s not like I’ve got the time to clean up right now. Not with everything else weighing on me.

“Sleeping well?” he asks next, the question almost too routine.

I can feel the tension in my shoulders start to rise. I can’t take the pointless small talk any longer. “Riggs? You got something on your mind?”

He blows out a breath, a deep, almost relieved exhale, like he was waiting for me to cut through the nonsense. His shoulders sag, his posture loosening a little.

“I’m worried about you,” he says, his gaze shifting toward me with a touch of concern I can’t shake.

The concern hits me like a cold splash of water. Riggs doesn’t mince his words, and right now, they cut deeper than usual. I feel the defensive reflex rise in me, but I hold it back, knowing that’s not going to get me anywhere.

“Me?” I repeat, a little incredulous.

“You seem angry,” he says, and I can’t help but feel that bite of truth. “Well,” he amends, “angrier than usual. Then you skipped out on lunch with the guys, and you’ve been MIA today. Come to think of it, yesterday too. You hiding out?”

He’s seen through my act, noticed the cracks, and now it feels like the burden of my day is crushing me all at once. Maybe he’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. Not to him, not to anyone.

“Hiding? From who?” Besides Pharo… and myself.

“I think you should speak to Brewer,” Riggs suggests, his tone careful but firm. I can hear the implication, the strain of everything I’ve been avoiding. His eyes catch the defensive spark in mine, and he adds in a rush, “Just casually. Between friends. Or you can speak to me. But something’s gotta give, Jax. You can’t keep going like this.”

I cross my arms, trying to shrug it off, but I know better than to dismiss him outright. The tightness in my chest tells me I can’t ignore it. “Like what?” I ask, though I already know what he means.

“Angry, defensive, in denial, isolating,” he lists, his voice soft but urgent. “It’s not healthy. You can only run from your past for so long, but the Earth is round, and eventually, your demons will catch up with you.”

His warning hangs heavy in the air, and I’m not sure if I want to punch him for saying it or thank him for finally speaking the truth. The thing is, he’s right. I’ve been running. Maybe not physically, but in every other way I can. Hiding out, avoiding the guys, pretending like everything is fine. But it’s not. And it hasn’t been for a while now.

I drag my hand through my spiky hair, and life’s relentless pull feels heavier than ever. I’m tired of pretending and running, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face what comes next. Hadn’t Pharo said basically the same thing the other night? That it’s time to let go and move on? But how? How do I let go of the thing that gives me a reason to get out of bed each day? The thing that drives me through life when I want to quit?

“I don’t need a therapist, Riggs,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

“I’m not saying you do,” he replies, his voice gentler now, a touch of sympathy creeping in. “I’m saying you don’t have to carry it alone. Just… don’t let it swallow you whole, man.”

I swallow hard, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to let go. To talk about it, and not just keep bottling it all up. But that’s the problem. I don’t know if I can.

“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it,” I say, my voice flat, trying to give him just enough to get him off my back, at least for now.

“That’s all I’m asking,” Riggs replies, his tone steady, like he’s satisfied with my answer.

But I know better. Bullshit. Riggs doesn’t ask. Not really. He’s not the type of guy to throw out a request and let it slide if you don’t follow through. No, when he says something, it’s not just a suggestion—it’s an order wrapped in the guise of concern. Everything he says feels like it's coming from the highest command, and if you don’t comply, he’ll remind you of it sooner rather than later.

He’s always been like that, and I’ve learned to play along, even if it chafes. I can already hear the speech he’s going to give me next time we talk if I don’t take him seriously. He won’t let it go. Not until I cave in, until I do what he expects me to do.

I let out a quiet sigh, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to stop running from my past. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive or forget.

The nightmare comes in waves, relentless and suffocating. I’m back in Iraq, the landscape just as I remember it—endless, hot, and choking. The sand whips through the air, swirling in violent gusts, a fine grit that scratches my skin, seeps into my throat, and drying out my mouth. The sun burns down from a sky that feels like it's closing in, the oppressive heat wrapping around me like a vice, suffocating me with every breath. Dark clouds hover above, swirling in unnatural patterns, casting ominous shadows across the barren wasteland.

In the distance, a raven caws—a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the stillness. Another one joins, and then another, their wings beating the air in eerie unison. They circle, dive-bombing with twisted intent, always watching, always waiting, for death.

Through the haze of sand and smoke, Jordan emerges. My best friend, the one I lost so many years ago. He’s alive again, standing there, looking the same as he did in those final moments—the way I remember him: laughing, joking, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. But there’s something wrong, something off about him. His face is pale, and his eyes hold a distant, haunted shadow, like he’s no longer the person I remember.

“Jordan?” I reach for him, calling out above the rushing wind.

“Jax,” Jordan says, his voice sounding distant, like he’s fading. “You came back for me, right?”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. Trapped by the sand and the fear of losing him again. Am I dreaming, or is this real? The burden of guilt presses down on me like a physical force, crushing me.

The air grows heavier with every step I take toward Jordan, and the ravens’ caws grow louder, more frantic.

From behind, I hear the crunch of boots on sand. I’m afraid to turn around, to take my eyes off Jordan, even for a second. What if he’s gone when I turn back?

But I feel compelled to turn, and standing in the shadows is Pharo. My Master Sergeant. My friend. Pharo’s face twists into a strange, unsettling grin, one that I haven’t seen before. It’s no longer a look of friendship, but one of something darker—something menacing.

I can’t trust him. “Pharo?” My voice sounds shaky.

Pharo steps forward, but instead of the reassuring presence I once felt, he’s different now. His eyes are cold, calculating, and as he approaches, I see blood staining his uniform, dripping from his calloused hands.

“What the hell is this?” I stammer, my heart racing as I gaze at my old friend.

The nightmare shifts. Suddenly, Pharo’s body turns black, like a dark ethereal shadow. A harbinger of death. The man I trusted with my life is now the embodiment of everything that went wrong—the one responsible for Jordan’s death. The one who turned his back on his team and left them to die.

“You should have known, Jax,” Pharo sneers, his voice low, filled with contempt. “You think I cared about him? Jordan was expendable. Always was. If anyone is to blame for his death, it’s you.”

My chest tightens, the air becoming so thick and hot it’s collapsing my lungs. The suffocating heat from the sand, the weight of the guilt, the images of Jordan's lifeless, mangled body... it all comes crashing back. When I turn back, I know what I’ll see. Pieces of my best friend were scattered around the sand, picked apart by the ravens.

I try to scream, to reach out to Jordan, but my legs won’t move. My body is paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare’s grip.

“Jordan… no…” I whisper, but my voice is barely a breath, drowned out by the screech of the ravens and the thunder of Pharo’s laughter.

The landscape shifts again, and now Jordan’s face contorts in pain, his eyes pleading with me. But it’s too late. The nightmare is spinning out of control, and I’m caught in the middle of it, drowning in the suffocating grief of loss and betrayal.

I bolt forward with a sharp gasp. My body jerks, my heart pounding in my tight chest, sweat dripping down my face. Blinking rapidly, I’m disoriented and dizzy, my mind struggling to separate the dream from reality. My neck feels stiff from falling asleep in my chair, slumped over the desk. My hands still rest on the keyboard, the glow of the screen illuminating the room in sickly light. The nightmare lingers, the remnants of it gnawing at the edges of my mind, but reality slowly creeps in.

Swallowing hard, I try to shake off the panic that grips my chest. The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. I stumble from my chair, my legs shaking like jelly as I make my way to the kitchen. I fumble the glass I reach for but recover it before it crashes to the floor, and fill it with water, drinking greedily, the cool liquid doing little to calm the storm inside me.

I can’t keep running from this. From the past. From the guilt. From the grief.

Reaching for my vape, my eyes land on the phone beside it, and after a long hit to steady my racing heart, I pick it up. The screen flickers as I scroll through my contacts. I pause when I get to Brewer’s name. The one person who might be able to help, who might be able to pull me out of my living nightmare.

I pause, gazing at his name, feeling the gravity of my choice. Then, with a deep breath, I press call.

It's time.

CHAPTER 6

PHARO

The engine rumbles softly as it idles beneath me, its painted-black fuel tank gleaming under the fading light of the setting sun. I turn the key in the ignition, and she backfires with a sharp cough before sputtering to a stop. The loud crack reminds me of gunfire and conflict. I was lost in my head, dreaming of a future where the only danger is a miscalibrated carburetor—until the sound brought me back to the present. For a moment, I feel the familiar tension creep back in, like a cold breath on the back of my neck, but I shake it off. Not today. Not here. This lot, this rusted chain-link fence, they don’t know the life I’ve led. All they know is I’m here, and someday, I’ll be back for good.

My gaze moves across the empty lot, surrounded by the wild growth of weeds that have taken over the cracked asphalt. The air is turning more humid now that spring has sprung. A greenish-yellow haze of pollen dust swirls lazily in the wind, coating everything in toxic-sludge-colored spores.

My eyes are fixed on the treeline behind the fence, but my thoughts are miles away, far from this desolate lot outside the city limits. In my head, I don’t see weeds and broken concrete. I see the walls of my dream—walls of brick, glass, and tools—where motorcycles gleam in the soft glow of the overhead lights, each one a carefully restored masterpiece.

A motorcycle shop. My motorcycle shop.

Kendrix Motors.

Kendrix Restorations.

… Something like that.

The image of the shop is vivid in my mind now. The salvaged-brick walls lined with old bikes in various states of repair, some stripped to their frames, others already gleaming with fresh paint. A steady stream of customers who appreciate the artistry of restoring old machines. I’ll spend my days in the workshop, hands deep in grease, listening to the whir of the air compressor, my focus entirely on bringing the past back to life.

I think about it every day, every minute of the endless hours spent in the cockpit of the helicopter, running missions over foreign lands where danger is always just a heartbeat away. The dream is out there, waiting for me. All I need is to survive long enough to reach it.

For now, it’s the paycheck that keeps me going. The risk, the adrenaline, the endless nights of isolation—they’re all paying for this future. The dream that sits quietly in the back of my mind like a seed, slowly taking root, fed by each drop of blood, sweat, and fear I’ve poured into this life I’ve chosen.

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s a life that will buy me the freedom to build something beautiful, something that’s truly mine. Owning a garage isn’t that big of a dream, but it’s big enough for me. I’m living a larger-than-life existence now, and when I finally walk away from that, I want small. I want comfortable. I want this.

Maybe I’ll hire Stiles to give me a hand. That man can fix anything.

It’s worth it. The wind tugs at the sleeves of my jacket. The danger, the uncertainty, the sleepless nights—it’s all worth it.

I can easily picture it—the smell of oil and metal in the air. New leather and fresh paint. The satisfaction of seeing something broken and worn transformed into something powerful again. Like me.

I dream of the day I can call it quits, step out of the cockpit for the last time, and know that every sacrifice I’ve made has led me here.

The sound of a distant helicopter bursts the bubble of my dream, and the moment slips away like desert sand through my fingers. For now, reality calls. But I have a purpose, a dream, and every day I fight for it brings me closer.

I rev the engine, the noise cutting through the silence like a promise. Someday soon, I’ll trade the skies for the garage, and I’ll build something that lasts.

When I return home, I head straight for the spare bedroom I use as an office. I grab the deed to my lot from the file cabinet and slap it on my desk as a visual reminder of everything I’m busting my ass for. Hell, maybe I'll frame it. The drawer sticks as I push it closed. An envelope is caught in the way, and I grab it up, pausing with dread as I read the name scribbled across the front.

Jordan

My stomach tightens before I even open it.

Inside, there’s a collection of things: photos, photocopies of letters, bits of memorabilia, a small glass vial of desert sand. The first photo that falls out is of Jordan, his grin wide, his face covered in dirt and grease, just like the rest of us back then. I swallow hard. It’s like Jax wants me to feel it—feel the consequence of what happened, what I couldn’t stop. There’s a letter too, the same kind Jax has sent me over the years, a reminder of the promises I couldn’t keep, the promises that got Jordan killed.

“You could have saved him, Pharo,” the letter reads, in Jax’s neat, clipped handwriting. “You should have been the leader he needed. He trusted you.”

The guilt gnaws at me, an old wound reopening. Every year, it’s the same thing. He doesn’t even need to say it outright anymore. Just the way he sends these—photos, letters, keepsakes from the past—it's like he's keeping a tally, reminding me of the debt I’ll never pay off. That moment in the desert when everything went wrong, when Jordan—Jax’s best friend—didn’t come home.

I flip through more photos, each one more chilling than the last. It’s the same with every package, each one a heavy boulder chained around my neck. But this time, I can’t keep running from it. I never have been able to. Jax wants me to feel responsible, wants me to carry it with me like an anchor, and every year I do. I should be better than this by now. But some things never get easier.

My gaze flicks over the calendar laid out across my desk. Two weeks until the anniversary of his death. I’ll be getting another letter in the mail soon to add to my collection. I wish I could throw them away and move on, but I wouldn’t dare. If it’s still tormenting Jax, the least I can do is suffer the same fate. I don’t want him to shoulder such a heavy burden alone.

I lay the letters down, my fingers brushing over the print. I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s been years. But the guilt is overwhelming and persistent, settled like Iraqi dust in the corners of my mind. I can almost hear Jax’s voice again, like a ghost in the room, taunting me with the truth I’ve never been able to outrun.

That Jordan’s death was my fault, just like Jax accused.

Technically, it’s not. According to the inquest, it wasn’t. But my conscience and my guilt want to believe Jax. I was his Sergeant. I was in charge.

I am to blame.

But that’s all it is now—ghosts. And I’m tired of them. Tired of carrying the responsibility of what happened out there. One day, I tell myself, clenching my fists around the letters. One day, this will all be in the past. For both me and Jax.

I shove the papers back into the envelope, trying to push the memories away. I don’t need them tonight. I’ve got enough on my shoulders as it is. Replacing the envelope back in the drawer, I touch the deed again, my fingers sliding over my signature. The dream I’ve been holding onto, the reason I keep pushing through each damn day of this dangerous life. No more running.

No more ghosts. Just me, my shop, and whatever I can build from the wreckage.

* * *

The phone rings just as I’m pouring a drink, the amber liquid catching the light and swirling in my glass. I glance at the screen, and my heart drops when I see the name—Greystone Security HQ.

I pick it up with a steady hand, but inside, something tightens, something raw.

“Hello?”

“Pharo.” The voice on the other end is clipped, urgent. “It’s Orson. Arlo’s been hurt. Bad.”

I freeze, the glass in my hand suddenly too heavy. “What happened?” I manage to rasp, my throat tight.

“We don’t have all the details yet, but it’s serious. You need to get back here, now. He’s asking for you. There’s a flight with your name on it tomorrow morning.”

Arlo. Team leader, mentor, the man who got me through some of the hardest hits during the last four years. The man who trusted me to have his back, and I let him down.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, phone pressed to my ear, but when Orson hangs up, I feel like I’ve aged ten years. I move to the liquor cabinet without thinking, pouring myself another shot. It burns down my throat, a familiar sting that does nothing to dull the ache in my chest.

I wasn’t there.

Just like I wasn’t there for Jordan.

I’ve lived my whole life on the edge, pretending the danger doesn’t get to me, pretending it doesn’t matter. But in this moment, it does. I failed. I couldn’t protect Arlo. I couldn’t protect Jordan. How many more lives are going to end prematurely because of me?

The alcohol helps numb the sting, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts from circling. I take another drink, then another, until I feel the familiar fog settling in. My thoughts are a blur, but one thing keeps cutting through the noise: I should have been there.

The phone call came too late. I should have been on the mission. I should’ve been the one to pull Arlo out of that mess. Just like I should’ve pulled Jordan out, kept him safe. I failed both of them.

I grab my jacket and the rest of the bottle, the glass cold in my hand as I stumble out the door, the sharp sting of the alcohol numbing the edges of my thoughts. The crisp night air does little to clear my head, but I keep walking, one foot in front of the other. The pavement’s uneven beneath my boots, but I don’t care. My mind’s elsewhere—racing, spinning, the guilt clawing at me with every step.

I know better than to drive or touch my bike, so I walk. And I walk. And I walk.

The streets are empty, the world around me swallowed by darkness. Only the distant hum of the city, a few stray headlights cutting through the gloom, remind me that life keeps moving while I’m stuck in this loop of regret. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but the strain in my chest doesn’t lighten. It never does.

I keep replaying Arlo’s voice in my head, asking me at least a dozen times when I’m going to come on board full-time and stop playing around with part-time hours, straddling two vastly different worlds.

“You have no family, no kids or spouse, so what’s stopping you?” he’d ask.

What’s stopping me? There are too many and not enough answers to that extremely complicated yet simple question.

My mother.

Jax.

Jordan.

Wanting a life outside of service.

The garage dream.

And on and on…

Jordan’s laughing face flashes through my mind, followed by Arlo’s serious one. One by one, faces from my past, my team, Gehenna, Jax… How many of them will I lose? How many of their deaths will be my fault?

I don't stop walking, don’t bother to watch where I’m going. My hands are cold, but I keep gripping the bottle, the last ounce of comfort I have, even if it’s fleeting. The alcohol burns when I take another long swig, but it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough.

To my surprise, I end up outside Jax’s building, the one I’ve driven by a hundred times but have never been inside. I sway slightly, leaning against the doorframe to keep my balance. The alcohol is clouding my mind, but I need to be here, need to do something to drown out the guilt eating me from the inside.

“Open up,” I shout, my voice slurred and thick with frustration. My knock goes unanswered as I pound the door with a closed fist. “Open the fuck up,” I snap, my voice rising.

Jax’s voice filters through the closed door, smooth but firm. “Fuck off.”

Always so damn defiant. I clench my jaw, anger flaring beneath the fog of booze. He’s not the one I’m angry with, but yelling at myself is pointless. “I said open the door or I’ll smoke you!”

That’s enough to get a reaction. The door creaks open, just enough for Jax to slide into the frame, blocking my way with his arm braced against it. His eyes are sharp, a glimmer of amusement there beneath the tired frustration. “You can’t smoke my ass, you’re not my Sergeant anymore,” he challenges, the smirk barely hanging on his face.

I glare at him, my chest tight. I’m not here for a damn power struggle. But I don’t back down. Not this time. “You think I give a shit?” I mutter, sounding bitter. “I’m not here to play games. Just open the door.”

He stands there, unmoving, studying me with that irritatingly calm expression, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth the effort. Finally, he sighs and steps back, just enough to let me pass.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Come in, but don’t break anything.”

I don’t wait for another word. I push past him into the apartment and scope the place out. The place feels too quiet. Too empty. I collapse onto the tiny-ass couch, feeling everything crash down on me all at once. I don’t say anything at first. Just let the silence settle between us, thick and heavy. Jax doesn’t sit, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, arms crossed, watching me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve.

Judging me for the bottle in my hand.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, he asks, “The fuck are you doing here?”

I wish I had a clue. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” I answer instead. There’s nothing but computers and tech equipment. Why am I surprised by that?

I peer up at Jax, the fog in my head not quite lifting, but the haze of it a little more bearable now that I’m not alone. The room feels too small, too suffocating, like I’m drowning in the silence between us. I can’t escape the guilt twisting in my chest.

“I didn’t protect him, Jax,” I say, my voice low, almost broken. “Arlo—he got hurt, and I wasn’t there. Same as Jordan.” My fists clench at my sides, anger stirring beneath the layers of guilt. I want to punch something, anything, to make it go away.

Jax doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem surprised. He just stands there, his gaze sharp and cold, like he’s waiting for me to get to the point. His shoulders don’t dip in sympathy, his eyes don’t soften with understanding. No, Jax is all hard lines and sharp edges.

“You couldn’t save him, Pharo,” he says, his voice low but full of venom. “Just like you couldn’t save Jordan. I don’t know who Arlo is, and I don’t care. The only thing that matters to me is that you stop endangering people’s lives.”

That hits me like a sucker punch, a brutal reminder of what I couldn’t do. But it’s not just what he said. It’s the tone, the way he’s glaring at me, like I’m the one who let it all go to shit. His beliefs settle in my chest, pushing me down even more.

“You can’t carry it all, Pharo,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like advice. It feels like an accusation, like he's blaming me for everything that went wrong. “You can’t protect everyone. No matter how much you want to.”

I rub my face, but it doesn’t help. The guilt won’t leave. “I wasn’t there,” I mutter. “I was supposed to be there.”

Jax doesn’t even step back, doesn’t let up. Instead, he moves forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of his anger. He sits on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes never leaving mine, that cold, hostile gaze boring into me like he’s judging every mistake I’ve made. His faux-hawk stands on end like he’s been running his hands through it.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice low and sharp. “You weren’t there. You weren’t there when it counted, just like you weren’t for Jordan.” He leans in, his eyes narrowing with something close to disgust. “You’ve been running away from your responsibilities, Pharo. Chasing some stupid dream while the rest of us are stuck dealing with the fallout.”

I feel the anger spike. I want to scream at him, tell him he doesn’t understand, but I can’t. He’s right, in a way.

“I wasn’t even there,” I snap, my voice rising again, but I’m not yelling at him. I’m yelling at myself. “You don’t get it. I failed them. I failed both of them. I should’ve been the one to keep them safe, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jax doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t show a shred of sympathy. His dark eyes narrow, but it’s not pity I see in them. It’s contempt, like he’s disgusted by the weakness in me. “You’re not a god, Pharo,” he says, spitting venom. “You can’t be everywhere. You can’t fix everything. And sometimes—” he pauses, his gaze turning cold, like he’s relishing in the pain he’s inflicting on me, “—sometimes, it’s just not in the cards.”

I turn away, swallowing the lump in my throat, the anger still bubbling up, but there’s no way to get rid of it now. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?” I ask, my voice hoarse, the pain almost unbearable.

Jax doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, but it feels like he’s waiting for me to come to terms with everything he’s just thrown in my face. The silence hangs heavy between us. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks again, his voice softer but still full of judgment.

“You start by accepting that you can’t fix it,” he says, his tone almost condescending now. “Even though you think you’re invincible. You’re playing with real lives, real people.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. It doesn’t make the guilt or the anger go away.

I sit there, the silence suffocating me, my thoughts spiraling, crashing against each other like waves. Maybe, for once, I don’t have to shoulder this alone. But Jax’s words are like stones in my chest, and I’m not sure if I can forgive myself, let alone if he ever will.

Maybe I’m already broken. Maybe it’s too late to fix anything.

“And then?”

His eyes burn with that familiar intensity, the kind that always made me feel like I was a few steps behind, like I was playing a game where I didn’t even know the rules. “And then you get even.”

The realization hits me like a slap in the face. That’s what he’s been doing all these years to me—getting even. It’s what he’s been waiting for, isn’t it? The whole damn time.

“Revenge?” The implication tastes bitter on my tongue. It doesn’t sound like something I want to hear, not from Jax. But there it is, hanging in the air.

“Revenge is a nasty word,” he scoffs, shaking his head with that annoying, smug half-smile that always makes me want to throw something. “I prefer to call it returning the favor.”

Returning the favor.

I’m not sure what I feel anymore—anger, confusion, a deep, gnawing sense of loss. I can’t keep up, can’t process what he’s saying or his reasons. I’m too damn tired. “Revenge against who?”

I almost don’t want to know, but I need to hear it. Maybe if I hear it, it’ll make sense of all this bullshit.

Jax pauses, like he’s savoring the moment, watching me squirm. He knows what he’s doing. He always knows.

“That depends,” he says, his voice soft, almost too soft, like he’s speaking to a child. “Who’s to blame?”

Under his intense stare, I find myself unable to look away. “Me?” I don’t even know why I say it. I don’t know what he wants me to say or what the right answer is. My mind is thick, sluggish. The words feel foreign in my mouth. But somehow, it feels like the answer he’s been waiting for.

“Exactly.”

He smiles, but it’s all teeth and malice. No humor. No warmth. It’s the kind of smile you give your enemy just before you put them in the ground.

The air feels cold. He’s glowering at me like he’s delivering a death blow, like I’m the one who failed—not just once, but over and over. I never realized how much Jax had been holding onto until now.

“You think you can just walk away from this, Pharo?” His voice lowers, a dangerous edge creeping in. “You think you can ignore it all, let it slide? That’s not how this works. You can’t run from the mess you made.”

Jax’s accusation cuts through me like a knife, but it’s not just what he’s saying. It’s the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the one responsible for everything. For Jordan. For Arlo. For whatever damage we’ve done to each other over the years.

But I’m still not sure what to do with all this. I still don’t understand why he’s so hell-bent on making me feel this way. Why the hell he’s playing this twisted game.

“You think you have the right to judge me?” I finally snapped, the anger coming faster than I expected. “You think you’re the one who gets to point fingers?”

Jax’s smile doesn’t fade. He’s enjoying this. “Someone has to, Pharo. Someone has to make you face it.”

And just like that, it clicks. That’s what all of this has been about. Him trying to make me face myself. He’s been waiting for this, for me to crack open and admit that I’m the one to blame. But is it really me? Or is this just the game Jax plays?

I’m too tired to figure it out right now. Too lost in the mess of it all. But the silence between us says everything I need to hear. Jax is already one step ahead, and I’m just trying to catch up.

I have to get up. I have to get out of here—get away from Jax, from this goddamn apartment, from all the noise in my head. My chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe, and I can’t think straight when he’s staring at me like that, like I’m the one who broke everything.

I push myself off the couch, my legs unsteady, the room spinning just enough to make me feel like I might fall if I don’t keep moving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t stay here. Not with Jax’s cold eyes on me, not with his words echoing in my skull, twisting around like a knot I can’t untangle.

I trip over his boots near the door, cursing under my breath as I catch myself against the wall. “Do you ever pick up around here?” I spit, my eyes scanning the mess—the dishes piled high in the sink, his helmet tossed carelessly on the kitchen counter like he doesn’t give a damn about anything.

“This isn’t a room inspection, Sergeant,” Jax snaps, his voice sharp, full of that familiar bitterness. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, glaring at me like he’s daring me to say something else. “We’re not in the barracks anymore. If this place isn’t the palace you’re used to, you can get the fuck out.”

I stand there for a moment, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My anger’s bubbling up again, but I can feel it—everything Jax does is meant to push me. He’s trying to get under my skin, trying to make me crack. And for once, I don’t want to let him. Instead, I just let out a sharp exhale, turning away from the mess. I turn toward the door again, trying to ignore the looming threat of his presence. “I didn’t come here for a fight, Jax.”

My voice is thick, laced with frustration, but I don’t know who I’m really angry at. Him? Me? The whole damn situation?

“Then why did you come?” Jax’s voice is steady, too steady. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes bore into me, like he’s daring me to crack, daring me to say something that will make it all come spilling out. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not tonight. Not with him.

I stand there for a beat, the silence stretching out like a blanket of fog. His stare is like a physical presence, locking me in his sights, suffocating the air between us. But I don’t let him break me. I can’t.

I don’t know why I ended up here tonight. Maybe it’s because, for all the shit he’s given me over the years, for all the ways he’s made me feel less than, maybe I thought, just maybe, if anyone understands the pain of guilt, it would be Jax. He’s carried his own demons, hasn’t he?

“Because apparently, all I do is make mistakes. This is just one more.”

My statement lingers, bitter and raw, but I don’t stick around long enough to see if it lands. I don’t want to see the expression on his face, don’t want to know if I’ve finally cracked something in him. Instead, I grab the door handle and wrench it open, stepping out into the cool night air, away from the suffocating tension, away from Jax, away from the mess I can’t seem to escape.

The cold hits me like a shock, and for a moment, I feel like I can breathe again. But the pressure’s still there, pressing down on me. The guilt. The failure. And no matter how far I walk, I don’t think I’ll ever outrun it.

CHAPTER 7

PHARO

It’s a day ending in y, which must be why I see Jax tailing me again in my rearview mirror. It’s a given after showing up at his apartment last night, and drunk off my ass, no less. I shouldn’t have gone there. I shouldn’t have even thought about it. But I did. And now I’m paying the price.

What the hell was I thinking?

Clearly, I wasn’t. And that’s the problem.

If I had time to kill, I’d drive around this damn town in circles until we both run out of gas, just to be petty. I’d probably even get a kick out of it. But I don’t have time for that today. I’ve got a flight to catch. And nothing, not a natural disaster, not Armageddon, and certainly not Jax, is going to stop me from getting back to my team. Getting back to Arlo.

The small parking lot at the airstrip of Asheville Regional Airport is almost empty as I pull my truck in and park. The warmth of the rising sun burns off the hazy morning mist, casting a soft glow over everything. The world feels quieter at this hour. It’s almost peaceful, but that peace is fleeting, like it always is. The day is waking up, and with it comes everything I’ve been trying to outrun—guilt, memories, the expectation of promises I’ve yet to keep.

I squint against the sun’s sharp light, the glow turning everything into shades of gold and orange. It feels like a reset, like the world is trying to start fresh, even if I’m not.

I step out of the truck, my boots hitting the ground with a dull thud, and grab my ruck, heading into the cool interior of the tiny terminal. It’s not much—just an office attached to the hangar, barely big enough to call a real building. I can already smell the faint scent of jet fuel lingering in the air, mixing with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Rhett works here, but I usually manage to miss him. My flights are either too early or too late to coincide with his hours.

I push open the door, the squeak of the hinges slicing through the quiet. Inside, it’s a clutter of old aviation charts, scattered papers, and the kind of worn furniture you can tell has been there longer than most memories. I make my way to the back counter, where a stack of papers sits, waiting to be signed. The thought of seeing anything familiar makes the knot in my chest tighten again, but I push it aside, grabbing the clipboard and filling out the necessary paperwork.

Every tick of the clock in the corner seems louder than it should be, reminding me that time is running out.

Randall Mallory, owner of the flight and jump school that he runs out of the terminal, steps out of his office, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He grins, his bright white teeth standing out against his sun-kissed skin. In his fifties now, Rand is starting to show signs of his age, the silver strands in his dark hair only adding to the ruggedness of his appearance, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.

Tall and fit, his broad shoulders and thick biceps are barely contained by the stretched sleeves of his worn-out T-shirt. The guy looks like he could still kick ass in any situation, even though the clock is clearly ticking.

He notices me standing at the counter and his grin widens, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Pharo,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee, his voice as easygoing as always. “You’re a sight for sore eyes this early. Thought you were on leave.”

“Leave never lasts as long as I hope it will,” I reply, my voice a little gruffer than I intend. Another mission, another stop, and another departure. Just another day in the mess I call my life.

Rand raises an eyebrow, watching me closely, like he can read between the lines. He always could. “Uh-huh. Well, good to see you, as always. You look like you’ve had better mornings.”

I glance down at the cup of coffee in his hand, and the memories of last night hit me all over again.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Something like that.” And that something is probably parked and waiting for me outside.

“I’ve got the Cessna warmed up for you. Already completed the preflight checks. You’re ready to go.”

The man’s a godsend. Always has been. He’s been through his share of hard knocks and knows when to offer help without asking for anything in return.

“Thanks, Rand. Let me just grab a cup of coffee, and I’ll be on my way.”

He gives me a nod, his smile still there, but there’s something else behind it now—something like understanding. “Have a safe flight, Pharo. I’ll see you on the flip side.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, giving him a half-hearted salute. “See you.”

I turn away from the counter, grabbing my ruck and heading toward the door, already thinking about the miles ahead, about the mission, and what’s waiting for me on the other side of the flight. But first, I have to deal with Jax. After filling my to-go cup, I start for the door but turn back. I could just leave. I could walk out of here and pretend like I didn’t notice him following me, pretend like I’m not still carrying all that shit we never talked about. But I know I won’t.

I fill the second cup and carry both in my hand as I step outside, the cool morning air cutting through my jacket. He’s parked a little further down, straddling his bike, arms crossed, eyes watching me approach.

“Figured you might need a cup,” I mutter, handing him the second one.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes the cup, his eyes narrowing a bit. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something else. But whatever it is, he doesn’t let it show for long.

“You’re not as slick as you think you are,” I tease, trying to break the tension. “You stick out like a sore thumb, especially on that bike.”

Jax rolls his dark eyes, and I can almost hear the exhale of frustration. His cheeks are covered in day-old scruff, and he's got one of his hand-knit beanies pulled down over his mess of a haircut.

It’s almost identical to the beanie stowed away in my ruck.

I glance at him, not sure if I should press or just let the silence linger. His face is hard to read, but I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s waiting for me to crack, waiting for me to give him something.

“You got a problem with the bike?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s trying to keep the mood light, but there’s a sharp edge to it.

I shake my head, not wanting to go down that road. “Nah. Just saying it’s hard to miss you when you’re cruising around town on that thing.”

Jax just gives me a look—half challenge, half resignation—before he takes a long sip of the coffee I handed him, the steam rising into the cool morning air. “You remind me of a penny. You always land on heads,” he mutters under his breath.

Was that supposed to be a compliment? I raise an eyebrow, trying to figure out if I’m supposed to take that in stride or call him out. “A lucky penny?”

“No,” Jax answers shortly, his voice flat, not even bothering to lift his head from his cup.

I give it a second, then try again, “A collectible vintage penny?” I ask, hoping I’m at least in the right ballpark.

Jax snorts, the sound full of dry humor. “No. An old rusty one. Two-faced and not worth much.”

I chuckle dryly, shaking my head. “Ouch.”

He shrugs, not giving me a hint of a smile, his eyes scanning the empty parking lot like he’s already over the conversation. “It’s the truth.”

I glance at him, then down at the cup in his hands, trying to hide the sting from his words. Maybe he's right. Maybe I’ve got more faces than I’m willing to admit. But that doesn’t mean I need to hear it out loud.

“You know,” I say, taking a step back, “you're a real ray of sunshine. What are you doing here, Jax?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. And don’t give me some bullshit about a last-minute deployment.”

“If you were half as good at your job as you think you are, you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d already have the answers. I haven’t lied… much. No doubt you’ll check the flight log as soon as you get home.” I raise my head, gazing out over the tarmac to my waiting plane, reminded that time is ticking. “I gotta go. But listen, if you’re going to make this a regular occurrence, maybe we can grab dinner when I get back in town. Nothing says I care like a ride home from the airport.” I wink at him, knowing he hates it.

“One more question,” he calls out as I bend down to grab my ruck.

I pause, glancing back over my shoulder. “What is it?”

“Are you a hitman?”

The question throws me off for a second. I’d think he was joking if it wasn’t for the dark scowl on his face, like he’s serious, like this is a real accusation. A laugh rips from my chest, deep and loud, the tension from the past couple of days breaking for a moment. “Sure, Jax. A hitman. If I were, I’d start with you. You’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

The hint of a smirk pulls at his lips, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He just stares at me, that hard, unreadable expression settling back into place. “You can fucking try,” he challenges, calling my bluff.

I shake my head, still chuckling under my breath. "Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome for the coffee, by the way."

Jax doesn't respond right away, just watches me, the silence between us settling heavily. There's something unspoken hanging in the air—I can’t name it, but I can feel it.

With a final glance at him, I turn and head toward the plane. There’s no point in digging deeper. Not today. Not with Jax. He’s not the kind of guy who wants answers, only more questions. And right now, I’ve got enough of those for both of us.

As the plane’s engines beckon me with a familiar roar, I can feel the tautness in my chest loosen just a little. One step closer to something. Maybe peace. Maybe redemption. Or maybe just the next fight. Either way, I’ve got no time to waste.

CHAPTER 8

JAX

“I think you’re both going to have to sit down and talk. Together.”

Every time I recall Brewer’s advice after our long and emotionally exhausting session, I cringe. Together isn’t a word I want to use in connection with Pharo. There’s nothing cohesive about us.

The idea of sitting down with him, having a civilized conversation? It’s laughable. Every time I think we’re on the verge of something resembling understanding, it all falls apart, usually in a tangle of insults, bad decisions, and too much damn history between us.

Take the other night, for example.

We’re like fire and gasoline—always at odds, always ready to explode. No amount of discussion is going to fix that. And honestly? I’m not sure I want it fixed. It’s easier when we’re just two people who know each other too well but don’t have to deal with the fallout of trying to get along.

But Brewer’s right. And I hate that. If we’re ever going to move forward, if we’re ever going to make any sense of the mess we’ve made of everything, it’s going to require something I can barely stand to think about.

It means talking.

My phone beeps with a message and I grab it, my vape between my teeth, taking a hit as I pull up the Bitches’ group chat. I roll my eyes at the video Nash posted of his kitten, Valor, sitting in the Humvee kiddie pay-per-ride outside of the grocery store. He takes that dumb cat everywhere like it's some kind of mascot. I can't even begin to understand it.

Closing out the chat, I scroll until I find Pharo’s number. I stare at the screen for a second, my thumb hovering over the keys. My heart doesn’t want to do this, but my head knows it’s overdue. I type out the message, something short, blunt, and to the point:

We need to talk when you get back. And no, I’m not buying you dinner!

I’d rather stick my hand down the garbage disposal than hit send, but I do it anyway. My finger hovers for a moment before pressing it, and then my stomach sinks watching the little "sent" notification pop up on the screen. There's no going back now.

I lean back, taking another hit from the vape, trying to shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at my insides.

Talking to Pharo? Hell, I’m not even sure where to begin. But I know it has to happen. Sooner or later. And, like it or not, it’s going to hurt.

Of course, I don’t hear back right away. I wasn’t expecting to. Maybe a small part of me thought he might see my name on the screen and jump, from curiosity or something else. But that part of me’s always been too hopeful, too naïve. Pharo’s probably too busy offing bad guys to even glance at his phone.

Hell, maybe he’s not even that busy. Maybe he’s just avoiding me, which, honestly, I can’t blame him for. If I were him, I’d avoid me, too.

Okay, fine. He’s probably not a hitman. I’m, like, 87.6 percent sure he’s not. But what does that leave? Special Ops? Gun for hire? Every time I think I’ve got a handle on the mystery that is Pharo, I end up more confused than when I started.

But then there’s Rhett. I know he works at the airfield where Pharo flew out of. I watched his plane take off from the parking lot just this morning. And now I’m left wondering—when the hell did Pharo get his pilot’s license? It’s not like it’s a piece of information he’s volunteered.

I tap my fingers against the phone, staring at the screen, the unanswered message to Pharo staring back at me. What else don’t I know about him? What kind of life has he been leading that I’ve never bothered to ask about?

Maybe it’s time I got some answers, even if they come from the one person who probably knows less about Pharo than I do. But right now, any lead is better than nothing.

I pull up Rhett’s name and hit dial. When he answers, I can hear the hum of a small aircraft in the background, the sound buzzing through the phone like a constant reminder that I’m talking to someone who’s clearly a step closer to the truth than I am.

“Hello?”

“How often does Pharo fly out of your hangar?” I cut straight to the point, not in the mood for anything else.

“Oh, hey, Jax. How’s your day going? Mine, you ask? Peachy. I’m having a killer meatball sub for lunch. What about you?”

I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “I’m not hungry. How often?” I repeat, my patience is starting to wear thin.

Rhett’s voice dips into a tone that tells me he knows this isn’t a friendly check-in. “Well, let’s see… Pharo? I don’t know. He pops in when he needs to. Maybe a couple times a month. Sometimes more. I’m not always here when he flies in or out. Why?”

It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it's something. “What else?” I push, needing more. “How long has he been flying? Does he own a plane?” I’m not even sure why I’m asking all this. The more I know, the more tangled it feels. But I can’t stop myself.

Rhett pauses, a little longer than I like. “I don’t know much about his personal stuff, Jax. Just that he’s a damn good pilot. He’s got his shit together up there, that’s for sure. As for owning a plane—well, that’s not something I’ve ever asked him. He’s not exactly chatty when it comes to that kind of stuff. The one he uses is registered to a company called Greystone Security.”

Greystone Security? What kind of company just hands out small planes like door prizes to their employees? Great, now I’ve got even more questions swirling around in my head.

“Alright,” I mutter. “Thanks, Rhett. I’ll let you get back to that sub.”

Rhett chuckles. “Anytime, man. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll be here, shoving these balls in my mouth.”

Christ. Ball jokes from the Bitches. How novel.

Time to get to work.

I move the mouse, bringing Cerberus to life. The hum of the computer fills the space around me, a sound that’s almost comforting in its predictability. I type Greystone Security into the search bar, watching the results flood the screen. Pages upon pages of links. Most of it’s corporate fluff, all polished PR crap designed to make them appear to be saving the world one secure facility at a time.

But I’m not here for that. I don’t care about the glossy surface. What I want to know is what’s behind it. What’s Greystone securing? Who’s behind it? What do they do when the cameras are off and the official reports are filed?

I scroll past the predictable sales pitch, clicking through until I find something a little less polished, a little more… real. A blog post, one buried under layers of sponsored content, gives me a sliver of insight. There are whispers, off-the-record comments about “black ops” and “classified clients” that make my skin crawl. That’s the part I need to focus on.

I dig deeper, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I start to piece things together. Greystone’s website is slick—too slick—and everything in the open is designed to distract, misdirect. But beneath that layer, I know there’s something dark. Something worth knowing. And I’ll find it.

This time, there’s no avoiding it.

As the screen fills with more layers of disjointed, fragmented info, I can feel the pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together—just barely. I’m close, but not quite there. The deeper I dive, the more I realize how carefully Greystone’s managed to cover their tracks. They’ve set up a web of false leads, clever misdirection to make anyone who comes snooping think it’s all above board.

Then, a new link catches my eye—one that doesn’t belong. It’s buried under pages of standard intel, with an innocuous name like “Operations Overview.” But there’s something in the back of my mind that tells me it’s different. The domain’s not part of their main website, and it doesn’t look like any of the other professional feeds I’ve seen.

My pulse quickens as I click it.

A password prompt pops up.

“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. They were expecting someone like me to dig. I’ve been around long enough to know the game.

I pull up my secure chat and reach out to the one person I know who will give me answers without asking too many questions.

Got a favor to ask.

Joey:

Of course you do.

Leaning back in the chair, eyes still locked on the screen in front of me, I hit the vape hard.

I need access to a server.

Joey:

So, access it. That’s what you do.

No shit, smartass.

Not that kind of server.

Joey:

You owe me.

Add it to my tab.

I feel the force of what I’m about to do sink in. Greystone’s not just a high-end security company. It’s something much darker and intricate, and if I’m not careful, digging too deep could put a target on my back. But I’m already too far in. The screen in front of me flickers as it loads, and my fingers hover over the keyboard, my mind racing with anticipation. Then, the pointer on my screen moves of its own accord, as if guided by an invisible hand. I don’t need to look to know it’s Joey. He’s the only one I’d ever allow access to my systems—trusted beyond reason, even when it comes to these kinds of dirty, high-risk jobs.

I lean back in my chair and wait for him to do his thing.

A chat box pops up on the screen, blinking with Joey’s username.

Joey:

Got you covered. You’re searching for the Greystone Project files, right?

Yeah. I need everything. The real stuff. Not the PR bullshit.

The cursor pauses for a moment before his reply comes through.

Joey:

Give me a second. They’ve got a decent firewall. I’ll need to crack it open.

I watch the screen closely as his work starts. Lines of code flash across the screen, each one another step closer to what I need. It’s like watching a master at work, precise, methodical, no wasted movement.

Joey:

Alright, I’m in. Looks like there’s a whole network of files, hidden in plain sight. Someone went to great lengths to bury these.

The tension in my chest tightens as I lean in, staring at the glowing screen. I don’t know who Greystone is working for, but I’m getting closer. I can feel it in my gut, the familiar buzz of danger.

What else?

There’s another pause, longer this time. I can almost hear Joey’s fingers tapping on the keys, the silence stretching between us.

Joey:

Shit… I’ve got something. Classified op details. This isn’t just about security. They’ve got contracts tied to military-grade operations. It’s black ops. Private military contractors. Some of this is… off the grid. But it goes deeper than that.

I feel my pulse spike. This is the kind of information that’s dangerous to know. The kind that could get a person killed. But I’ve come too far now to back off.

Keep going.

Joey:

I’m pulling some more details… Hold on. This is the kind of shit you don’t want to mess with, Jax. These people are playing a whole different game. You sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?

I take a deep breath, my grip tightening on the edge of my desk. I know where this path leads, and I know the cost. But I can’t stop now. What if Pharo’s in over his head? The fuck has he gotten himself into?

I don’t have a choice. Keep going.

Joey:

Alright, here we go… I’ve got names. Operations. High-value targets. Blacklisted missions. This isn’t just another corporate scam, Jax. This is heavy. Real heavy.

Fuck. I can feel the walls closing in. The deeper I go, the harder it will be to get out.

I take a deep breath and sit back, letting the information settle. I’ve crossed a line now. There’s no going back. Not after this.

Send it all to me. And get out of there. Now.

I don’t wait for his reply. The screen blinks for a second before the files start downloading, every second feeling like a countdown to something I can’t control anymore.

I’m in too deep.

Pharo’s in too deep.

Joey:

I was never here. Peace out.

Joey who?

Joey:

If the feds come knocking, be a good friend and hack a bank for my bail money.

If the feds come knocking, there won’t be any bail, my friend. Peace out.

It takes two days to go through all the info. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen for hours on end, the data swirling in my head like a storm I can’t control. Still no word from Pharo. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively, but there’s nothing. No response to my message, no sign that he even saw it.

I finally drag myself away from the desk, my muscles stiff from sitting too long. I stumble into the bathroom, wincing at the sharp ache in my lower back. The fluorescent lights hum above, casting an unforgiving glow on my reflection in the mirror. I stop short, frozen by the sight.

Hollow eyes. Dark circles beneath them that only seem to deepen by the second. My hair, normally under control, stands on end like I’ve been electrocuted, and the unkempt mess of it makes me look like I’ve been living out of a bag for weeks. My lips are cracked, dry, and peeling, and my complexion has taken on that sickly pale tint, like I haven’t seen daylight in a month.

I look like a tweaker coming off a three-day bender.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, though it’s more out of frustration than amusement. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I operate. But I can’t shake the gnawing feeling in my gut—the questions that still hang unanswered. Greystone, Pharo, what’s really going on with him, and why the hell hasn’t he checked in?

I reach for the sink, splashing cold water on my face to clear the fog, but it doesn’t help. My mind is still racing, chasing after threads of information that don’t connect. I scrub at my face and glance back at the mirror, voicing the question nagging at me hardest.

What if Pharo’s not okay?

CHAPTER 9

JAX

“When you said we needed to talk, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Pharo complains, shifting his weight to try and squeeze in beside me on the small leather couch. Brewer’s sofa was intended to seat one person comfortably, possibly two, if needed. But not two the size of us. Pharo is the size of a full-grown gorilla, and I’m not exactly small myself.

His broad shoulders press into mine, and I can feel the tension radiating off him. The air between us crackles with things unspoken, like we're both bracing for impact. He tries to adjust, but the couch squeaks in protest, giving up any pretense of comfort.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” I mutter, shifting slightly so I’m not completely squashed against the armrest.

Pharo grunts, obviously annoyed, but doesn’t say anything more. The silence stretches on, thick and awkward, until he breaks it with a deep exhale. “So, what’s this all about? You said we needed to talk... and I can’t imagine it’s about your undying affection for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picks up at the sound of his voice. “We need to talk about you. And what the hell is going on with you.”

He meets my eyes for a brief moment, and I see something flicker there—something raw and a little too honest, before he turns away again. “Yeah? Well, I don’t exactly feel like talking, Jax. But go ahead. Ask your questions.”

I open my mouth, but nothing escapes—my throat tightens, holding everything back. I know what I want to say, but I can’t force it out. There’s so much more than just him. It’s about me, too—about the shit I’ve been carrying, the things I’ve buried under layers of sarcasm and denial.

Instead, I go with the obvious. “Why haven’t you been answering my messages, Pharo? What the hell is going on?”

Brewer steps into the office, taking the seat across from us. “Thank you for being patient while I took a phone call. Let’s get started. Jax, we met last week, and I suggested we all sit down together. There’s a lot that needs to be communicated between the two of you, and I understand you’re struggling with that.”

Way to understate it, Brewer.

Pharo’s gaze flicks to Brewer, then back to me, and I can feel the tension in the air like a live wire ready to snap. This isn’t what I had in mind when I agreed to this meeting. I wanted answers, not some half-hearted therapy session. But Brewer doesn’t seem to care about my discomfort, nor does he seem to notice how Pharo’s fists are clenching in his lap.

“I don’t need to talk,” Pharo mutters, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice. “I don’t need to share anything with him, Brewer. This isn’t some team debriefing. This is personal. And you know damn well I don’t do personal.”

Brewer leans forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “Pharo, this isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about both of you, and you’re both letting your personal shit get in the way of doing what needs to be done.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. I’m pissed. I’m always pissed when Pharo pulls this shit, shutting down, pretending like none of this matters. But the truth is, it does matter. And I’m not walking away from this without answers.

Pharo’s eyes flash, and for a second, I think he might lash out. But then his shoulders sag, just a little. He peers down at his hands like he’s trying to figure out what to do with them, then drags a hand over his face, exhausted.

“I’m not fine, Jax,” he says quietly, the first honest words he’s spoken in what feels like forever. “But you don’t get it. You won’t.”

Brewer stays silent, watching the two of us like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he’s only been half informed of. I can feel Pharo’s vulnerability creeping into the space between us. And for the first time, I realize I might actually have no idea what he’s been going through. Maybe I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot how much he’s been carrying.

“Let me start by saying how sorry I am for dragging you into my bullshit the other night,” Pharo says, his voice rough, like he’s just swallowed a handful of gravel.

I blink, taken aback. The last thing I expected was an apology, especially from him. Apologizing is something Pharo doesn’t do. He doesn’t need to apologize in his mind, not for the shit he’s done, not for the shit he’s been through. But here he is, sitting beside me like he's willing to show a crack in the armor.

I don’t respond right away. I just watch him, waiting for the rest of it to come, wondering if there’s more coming that I didn’t expect.

“I’ve been dealing with a lot of shit I don’t know how to talk about,” Pharo continues, his eyes focused on the floor. “And I fucked up. I was drunk, I was angry, and I pushed my way into your space. You didn’t deserve that. Not after everything. And... I guess I’m just tired of pretending I’ve got it all under control.”

My breath catches in my throat. This isn’t the Pharo I’m used to. This isn’t the guy who shuts everyone out, keeps the walls up like a fortress. This guy... is human. Maybe even a little broken, like the rest of us. And it hits me harder than I expect.

“Pharo…” I start, but he cuts me off before I can finish.

“No, Jax,” he says, shaking his head, his voice heavy with regret. “You’re right. I’m responsible for Jordan’s death, to a degree. Ultimately, he took his own life, but I was in charge. He trusted me to pull the brakes when his bullshit went too far, and I looked the other way.”

The guilt in his voice, seeping through every word—it’s impossible to miss. He’s not just blaming himself; he’s acknowledging the burden he carries, the responsibility he never let go of. And I get it. I know exactly what he means. How you can be responsible for so much, even if you weren’t the one to pull the trigger.

Pharo raises his head, his eyes bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept in days. “I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t there when it counted.”

I don’t know if we’re talking about Jordan or Arlo, whoever that is.

“You’re talking about both of them, aren’t you?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Pharo doesn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to the floor like the thoughts are too heavy for him to speak. But I know. I can feel it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches as if even acknowledging it would be too much to bear.

“I tried,” he mutters, his voice raw. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve⁠—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off before the spiral gets any deeper. “You have no business running missions and taking responsibility for others after the shit with Jordan!”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing, but I don’t back down. My voice sharpens, fueled by the frustration I’ve been carrying around since finding out about Greystone.

“I don’t give a damn if you think you’re ready to jump back in, Pharo. You’re not,” I say, each word landing heavier than the last. “You failed Jordan. And now you’re walking around like you’re some kind of hero in this broken story—but you’re not. You want redemption? You think stepping into a mission is going to fix what you did?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him.

“I’m not done,” I snap.

Brewer holds up a hand to stop me. “Jax, I’m gonna have to ask you to take a deep breath. There’s a gaggle of Bitches with their ears to the door, and if you don’t keep your voice down, they’re going to hear every word, despite the white noise machine masking the sound.”

Fucking nosy ass Bitches. I have no doubt he’s right.

Brewer continues, his tone level but firm. “Pharo expressed his part in Jordan’s death. What was your part that you’re carrying?”

I freeze. “My what?”

It’s like a slap to the face—sudden, unexpected. My mind stumbles, grappling for something that will make sense of the question, but it doesn’t come.

Pharo’s smirk slides into something colder, more calculated, like he’s watching a train wreck unfold. “What? You think you get to play the martyr here? You think you’re innocent in this?” He leans forward just enough to make his point. “You knew who he was. An utter jackass. A reckless fool. You watched him spiral as the pressure got to him, and you didn’t say anything.”

My blood runs cold. I want to snap, to tell him to shut the hell up, but something in his eyes—something dark, like he knows exactly how deep my guilt runs—holds me in place.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Brewer watches us both closely, his fingers steepled in front of him as he waits for me to speak. The room feels too small, the walls closing in as Pharo’s words echo in my skull.

“Jordan milked a fucking grenade for shits and giggles, and you laughed. He swallowed diesel to see if he’d get sick, and you brushed it off as a harmless prank. He mutilated a field mouse, and you excused his behavior as stress. Hell, I’m just as guilty. The difference is that I can admit that. You can’t,” he accuses, poking his finger at me.

I want to punch him. I want to scream at him that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But the truth is—he does. Jordan’s behavior didn’t sit right with me, not for one second. But the alternative was to report him, and that would mean I’d be stuck in Iraq without him. He was my rock. But… I wasn’t his. He needed me to step in and save him, and I didn’t.

I clench my fists, the anger bubbling up again, but it’s not just aimed at Pharo anymore. It’s at me, at the way I failed him. The guilt claws at me, sharp and relentless.

“You think I didn’t know what was happening with him?” I growl, my voice low and raw. “I saw it. I saw the cracks in him. But he was the guy who kept me sane over there. The guy who had my back when shit hit the fan. He wasn’t just a soldier to me. He was my damn brother. And I couldn’t afford to lose him.”

Pharo’s eyes narrow, and there’s no smugness left in his face, just the same old frustration that we both share. “But you did lose him, Jax. You lost him because you couldn’t see the real problem. He wasn’t just some soldier, and he wasn’t just your rock. He was a human being. And you failed him when he needed you the most.”

The truth blindsides me like a frigid wave, and for a second, I think I’m going to lose it. As time ticks on, the pressure of everything mounts, and I avert my gaze. The guilt, the regret, the anger—it’s all there, twisting inside me.

“We both did,” he adds quietly.

“I know,” I mutter, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

“Nobody else followed Jordan into that minefield. Why didn’t you follow him, Jax?”

“Because I didn’t want to die,” I mutter, the truth tasting bitter as it leaves my mouth.

“Well, Jordan did.” The silence that follows feels suffocating, thick with accusation. “He fucking danced around like he was performing on a stage. You heard me shout at him, giving him an unmistakable order to stand down.”

I’d heard. His command rings through my darkest nightmares.

“Remember when he broke his foot and was benched from our first mission?”

I shake my head, recalling how someone accidentally pushed him and he stumbled into the path of a jeep rolling by loaded with munitions.

“It wasn’t an accident, Jax. Jordan purposely stuck his foot out. He deliberately put himself in harm’s way to get sidelined.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

It hits me like a freight train, slamming into my chest, leaving me breathless. I stare at Pharo, disbelief spreading across my face. “You’re telling me he wanted to get hurt?”

Pharo’s topaz gaze is steady, unwavering. “Yeah. He did. He wasn’t trying to get out of the mission, Jax. He was trying to get away from it. He wanted to be benched. He wanted to be sidelined so he didn’t have to go.”

I feel my chest tighten, a knot forming in my stomach. I’ve always known Jordan as the guy who didn’t hesitate to dive headfirst into danger. He was reckless, sure, but he never seemed afraid of anything—at least, that’s what I thought.

“But why?” I croak, the question coming out of me before I even realize I’m asking. “Why would he do that?”

Pharo shifts in his seat, his eyes dropping for just a moment before meeting mine again. “Because he couldn’t handle it anymore. The pressure. The responsibility. The risk, the constant fear that one of us wouldn’t come back. That he wouldn’t come back. He needed out, but he couldn’t figure out how to say it. So he did the only thing he could—he hurt himself.”

I feel the ground beneath me shift, like the world I thought I understood is crumbling away. Jordan—the guy who never backed down, the guy who jumped into danger without hesitation—was afraid? Afraid enough to sabotage his own body just to get out of it?

I run a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself. “You’re telling me we missed that? I was right there with him, and I didn’t see it?”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “None of you did, Jax. He was hiding it from us. But I saw it. I saw the way he flinched every time new orders came in. How he started pulling away, isolating himself. He was terrified of what we were becoming, terrified of being that guy who doesn’t come back. He wasn’t built for it anymore.”

The silence between us feels suffocating. Pharo’s voice drips with regret. My mind spins, trying to make sense of it. Jordan—our Jordan—wasn’t the invincible soldier I thought he was. He was just as fragile as the rest of us. Maybe even more so.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “How did we not see it?”

“Because we were too busy thinking we were invincible, too,” Pharo replies. “We couldn’t see it because we didn’t want to. We didn’t want to admit that we were all cracking under the pressure.”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat growing. The truth stings. We failed him. We missed the signs. We ignored the cracks in the armor because we were too busy wearing our own.

“God,” I whisper, the guilt swallowing me whole. “I could’ve done something. I should’ve done something.”

Pharo leans forward, his voice steady. “No, Jax. You couldn’t have. You can’t save everyone. Sometimes, you’re not even enough to save yourself.”

That hits harder than anything else he’s said. I drop my eyes, unable to meet his eyes anymore. He’s right. We can’t fix everything. But I’ll never stop wishing I had done something.

Brewer coughs to clear his throat, breaking the heavy silence that’s settled between us. His gaze shifts between Pharo and me, and for the first time, I notice a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, his voice calm but firm, “we’ve talked about the past, about the shit we missed. I recommend you both keep talking, keep listening, and definitely keep coming back to see me.”

I stare at him, still processing everything that’s been said. It feels like the ground has shifted beneath my feet, and I don’t know how to stand anymore. How do you move forward from something like this? How do you live with the fact that you were too blind to see the cracks in your brother's armor?

Brewer leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, the importance of this conversation blanketing us. “Jax, Pharo, we all have our demons. We all have things we could’ve done differently. But the truth is, none of us has the luxury of turning back the clock. We have to figure out how to handle our past so we can live with the present.”

Pharo nods slightly, but his expression is unreadable. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am: What next?

“Pharo,” Brewer continues, his voice soft but unwavering, “as the leader, I can’t imagine the burden this is on you, but I need to clarify this isn’t your fault. This guilt is paralyzing and incapacitating if you let it weigh you down. And Jax,” he turns his gaze to me, “I’m proud of you for opening up. There’s no judgment here. Just understanding. How do we get the two of you on a path of healing that’s acceptable for both of you? You both have a chance to rebuild, to move past this... if you let yourselves.”

I clench my jaw, his advice rattling around in my skull. I don’t know how to let go. How do you forgive yourself when you failed someone you loved?

How do you move on when the past is a constant reminder of your shortcomings?

“Rebuilding, huh?” I mutter, the sarcasm creeping into my voice despite myself. “Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not easy,” Brewer admits, his gaze softening. “But it’s necessary. For both of you.”

The impact settles in, deeper than any of the physical burdens I’ve carried. There’s no way to fix the past, but maybe... just maybe, we can still have a future. If we’re willing to try.

I glance at Pharo, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel the anger simmering beneath the surface. There’s something different in his eyes, too—something close to resignation, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a hint of hope there as well.

It’s a start.

CHAPTER 10

PHARO

When I exit Brewer’s office, I feel as if I’ve left behind a thousand-pound brick I’ve been carrying on my shoulders for years. I feel lighter, freer. I didn’t even realize how familiar the burden had become, so comfortable that I often forgot it was there. My guilt had woven itself into the fabric of who I was, tangled up in every decision, every action, every regret. But Jax severed the gnawing heaviness from my soul with his apology, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel smothered by it anymore.

I hope I did the same for him. Nobody deserves to carry around something that heavy.

I don’t even feel like myself as I start down the long corridor toward the gym. BALLS has state-of-the-art equipment, and although I have some workout gear at home, I prefer exercising here. It’s the kind of place where I can sweat out my frustrations, the grind of the weights and machines letting me put my mind on autopilot.

Jax’s heavy steps fall behind me, the sound coming closer with each step. He’s quickening his pace, and less than a minute later, he surpasses me, shoulder-checking me as he walks by. The move is deliberate, a small but telling act of defiance. My jaw tightens as he brushes past, not even glancing at me, like I’m just another obstacle in his way.

I should’ve known his apology didn’t mean he was ready to bury the axe and pull that stick out of his ass. Jax has always been the type to throw out a few sentiments, maybe even make you feel like things are better for a moment, but he’s still got that bitterness lingering under the surface, like an infection he hasn’t bothered to treat. The apology was just a formality—nothing more than a scratch on the surface.

I keep my pace steady, though I can feel the heat of his proximity. It’s never been easy with him. Hell, it’s never been easy with anyone, but with Jax, it’s different. We don’t just walk away from each other. We circle. We clash.

“You look like you’re in a big hurry to get somewhere.”

“On my way to the gym,” he huffs.

I can’t blame him. I’m dying to burn off some of the residual anxiety and tension still lingering after that session.

When I hit the door to the gym, I pause just long enough to hear the heavy thud of his feet a few paces away. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even turn back. He just keeps walking, like he’s got all the time in the world to be pissed off.

I grab the first open treadmill I see, stretching my arms over my head before plugging in my settings—three miles at a moderate incline. It’s a solid warm-up. Nothing too crazy, just enough to get the blood moving and the tension out of my muscles.

The only other available machine is directly beside mine. I see Jax hesitate for a split second, giving me a wary look, like he’s not sure whether to start something or back off. But he doesn’t back off. He grabs the treadmill and, without a word, sets himself up.

I can feel his eyes flicker up to my screen, and the corner of my mouth twitches when I see him copy my settings. Three miles at a moderate incline. But he sets a timer for ten minutes.

He thinks that’s enough.

I don’t give him the satisfaction. I bump my timer to eight minutes and crank up the speed, going from a jog to a full-on run. The thud of my feet against the treadmill is louder now, a rhythm that matches the thumping in my chest. The goal isn’t just to get warmed up anymore. It's about pushing, about proving something.

Jax’s dark eyes narrow as he falls into his run, matching my pace. I can practically feel the challenge in the air, a silent competition hanging between us like a taut wire ready to snap.

I’m barely winded when the alarm goes off. My pace was quick, but I’ve done this enough to know how to control my breath, how to keep my body moving without burning out. Jax, though? He’s another story. His chest is rising and falling heavily, his skin slick with sweat. I’m not sure if I should feel sorry for him or just enjoy the sight.

While he finishes out the last two minutes of his run, I slide over to the free weights. I set up without a glance, but I keep my eyes on him. I want to see what he’s going to do next. Jax doesn’t disappoint. After wiping down the equipment with an exaggerated effort, he grabs a bottle of water from his gym bag and downs the entire thing in one go, his eyes never leaving me as he moves toward the weights.

He sits beside me on the bench and grabs a 20-pound set of barbells. I raise an eyebrow. I’m using 15s, so of course, I grab the 25s without a second thought. This isn’t about lifting anymore. This is a game. A fucking competition.

Jax seems to think I'm predictable. Like he’s got me figured out already. But he doesn’t know the half of it. If he wants to keep this up, fine. I’ll just finish what he started.

I might be sweating through the workout, but I’m going to make sure he’s drowning in this.

I keep my eyes on the weights in my hands, but I can feel Jax’s gaze lingering on me, like he’s trying to gauge if I notice. I curl the dumbbells again, feeling the burn in my muscles, and let the tension build for a moment before setting them down with a controlled motion.

“Enjoying the show?” I ask, glancing up at him with a smirk.

Jax doesn’t seem embarrassed, not even close. Instead, he just shrugs, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “I was just trying to figure out what kind of training you’re doing, genius.”

“Clearly, it’s working,” I shoot back, giving my arm a little flex, just to mess with him. “You can touch them if you want.”

Jax just grins, shaking his head. “You’re something else. No one can push my buttons like you do.”

“I didn’t mean to push all of your buttons, I was just looking for mute.”

Jax’s lips curl, but he fights it. “Acting like a dick won’t make yours any bigger.”

I laugh. A genuine, throaty laugh. Jax is a snarky motherfucker, but sometimes he’s funny. “Looks like someone had an extra bowl of bitch flakes this morning.”

His scowl is predictable. “You're dry humping my last nerve. I don’t have the energy to pretend to like you today.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time to take that stick out of your ass? I thought we made peace back there in Brewer‘s office. Am I missing something?”

“I don’t have a stick up my ass,” Jax practically growls.

“What do you have up there? Is that why you get that stupid, confused expression on your face all the time?”

Jax looks incredulous. “You’re sitting around thinking about what I put up my ass?”

“Of course not.” But I am now. “You gonna tell me?” Why can’t I just let it go?

“No.”

“Maybe a visual demonstration?”

“Not a chance.” He finishes his reps, counting them out loud like he’s daring me to interrupt. “Just because we came to an understanding about what happened doesn’t mean my reasons for not liking you dissolved into thin air, like fairy dust.” With a grunt, Jax drops his weights to the floor, the sound of them slamming against the ground breaking the silence. He stands, towering over me, his eyes cold and unflinching. “I don’t fucking like you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re not friends. We’re not brothers in arms.”

The scoff that follows makes my jaw tighten. I set my weights down, the metal clinking, and stand up too, shifting the power dynamic. Now I’m towering over him. “What are we then?” I ask, voice low, tense.

Jax doesn’t hesitate. “Just two guys that used to be close. Two guys who’ve known each other for a long time. Two guys that will never see eye to eye.”

Well, fuck me. That feels final.

I catch up with Jax again in the locker room, the space nearly empty except for the echo of our footsteps. It's six o'clock, and most people are already home, eating dinner with their families. The humid air hangs thick, making the smell of disinfectant and body spray hit harder than usual, like it’s all stuck in my lungs. Jax doesn’t acknowledge me at first, his focus still somewhere far off, probably still pissed about earlier. He’s sitting on a bench, toweling off his sweat while waiting for the shower to heat up, the tension in his shoulders evident. It’s almost like we’ve never been close, like the years of knowing each other never existed. But here I am again, stuck with him in this suffocating stillness, trying to figure out what the hell’s left between us.

I stand there for a moment, watching him, the silence pressing in around us. I could leave—walk out and pretend this shit never happened—but something about the tension in the air keeps me rooted to the spot.

Jax finally glances up, catching me staring. His gaze is sharp, almost like he’s daring me to say something, but my tongue feels thick. I open my mouth, ready to throw some snark back at him, but it dies on my lips. The last thing I want to do is drag this out more than it needs to be.

After a beat, Jax exhales, his jaw shifting like he’s wrestling with what to say. “You know,” he says, his voice flat, “we’ve been doing this dance for years. I’m tired of it.” His eyes lock on mine, like he’s searching for something, or maybe just waiting for me to bite back.

I mutter to myself as I watch him disappear behind the curtain. Maybe we just need a different song to dance to. It’s a stupid thought, but something about it feels right. The old rhythm we had—it doesn’t work anymore. We’re not the same people we used to be, and maybe we’re both just too damn stubborn to admit it.

I grab my towel and throw it over my shoulder as I step into the shower stall. I can’t help but think maybe Jax and I aren’t so different after all. Maybe we both want the same thing, but we’re too messed up to figure out how to get there. Either way, I know one thing for sure: this isn’t the last time we’re going to clash.

Maybe we’ll find a new way to move forward. We don’t have to keep dancing to the same old tune, right?

I step into the shower, the warm water rushing over me, the heat soaking into my muscles, easing the tension from the workout. I grab the soap and work it into a lather. The scent of citrus and cedarwood fills the air, mixing with the steam as I scrub the sweat and grime of the day off my skin. My mind starts to drift, but then the thought hits me again—Maybe we just need a different song to dance to.

I shake my head, trying to push it out of my mind, but it lingers. I don’t know what the hell that means. A different song?

I run the soap down my chest, moving to my shoulders and arms, scrubbing away the remnants of whatever bullshit’s been slowing me down. My fingers move automatically through my hair next, and I grab the shampoo. I tilt my head back, massaging it into my shoulder-length hair, feeling the foam build up and rinse it out under the spray. The hot water pours over my scalp, but there’s no relief from the knot in my chest. Whatever the hell is between me and Jax, I can’t escape it. Not yet.

When the water starts to cool, I turn off the faucet. The silence in the locker room feels heavier now that I’ve been alone in my head for too long. I grab the towel, wrapping it around my waist, and stare at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. The guy staring back at me seems tired—worn—but I don’t know if it’s from the workout or everything else. Something’s shifting inside me, though. Something I can’t ignore.

Maybe Jax and I aren’t done yet. Maybe we never will be.

I don’t get it. Why is he the person I feel tied to in this life? The one whose path I always cross? I don’t even know if I want him in my life anymore. The constant friction, the back-and-forth, the resentment, and yet... there’s something else there. Something deeper.

Maybe it’s the history between us, the years we spent close, like brothers. Maybe it’s the fact that no matter how much we fight, how much we push each other away, we still understand each other in a way no one else does. Even when we’re at each other’s throats, there’s this unspoken understanding that runs beneath everything we say, everything we do.

I don’t know what it is. But the truth is, no matter how much I try to cut ties, no matter how hard I push, he’s the person I’m always pulled back to. He’s the one who’s been there through every fucked-up choice, every mistake. He’s the one who knows me, maybe better than I know myself.

I want to walk away, and even though I hate the pull, I can’t seem to stop coming back to him. And I don’t know if that makes me stupid, or if it just makes us... inevitable.

I didn’t realize Jax chose the locker beneath mine until I approached and saw him crouched down, wrapped in a towel like me. The sight of him, all cocky and too comfortable in his own skin, almost makes me laugh. It’s always like this with him—so damn confident, even when he’s half-naked and vulnerable. He doesn’t even notice me at first, too focused on whatever’s in his bag, probably checking his phone or some bullshit.

I could just stand here and wait for him to finish dressing, act like I don’t care. But that would be boring. I know how to push his buttons, how to get under his skin without even trying. I could walk over, mess with him a bit, knock that smug expression off his face. Maybe remind him that no matter how much he tries to act like he’s the top dog, I’m still here, always here, always ready to call him out.

With a slow grin creeping across my face, I take a step closer, eyes fixed on him. Coming up behind him silently, I make sure he doesn’t hear me approach. The moment he stands up, I brace my arm against the locker. Jax ends up pressed right against my chest, trapped against the cold steel wall.

“Back up, Pharo, or I’m gonna leave you bruised and confused.” His voice is tight with barely contained frustration.

“You can try,” I reply, my grin turning into something that borders on a challenge. “Sounds like it would be fun.”

He turns in my embrace, his body now facing mine, and I catch the glare in his eyes—hateful, sharp, like daggers. “You know, they say everything happens for a reason. So when I kick your fucking ass, remember I have a reason.”

But instead of pushing me away, he stands there, stiff and tense. He breathes in, like he’s catching the scent of my body wash, and I can’t help but notice how the current between us shifts. My heart kicks into overdrive, like I’m back on the treadmill running those three miles in record time. Hell, it’s beating so loud I’m sure he can hear it. My eyes lock onto his throat as it moves with each breath. He swallows hard.

I’ve got him right where I want him.

Except… instead of shaking his confidence, I realize I’ve done the exact opposite. I’ve shaken my own.

“So that’s still there,” I murmur, standing so close I can feel his breath on my skin.

Jax doesn’t deny it. Wouldn’t be foolish enough to try. The chemistry sparking between us, filling the air with static electricity, is the same that’s existed between us for years. The same pull that brought us together in Iraq and put us on shaky ground long before Jordan became a problem. This is where it all started—the forbidden attraction between a corporal and his master sergeant.

In his dark eyes, I see something flash—vulnerability, raw and quick—and it hits me hard. Beneath the bluster, beneath the snark, Jax is just a man. A man with a wounded soul. A man who once placed his trust in me.

“One of these days, you’re going to be the death of me,” he breathes, his lips almost brushing mine.

I can feel the tension between us thickening, much like my cock beneath this towel. “You know what they say,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

His expression tightens, and he leans in just enough that our lips are a breath apart. “What doesn’t kill me should run,” he says, voice low and dark. “Because now I’m fucking pissed.”

Despite the charged static of the moment, I can’t help but chuckle softly. His ire might be aimed at me, but I’ve always admired that sharp tongue of his.

“Would you chase me?” I tease, leaning in just a little closer, knowing exactly what I’m doing.

“All the way to hell and back,” he growls, the vow heavy with intent.

It’s a dangerous game we’re playing—one that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. And I wonder if we’ll ever stop dancing around this fire… or if it’ll burn us both alive.

I let him go reluctantly, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space between us. The air crackles with tension, a silence that feels heavier than anything we’ve said or done. My heart is pounding in my chest.

Jax doesn’t move at first, and I’m not sure if he’s as torn as I am, or if he’s just waiting for me to make the first move. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach for him again, to close the gap. But I don’t. Instead, I stay rooted, watching him, wondering if he feels it too—the pull that’s always been there but never fully acknowledged.

He doesn’t speak, but I catch a flicker in his eyes, a flash of something—desire, anger, maybe both. Something untamed and raw. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if to steady himself, before grabbing his bag and pulling on his shirt with more force than necessary.

It’s almost like he’s trying to shake off what just happened. Maybe I am, too.

I take a moment to admire his body. His muscles are more defined now, sharper than they were when we served together. Time has treated him well.

The Jaxon James I used to know was practically a boy compared to the man I see standing before me now.

But it’s the ink that pulls me in the most. Each tattoo tells a story. Some I know, some I’ll never know. Maybe they’re his way of marking the past, or maybe he just likes the way they look. Either way, they’re a part of him, just like everything else—the strength, the pride, and even the damn attitude.

I catch myself staring a second too long, and I quickly snap my focus away. Even though I want to look, I know it’s better if I don’t.

But as I turn to grab my duffel, I can’t help but feel like we’re both holding something back that’s begging to be let out. For now, though, I leave the locker room with the same question rattling around in my head: What happens next?

CHAPTER 11

JAX

The sun is barely kissing the peaks as I twist the throttle, pulling away from the edge of the world below. The wind whips my face, and I can feel the cool bite of the morning air, crisp and fresh, just how I like it. The hum of the engine beneath me is a steady rhythm, matching the beat of my heart as I lean into the curves of these mountain roads. Each bend feels like an invitation to escape, to shed everything slowing me down.

Around me, the mountains stretch on, timeless and rugged. The trees are thick with green, the pines and oaks rising to meet the sky. I breathe it all in—the pine-scented air, the earth beneath my tires, the sounds of my bike cutting through the silence of the wild. The road twists and turns, narrow and winding, each corner offering a new view of the landscape below.

The ride is almost meditative, my mind settling into the rhythm of the road. What was that shit with Pharo yesterday? Just when I think I’ve dealt with one problem, another surfaces.

The memory comes back to me. "So, that’s still there." The way he said it, like it was a question, but not. More like a statement wrapped in disbelief. As if he couldn't quite grasp how something so broken could still remain, still hold its place in the world.

Yeah, motherfucker, it’s still there. It’s been there all along, waiting for me to remember, to face it. Another part of the wreckage he left behind, another reason to hate him. How could I have been attracted to him? How could I have fallen for someone who tore my life apart so easily? Someone who ripped away the one thing I needed to survive the darkest, most suffocating time of my life—when I was broken, lost, and desperate for any kind of anchor. And he took it. He took Jordan from me, without hesitation, without remorse.

Until now. All these years, my anger has festered like a cancer. Eroding my compassion, my humanity.

I hate him for it. But I hate myself more for still wanting him. For still feeling that pull, even now, even after everything. It’s like a sickness, a weakness I can’t seem to shake. It eats away at me, that twisted combination of desire and rage, the way his memory lingers in my veins, in my breath, in every corner of my mind.

I felt it the night I stitched him up in his bathroom.

I feel it every time he walks into group, every time his eyes land on me, or I hear the deep timber of his voice when he speaks.

That little hitch in my chest is always there, buried beneath the resentment and the pain. My hate for him has so many layers, it’s like a hate lasagna—each one stacked on top of the other, each one toxic like poison. Jordan’s death is the first layer. The deepest, most bitter one, the one that still feels raw even after all this time. I can’t even think about it without my chest tightening, that pain flooding back like it was yesterday.

The second layer is my attraction. The fact that, despite everything, I still fucking want him. How is it possible to hate someone so much and still feel that pull? That twisted, magnetic force that keeps drawing me back to him, even though he’s the one who wrecked my life. I can’t stand myself for it. I can’t stand him for making me feel that way.

The third layer, though, is what gets under my skin the most. It’s his complete indifference to the aftermath of all this—his total lack of responsibility for anything that happened. He just fucking walked away, like nothing mattered. Like, I didn’t matter. Like Jordan didn’t matter. And now he’s acting like he can fix all of it with a few empty apologies, with some bullshit conversation that will make it all go away. “Let’s hug it out, let bygones be bygones, bury the hatchet,” he might as well say. It’s insulting. It’s infuriating.

I’d like to bury the fucking hatchet, all right. Right in his back. Let him feel the consequence of everything he’s done, the years of pain, the years of bitterness that he thinks can just disappear with some weak apology. If only it were that easy.

The road opens up ahead, and I twist the throttle again, pushing forward, but my resentment stays with me, lingering on my mind, echoing off the granite mountains. “So, that’s still there.”

Yeah. It’s still there. Just like everything else.

I lean into another curve, the tires gripping the road just right, and I let out a breath. Eventually, I end up at the Smokes and Spokes, a little dive bar on the edge of the county line. The American Legion Riders end up there every Sunday. The smell of stale beer never fully leaves. It's the sort of place where you can sit in the corner, disappear into the haze of smoke and low hum of country music, and no one will bother you.

Except when it’s packed with ALR. They’re a different breed—hard as nails, with the kind of camaraderie you can’t fake, the kind of bond forged through miles of open road and years of shared experiences. Some are current or retired law enforcement. Others work construction and trade jobs, or run their own businesses. All are former service members. It’s the one requirement for membership.

I do a quick scan of the room, my eyes drifting over the familiar faces, but I don’t see the two I’m searching for—Stiles and McCormick. I’d know if they were here. They stick out like sore thumbs. I settle back in my seat, nursing the drink the bartender just slid in front of me. That’s my limit when I’m riding, just one drink. I hit my vape, the soft cloud of coconut and mandarin swirling in the air chases the lingering taste of sour hops on my tongue. Sliding my phone from my backet pocket, I pull up the Bitches’ group chat.

Yo, Stiles, McCormick, where you at? Obviously not at Smokes & Spokes.

Stiles responds immediately.

Stiles:

There’s a Pimp My Bike marathon on. We’re on the couch.

Thinking of those two cuddled together, most likely in their underwear, or maybe not even that much, makes me crave another drink to wipe my head clean.

There’s no point hanging around if they’re not here. I slide a ten-dollar bill across the bartop, and the bartender gives me a nod as I stand, and I walk out without turning back.

My boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward my bike. I throw my leg over the seat and for a moment, I just sit there, hands on the grips, eyes on the empty stretch of road ahead. The world feels a little too still, like something’s waiting to break the silence.

I rev the engine once, just to hear it roar to life, and then I twist the throttle, rolling out of the lot, the mountains around me swallowing up the sound of the engine, and the sound of everything in my head.

* * *

Joey's message flashes across my screen.

Joey:

Have you read anything interesting lately?

He’s referring to the files he sent the other day. I tilt my chair back and glance at the folder on my desktop screen marked King Tut. The name’s fitting—a nod to Pharo’s heritage, sure, but also a perfect match for his inflated ego. The man honestly thinks he rules over everything and everyone. Maybe because someone once had the dumb intuition to make him Master Sergeant, or maybe he’s just conceited as hell. Heck, it could be a little of both.

I take a slow breath, tapping my fingers against the armrest, debating my response. Do I tell him everything? Do I give him anything at all?

Nothing I can act on just yet. But it's all there. Just waiting for the right moment.

This started out as a way to bust Pharo for lying, to pull back the curtain and expose the man for the fraud he is. It was supposed to be about the truth. Simple. Clean.

But now? It’s about his safety.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted. What was once a mission to destroy the superhero facade he’s been hiding behind is now tangled in something darker, something more dangerous. If I take this any further, if I expose everything I know, I’m not just digging into his lies—I’m putting him in a place where no one can protect him.

I glance at the folder again, and I know this isn’t just about vengeance anymore. It’s about knowing when to step back and when to pull the trigger. And right now, I’m standing at that line.

It was once his job to keep me safe. As my commanding officer, Pharo was supposed to watch out for me, prioritize my safety above all else. Even if he ultimately failed Jordan—and God knows that’s a failure I can never forgive him for—he didn’t fail me. He made sure I came back from every mission with my skin intact, my bones unbroken. Alive, with all my limbs still where they should be. And that’s more than I can say for some of my friends.

But now, it's my turn to do the same for him.

Not that he asked for it. Pharo doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t know how to ask for help. Like I said, he’s conceited—clad in arrogance and wrapped up in a false sense of power. King Tut.

I could turn my back. I could wash my hands of this mess, let him figure it out himself. But I can’t. Not now. Not after everything. Someone has to make sure Pharo comes home with all his limbs intact. Even if he never asked for it. Even if he doesn’t know how to want it. Someone has to watch out for him. And right now, that someone is me.

I’ll keep watching, keep waiting, because when it’s all said and done, if anyone’s going to kill, maim, and torture that dumb motherfucker, it’s gonna be me. It’s my right. I’ve fucking earned it.

I’m about to toss a frozen dinner in the microwave—cheap, quick, nothing worth savoring—when there’s a knock at the door. I pause, wondering who could be stopping by? It’s late, and I’ve already had a wellness check-in from Riggs once this week.

The very last person I expected to see is Pharo, casually leaning against the frame, but with that look in his eyes—the one that says he regrets even having to be here.

That makes two of us.

I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice. “What?” My tone is short, as is my patience.

Pharo doesn’t budge, just keeps his eyes on me with that same unreadable expression. “We need to talk.”

“Twice in one week?” I scoff, crossing my arms, irritation bubbling under my skin. “What’d I do to deserve such torture?”

He gives a sharp exhale, but doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh either. Just stands there, like he’s trying to decide if I’m even worth explaining things to. For a second, I almost wonder if he’s just going to turn around and leave, like it’s some kind of joke. But then he steps inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

“I’m leaving town,” he says, his voice low.

I think about the file sitting on my desktop—the one detailing the dangers of his job, the risks he’s constantly running, the enemies he’s made along the way. It’s all in there, pages and pages of intel, of warnings, of everything that could go wrong. Bile pools in my stomach, souring it like a corrosive acid.

I walk away and leave him standing there. If he has more to say, he’ll come inside and say it, or he can take off. I don’t need a heads-up on his whereabouts. The microwave beeps, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room. I pull the cardboard tray out, steam rising from the plastic, and grab a fork.

He follows me into the kitchen, his face pinching as he breathes in the scent of my burnt salisbury steak.

“This isn’t much better than an MRE,” he complains, his voice dripping with that same condescending tone he always uses, like he’s too good for anything that doesn’t come with a side of luxury.

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I stab the steak with my fork, the plastic of the tray cracking under the pressure. The food’s dry and overcooked, but it’s the least of my concerns right now.

“You're welcome to leave,” I say, my voice flat as I take another bite, deliberately ignoring him. “You don’t have to stay and suffer through this.”

Pharo doesn't leave, though. He lingers in the doorway, watching me with that unreadable expression on his face. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t care.

Finally, he speaks. “I came to ask you for a favor.”

The look I shoot him is enough to remind him he has no business asking me for anything. I don’t owe him shit. We’re not friends. Hell, I’m not sure what we are anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t a relationship built on favors.

Pharo raises his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to soften the blow. “I know, I know,” he placates, “but this is important.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to keep digging himself deeper. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a frustrated sigh. A few

loose strands fall from his bun, the golden highlights framing his rugged face. For a second, I almost forget I’m supposed to be pissed at him. Almost.

“I need you to look after my mom while I’m gone,” he says, his voice dropping a little. “This might shock you, but there’s nobody I trust more.”

Shock me? Hell, I’m stupefied. Dumbfounded. My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, and I stare at him like he just asked me to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

“You’re asking me to look after your mom?” It comes out slower than I intend, like I’m trying to process what’s actually happening here. “The same mom you’ve never mentioned once before in… I don’t know, years? That mom?”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah. That mom.”

I set the fork down, my eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of what he’s asking. There’s a part of me that’s almost pissed off—no, scratch that, I am pissed off. After everything he’s put me through, he’s standing here, asking me to take care of his mom like I’m some trusted friend or partner, even.

“You’ve got some nerve, Pharo,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than to him. “You show up here, after all this time, after everything, and you want me to babysit your mom? What the hell do you think I am?”

He leans in, voice lower now, and for the first time, I see that flicker of real vulnerability in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to,” he says, the edge in his voice softer. “Just... keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s okay. I can’t do it right now, but I know you can.”

The part of me that still holds onto whatever shred of loyalty I have left to him hesitates, but the other part—the part that’s been burned by him too many times—wants to laugh in his face.

I exhale slowly, leaning back against the counter, my mind running through a dozen different responses. “Why me?” I ask finally, my voice low. “Why the hell would you trust me with something like this?”

Pharo stares at me, eyes serious. “Because I know you’ll do it. You may hate me, and I may have fucked up in every way possible, but you’re the only one I know who’d keep her safe without asking for anything in return. And I don’t have anyone else.”

He trusts me? After I’ve tailed him, snooped through his shit, trespassed, and cursed him six ways from Sunday at least twice a day for years? That’s… nuts.

I stare at him, the absurdity of it all sinking in. The nerve of him, asking me, of all people, for a favor. And the crazy part? He’s expecting me to say yes.

He must be lonelier than I am if he’s willing to rely on me for something this important. I don’t even know how to process that. Pharo doesn’t trust anyone—not really. But here he is, asking me to watch over his mom like it’s some kind of simple, routine thing.

I shake my head slowly, trying to make sense of it all, but I’m coming up short. “You really think I’m the right person for this?” I ask, though the question feels pointless. It’s not like he’s going to back down now.

Pharo doesn’t look away. His expression is serious, like he’s already made his mind up, and he’s willing to bet on me—for whatever reason. “I don’t have anyone else, alright? I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

The silence between us stretches out, thick and uncomfortable. There’s so much unspoken history hanging in the air. I want to refuse. I want to tell him to take his favor and shove it. But when I gaze at him, something in his eyes makes me hesitate. It’s not pity or desperation—it’s trust. And that’s what makes it so damn complicated.

I’ve spent years resenting him, but that trust... it hits differently. It feels like a responsibility I can’t ignore.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I say finally, my voice sharp. “I’m doing it for her.”

Pharo dips his head, a flicker of something—relief?—crossing his face. “That’s all I need.”

That expression on his face, though… I know that look. I recognize it from the service, from staring into my buddies’ eyes. The quiet kind of desperation, the one that doesn’t need to be spoken but says everything. He doesn’t know when he’s coming back.

I feel my stomach tighten, an uncomfortable knot forming. It’s the same look we’d give each other right before a mission—when the odds weren’t in our favor, when we didn’t know if we’d make it back in one piece.

And now it’s him, not me, facing the unknown.

I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, my gaze drifting away from him.

“How long are you planning on being gone?” I ask, trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

Pharo hesitates, his gaze flickering away. “I don’t know. A while. My team needs me, and after Arlo’s injury, they’re a man down. I can’t just walk away.”

I can hear the responsibility he feels for his team. But there’s a part of me that’s still struggling with his request. It’s not easy to process, but I’m not going to back down now.

I can’t walk away from this, not with him staring at me like that—like he’s trusting me, like he has no one else.

“Also,” he adds, “she thinks I’m a security guard, so…”

The idea of Pharo dressed in a rent-a-cop suit, carrying a baton and a walkie-talkie instead of a rifle and a knife is so ludicrous I almost laugh out loud. I breathe out the air in my lungs, pushing away any lingering doubt. My resolve hardens. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on her. But you owe me a favor as well.”

Pharo doesn’t hesitate, his eyes locking onto mine with the intensity I remember all too well. “Of course. Anything. Just name it.”

There’s one thing that’s been gnawing at me, something I need to hear. I’m not sure why I’m asking it, but it feels like it’s the only way I can take control of the situation.

“You have to promise to come back in one piece,” I say, voice low. “Alive and well.”

He blinks, and for a second, I think he’s going to laugh or brush it off like it’s no big deal. But then his expression changes. He straightens up, eyes serious, maybe even a little softer than they’ve ever been with me.

“I promise,” he says, no hesitation, no joking, just a simple vow. “I’ll come back. You have my word.”

I incline my head, a mixture of frustration and relief swirling in my chest. Maybe it’s a stupid thing to ask. Maybe it’s too much. But it’s the only way I can trust him, the only way I can even think about helping him.

And with that, the deal is sealed. The promise settles over me like a noose around my neck. But I’m not walking away from this. Not when he’s given me a promise that feels like it’s as fragile as everything else between us.

“Hey,” he adds, snagging a dehydrated green bean from my tray. “Maybe when I get back, you can finally buy me that dinner.”

The tart sauce sticks to the back of my tongue, choking me as I cough, struggling to breathe. “Not a fucking chance,” I manage to spit out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Pharo laughs, but it’s light, a little strained, like he's trying to keep things casual. I know he’s probably expecting me to crack a joke, or at least smile, but I can’t muster it.

I shoot him a look—one part annoyance, one part I don’t know. “You’re lucky I’m doing this for you at all, let alone the fact that you’re still talking about dinner after all this shit.”

Pharo shrugs, his lips quirking up slightly, but he knows better than to push it. “Yeah, well, I’m still holding out hope.”

I turn away, grabbing the tray and heading to the trash. The thought of ever buying him a meal, after everything, feels like a betrayal of something I can't quite describe. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still pissed.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter, tossing the tray into the bin. “And don’t forget your promise to come back in one piece. Otherwise, you won’t even get a green bean from me.”

His expression softens just a bit, and he nods, acknowledging the significance of his promise.

“Deal,” he says again, the word carrying more meaning now than it did before.

Pharo leans in close. His thumb brushes across my lip, wiping away the sauce from the corner of my mouth, which I must’ve missed. The touch is slow, deliberate, a reminder of the history between us I can’t forget. He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he sucks the sauce from his thumb, his golden eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. The heat in those eyes is unmistakable, a promise that feels too close for comfort, too dangerous to entertain.

For a second, time feels like it stops. There’s no sound except for the thudding of my heart in my chest. He’s so damn close, the warmth of his breath brushing against my skin. I want to push him away, but I can’t. My body’s betraying me in ways I can’t explain.

He steps back, leaving me standing there in the kitchen, frozen. He doesn’t say another word.

He doesn’t need to.

I’m left staring after him, caught between the man I used to know, the one who had a place in my life I can’t fully erase, and the one I’m still trying to figure out—the one who’s asking for more than I know how to give.

And that’s the part I’m most afraid of.

CHAPTER 12

PHARO

The deafening roar of the engine drowns out everything—except the gnawing feeling in my gut that something's about to go wrong.

It’s a feeling I haven’t been able to shake since Arlo was injured.

I grip the controls tightly, feeling the vibration snake up my arm. The vast Egyptian desert stretches below us, endless and unforgiving, with the ancient pyramids rising from the sand in the distance. The sun is low in the sky, casting everything in a golden haze.

The team’s quiet in the back, all of them laser-focused, scanning the horizon for anything out of place. The businessmen we’re transporting are nervously shifting in their seats, looking out of the windows like they can’t believe they’re here, hovering over this ancient land where history bleeds into the present. They’re out of their element, but I can’t afford to care about that. My eyes stay locked ahead, eyes sharp and alert. I’m not here for sightseeing.

We’re heading into Jordan to drop them off—a routine job on paper, but nothing’s ever routine when you're doing this kind of work. I’m not thinking about that, though. I’m thinking about the promise I made to Jax, to return home in one piece, alive and well.

Why would he ask that of me? He’s never cared before. Why now?

I shake the thoughts away, refocusing on the job at hand. There’s no room for distraction when you’re flying through hostile airspace. The helicopter dips slightly as we start our descent. Our passengers are quiet. They don’t realize yet that the moment we touch down, they’ll be in the middle of a conflict zone that features almost nightly on the news.

I breathe out slowly, eyes flicking over the instruments as I adjust course. The landing zone’s coming into view. The barren desert stretches ahead. The dust storm that’s kicked up doesn’t help, but it’s just another thing to deal with.

“Get ready,” I murmur to my team.

The helicopter settles onto the ground, and I pull back slightly on the controls to steady us. The moment the wheels hit the sand, the businessmen unbuckle, eager to get out, but I don’t move just yet. I’m scanning the horizon, every muscle in my body on alert. It’s too quiet out here. Something feels off.

“Move out,” I say into the comms. My team responds with practiced precision, positioning themselves around the drop-off site, weapons in hand. I keep my eyes trained on the perimeter. I don’t like this. Not one bit.

They file off the bird, two taking point, followed by two bringing up the rear, with the clients sandwiched in between. With Arlo gone, we’re a man down.

A voice crackles in my earpiece. Hogan’s, who’s taken lead as second in command. “We’ve got company. Two vehicles, fast approach.”

I don’t need to think twice. I snap into action. “How fast?”

“Too fast.”

“Shit,” I mutter. I tap into the comms again. “Get them moving. We’ll cover the perimeter.”

Beside me, Orson grabs his gun, ready to provide backup if need be.

I push the throttle forward, lifting the helicopter just enough to keep us out of the way, but not so high that I can’t keep an eye on the situation. I know my team is moving in tight, closing ranks around the businessmen as they scramble toward the private shuttle that will take them to the hotel. They’re nervous, and I have to wonder what kind of business they deal in.

The vehicles are still too far to see clearly, but I know they’re coming. I can feel it in my gut. I know what comes next. This is the part of the job I live for—the quiet, the waiting, and the inevitable rush of adrenaline when everything goes to hell.

I tap the button on the control panel. The drone above us hums to life, its camera zooming in on the vehicles. “Stay sharp,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than anyone else. “We’ve trained for this.”

The vehicles close in faster now, and I feel the shift in the air as my team adjusts positions, ready for whatever’s coming.

I lift the bird higher, the wind rushing past as the blades spin faster, cutting through the air with a sharp buzz. My eyes are trained on the incoming threat, but I’m already calculating our next move. It’s not going to be pretty, but I’ll be damned if they get the drop on us. Not today.

“This is about to get interesting,” Orson murmurs, fingers tightening on the controls as the sound of the rotors fades into the growing roar of incoming engines. The game’s changed now.

This isn’t hostile conflict from the Muslim Brotherhood. It’s personal. These guys pissed off the wrong people, and they want us to kick the bullies away for them.

The landscape blurs beneath us as I push the helicopter into a steep climb, the whine of the engines growing louder. My pulse kicks up, but I keep my breathing steady. The moment the enemy gets close enough, the fight will be on. And when it does, I’ll be ready.

The vehicles approach, their tires kicking up dust as they circle my team, closing in with dangerous intent. Without hesitation, I drop the nose, swooping down sharply, using the bird’s massive weight and speed to threaten them with a deadly game of chicken. The rotors spin like deadly cyclones, low enough to rattle the vehicles and kick up a cloud of sand so thick, it makes it nearly impossible to see anything.

I can almost hear the drivers’ hearts racing as the chopper screams toward them. It’s a move that’ll make them hesitate, piss their pants, and second-guess whether they really want to keep coming at us. I’ve seen it before—people who think they can take on a helicopter with nothing but a few beat-up cars and a death wish.

I don’t give them the luxury of time. My fingers dance over the controls, and the helicopter banks hard to the left, swerving out of their path. I give them a moment to rethink their strategy, but I’m already scanning the horizon for the next move. They’re not going to back off easily, and neither will I.

One thing’s for sure—this is no longer just a drop-off. It’s a fight. And I’m not about to lose.

The vehicles hesitate, clearly rattled by my low pass, but they don’t back off—not yet. I can see them scrambling to adjust, trying to find a way to keep up or get a clear shot. They’re not amateurs, and this is far from over. My team’s already moving fast, covering the businessmen as they bolt for the parking lot. Every second counts now.

The charter shuttle skids out of the parking lot like its tires are on fire, leaving the assets stranded and my team scrambling to come up with a new plan.

I pull up sharply, gaining altitude to get a better view of the situation. My eyes dart to the incoming vehicles, calculating the next move. “Take cover!” I shout over the comms to my team. I don’t need to tell them twice. They scatter, making themselves harder to target, disappearing into the dunes. The sandstorm kicks up again, giving us a little more cover, but it won’t last long. I need to get us out of here, now.

They crowd in, and I shift the chopper into a full climb, pulling us higher and faster than I’ve gone all day. I know the vehicles can’t keep up at this height, and they definitely won’t be able to match my speed in this terrain.

But that’s not enough. I need to shake them completely.

I bank hard to the right, then push the collective forward, throwing us into a steep dive. The ground below rushes up, the pressure building as the wind howls around the cabin. My gut twists as I pull up just in time, sending the helicopter darting through the clouds. We’re not just escaping; we’re disappearing.

The vehicles try to follow, but they’re too slow. The sandstorm, the terrain, and the speed—all of it makes it impossible for them to keep track of us as we climb higher, merging with the sky, slipping away from the ground below. It’s a gamble, but it's the only way.

I glance at the radar. The fuckers are still trying to follow, but they’ve lost their lock. They’re not going to find us in this mess.

“We’re clear,” I say, my voice low but satisfied. The chopper hums steadily as I level out, scanning the horizon once more. We’ve bought ourselves some time.

It’s not the cleanest escape, but it’s enough to get us out alive. And that’s all that matters right now.

Through my comms, I hear Hogan’s voice address the terrified businessmen. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care what you did, but you pissed off the wrong people, and I don’t just mean us.”

CHAPTER 13

JAX

I feel strange stepping into the formally decorated lobby of the nursing home. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and polished wood, with a mix of something floral that feels a little too artificial. The soft hum of background music fills the space, but it's quiet—unnervingly quiet. Every step I take echoes too loudly in this sterile environment.

The walls are lined with old photographs—black-and-white portraits of smiling families, some faded with age. The floral-patterned chairs look like they belong in a waiting room for a doctor’s office. It's all so neat, so orderly, but it doesn’t feel warm. It doesn’t feel like home.

I can already tell this place is designed to make people feel comfortable, to reassure them, but for some reason, it has the opposite effect on me. It feels like a place where people come to wait. To wait for time to run out.

The receptionist gleams at me, a smile that’s too practiced to be genuine. Her voice is kind but distant when she speaks. “Can I help you?”

“Hi. I’m here to see Mrs. Kendrix.”

“Your name, please?”

“Jax. Uh, Jaxon James.”

The receptionist checks her screen, typing something with quick, efficient movements. Her eyes flicker up to me for a moment before she nods. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kendrix recently added you as a guest.” She gestures toward a hallway to the left. “Room 212. Just down the hall.”

I incline my head and murmur a quick thanks before turning to make my way down the corridor. The hallway is even quieter than the lobby, the only sound being the soft shuffle of my boots against the carpet. It smells faintly of piss, and the pungent aroma makes my nose twitch.

I reach room 212 and pause, steadying myself before I knock softly on the door. There's no response at first, and I wonder if I’ve come at the wrong time, if she’s not even awake, or if maybe I shouldn’t have come at all. But then I hear a soft voice, faint but clear.

“Come in.”

I push the door open slowly, stepping into the room. Mrs. Kendrix is sitting in her wheelchair, dressed in a long tunic dress over matching pants made of the brightest fuchsia linen and decorated with rhinestones of every color. Her long braid falls over her shoulder.

I stop for a moment, just taking her in. Mrs. Kendrix has a presence, much like her son, something that commands attention even in a place like this, even with the soft glow of aging that tints her features. The fuchsia outfit, the rhinestones—everything about her screams vibrancy, personality. It’s like she refuses to blend in with the sterile environment of the nursing home.

Her eyes, slightly darker than Pharo’s striking gold color, twinkle when she sees me. “You certainly took your sweet time getting here. Did you bring my new slippers?”

The door to her closet is open, several pairs of shoes and bags are strewn onto the floor.

“Slippers?” What slippers? Pharo didn’t mention I was supposed to bring her anything.

“My Ramesses said he would bring me slippers. He also said he was traveling for work and that a good friend was stopping by to visit with me. Are you the good friend?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.” Good friend? That’s a stretch.

“So, did you bring the slippers?”

I try to keep the grin off my face, but it’s hard not to. The contrast between her sparkle and the dull, drab room is striking. She’s like a burst of color in a sea of gray. I can’t help but smile, feeling a little more at ease with her energy. It’s strange—how easily she makes me forget about the awkwardness of why I’m here.

“I didn’t, but next time I visit, I promise I won’t forget.”

“Well,” she sighs dramatically, shutting the closet door. “I guess that’ll do.”

I take a seat in the chair beside her bed. She called him Ramesses. The word is foreign to me, but I type it into the search bar on my phone.

Ramesses- ancient pharaoh of Egypt. Born of Ra, Son of the sun.

Must be a nickname or endearment.

“What’s your name?”

“Jax. Pharo and I go way back to his Army days.”

A cloud passes over her pretty features. “Those were dark days. The sun never shone upon my pharaoh in the desert.”

That’s all it did was shine! Until we were dehydrated from it. But Mrs. Kendrix is referring to something else. She noticed the change in her son, even from the other side of the world.

“Pharo's always been strong,” I say, trying to offer some reassurance. “He doesn't show it much, but he's been through a lot, and he's come out on top every time.”

Mrs. Kendrix looks at me, her gaze piercing, and for a moment, I’m not sure if she’s seeing my face or something deeper. “Strength doesn’t always shine through on the outside, Jax,” she says softly, almost to herself. “Sometimes, the sun burns too hot, and it takes the light away.”

Isn’t that the fucking truth.

The silence between us stretches as I absorb her wisdom. There’s something about the way she speaks that hits close to home. Pharo has always been guarded, always pushed through the pain without showing it. But the cracks are there, and I think Mrs. Kendrix knows that better than anyone.

“I think... I think that's why he trusts you,” she continues, her voice steady. “You don’t just see the surface. You see him. Even if he doesn’t let you in fully. You’re the only one who’s managed to get past that wall.”

I swallow heavily. I’m not sure why she thinks that, but I know there’s some truth to it. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re the only friend of his I’ve ever met.” She closes her eyes, like she’s concentrating hard. “Unless I’m forgetting someone.”

I’ve always known Pharo was tough, but I’ve never really thought about what it costs him to be that way. And now, being here, it feels like I’m seeing him in a new light.

“I’ll do my best,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended. “I promised him I’d keep an eye on you while he’s gone. Make sure you’re alright.”

Her lips curve, the sparkle returning to her eyes. “I know you will. But take care of my pharaoh, too, Jax. He might not admit it, but he needs someone to care.”

I’ve always said I don’t care.

Sworn it with my life.

Acted cold and indifferent toward him.

But the truth is… I do care. More than I want to.

“I’ll look out for him,” I say, more certain this time. “I’ve got his back.”

Mrs. Kendrix studies me for a moment, as if searching for something. Then, with a slight nod, she leans back in her chair.

“Good,” she says simply. “He deserves that. You deserve that too.”

I don’t know what to say to that. But the way she gazes at me now, with that mix of pride and understanding, makes me feel like I’ve just been handed a responsibility I’m not sure I can fully bear.

“Now, take me down the hall for some ice cream and I’ll tell you all about the time he got in trouble for slipping a lizard into his teacher’s desk drawer.”

I chuckle at the sudden shift in mood. “Ice cream, huh? I can do that.”

Her eyes light up like I just promised her the world, and I can’t help but feel a little lighter in her presence. I’ve never really been the type to sit and listen to stories, but something about her, about the way she talks about her son, makes me want to hear every single one.

“Come on, then,” she says, giving me a playful nudge with her elbow. “I’ll tell you the good stuff if you hurry up.”

I laugh, more relaxed than I’ve been all day. “Yes, ma’am.”

Pharo’s always been the villain of my story, but through his mother’s eyes and words, she paints a different picture. A picture of a man I feel as if I’m seeing for the very first time.

CHAPTER 14

PHARO

Arlo's strong grip tightens around my hand. “Are they back?”

“Every single head accounted for. But just barely. That was a real shit show. I'm sure Hogan will give you a full debrief.”

He seems better today. Stronger. The bandage that covers his right shoulder is dry for the first time in days. Hopefully, the wound won't open up again and seep.

If he would just stay still and stop trying to get out of bed before he's ready, I'm sure the stitches would hold.

“What are you doing here?” Arlo asks, his voice edged with concern, like he's about to scold me.

“Working. What do you think I'm doing?”

“Pharo, you're part-time. You've been here for almost two weeks. Your rotation is over. Why haven’t you gone home?”

“Because the team…” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.

“The team will still be here when you come back,” Arlo cuts in. “Look,” he sighs, sounding exhausted, “this job isn’t going anywhere. It'll be here for the next guy, and the guy after that. I know I've bugged you for a long time about coming on full-time. But not because being here is more important than not being here. It's because you're lost. I can see it. Anyone can see it. You don’t know where you belong in this world, and I thought, being here with the team, having a purpose, might ground you. But when I look at you now, I see that I was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” I say quietly. “It does ground me. I need to work. I need…”

“What you need is to go home,” Arlo interrupts, his voice softer now, like he’s pleading with me. “You have a mother, friends, and a life waiting for you. This job—it’ll put you in a grave faster than you can blink, and it won’t remember your name when you’re gone. We’re not here to serve our country or do anything noble. We’re here to earn a paycheck. That’s it. Each one of us has a different dream for that money, a different purpose, but in the end, we all have the same goal. What’s yours, Pharo? What dream are you chasing?”

He sits up and reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand, and I rush to lean across him and hand it to him before he can strain himself. “You're right. I do have a dream, and it's not flying helicopters and chasing down bad guys.”

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?” he laughs.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, pinching my nose and rubbing at the tension in my brow. “Chasing ghosts.”

He leans back against the pillow, his face serious. “Go home, Pharo. Visit your mother. Go out with your friends and have a beer. Get laid. Don’t just dream about your future, make it a reality.”

I glance down at my hands. Besides my mother, I don't have a whole lot anchoring me to any particular place—Cairo, Black Mountain, Iraq. They’re all just places I’ve lived. What would it feel like to have a reason to come home? To have someone waiting for me? Someone who made me promise to come back in one piece?

My promise to Jax echoes in my mind.

Is he waiting for me?

The idea strikes me with a strange warmth, something that spreads from the pit of my stomach to the rest of me. A heat I can’t ignore. The same heat that threatened to burn me the night I left his kitchen, after licking the sauce from his lip. I had fully expected him to punch me in the face. But he didn’t. He just stood there, stunned. Would he let me do it again?

I shake the thought away, trying to focus on Arlo’s, but I can’t.

Maybe Arlo’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop chasing ghosts. Maybe it's time to face the one that’s been haunting me for far too long.

“Pharo,” Arlo repeats, raising his voice, a little sharper this time. “Are you listening?”

“I heard you, Arlo.” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, but I can feel the edge creeping in. I can’t focus on anything he’s saying right now, not with everything swirling in my head.

Arlo doesn't let up. “You're not hearing me. You're still stuck in this world of yours, like it's the only thing keeping you grounded. But it's not. You’re not gonna find what you're searching for out there, man. Trust me.”

I clench my jaw, trying to push the images of Jax from my mind—his face, that damn promise I made to him, the way he looked at me in that kitchen. Every part of me wants to shove it all down, to keep moving forward without thinking about what’s really pulling at me. But it’s hard to ignore the truth that’s starting to sink in, harder to pretend that I don’t feel the pull of something more.

Arlo watches me carefully, and I know he can see through the facade. “If you don’t go now, you might never get another chance,” he says softly.

He’s right, and I know it. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

“Well?” Arlo presses, his voice expectant, watching me with that knowing look. “What are you gonna do?”

I exhale slowly, rubbing my hand over my face, trying to clear the fog that’s clouding my brain.

“It would seem I owe an old friend dinner.”

Arlo’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, his tone softer now, but still filled with that gentle reprimand I’ve always known from him. “Don’t screw this up, Pharo.”

* * *

I sleep for a solid day straight, and when I finally wake, I feel like I'm stepping out of a dream. My body feels heavy, but the exhaustion is fading, and the haze in my mind starts to clear. I shower off the travel dust and the stress of the last few weeks, letting the hot water wash the tension from my shoulders.

I slick my hair back into a neat tail, running my fingers through it to smooth out the mess, and pull on a white linen shirt, its cool fabric against my skin offering the first bit of comfort I’ve felt in days. Navy pants follow, simple but clean, the kind of outfit that feels effortless but still says I’m trying.

Checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I splash on some cologne, grab my truck keys, and I’m ready. Ready for what? I don’t know. But I made a promise, and it’s time to keep it.

Jax, however, is not.

He has no idea I’m coming. When I knock on his door, there’s a long pause before it opens. He stares at me for a full minute, his eyes wide, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or just some apparition standing in front of him.

“Pharo?” His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in days.

“Yeah.” I try to keep my tone steady, but there’s something tight in my chest. “Can I come in?”

Before he can stop me, I push past him. Jax shuts the door behind me, the sound of the latch clicking, and we stand there—silent, eyes locked. The tension between us is palpable, thick as fog.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is quieter now, but no less challenging.

“Keeping my promises. I returned safe and sound.” I keep my tone even, but even I can hear the hesitation in it. Like I’m trying to convince myself as much as him.

“And?” He leans against the door, eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest. “Did you want a medal?”

This isn’t how I saw this going. In my head, I imagined him smiling, maybe even breathing a sigh of relief, telling me that he’d thought about me while I was gone. Maybe even telling me he missed me. But of course, Jax is gonna make me work for it. Petty fucker.

“I came to collect on that dinner you owe me,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the way his challenge sends a jolt through me.

Jax snorts, the sound almost incredulous. “Why do you keep acting like we’re friends?” He sighs, rolling his eyes like this whole situation is the most tedious thing he’s ever dealt with. “It’s exhausting.”

Challenge accepted. If there’s one thing I know about Jaxon James, it’s that he’s full of shit. Always has been. And I’ve always loved to call him out on it.

I close the distance between us, my boots barely making a sound on the floor as I get right up in his face, close enough to smell the coconut and citrus scent of his vape lingering on his breath. His eyes flicker, but he doesn't back away, which only makes my resolve stronger.

“Right from the start, you’ve always played this ridiculous game with me,” I say, my voice low, almost a whisper. “Cat and mouse, hot and cold, pretending like you don’t want this.” I lean in a little, my breath mingling with his. “I call bullshit, Jaxon. I know for a fact you want this.”

I don’t back down, can’t back down, not now, not with the tension between us so thick I feel like I could reach out and touch it. There's something about being this close, this raw, with him that’s different from everything else. It's dangerous. It's exhilarating. And maybe that's why I'm still standing here, staring him down, knowing full well that this is a line we’ve flirted with but have never crossed before.

Jax snorts again, that smug grin creeping back onto his face. “I think you suffered a head injury over there. You’re delusional.”

His denial hits me like a shot of cold air, trying to freeze the moment, but it doesn't work. If anything, it makes the heat between us that much more unbearable. I can feel the electricity in the space between us, the way it crackles in my chest, urges me to push just a little further, to prove him wrong.

“I’m not delusional,” I say, my voice steady despite the wild thrum in my veins. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

I take another step closer, closing the gap, until we’re practically nose to nose. My heart beats faster with each inch, and even though he’s trying to pull away, trying to deny it, I know the truth. I see it in his eyes.

Jax doesn't back down this time. For a split second, the deflection disappears, and I see it—the truth. He feels it too. The pull, the need, the thing that’s been simmering between us since the moment we met.

And for once, neither of us is pretending.

“First, I hear about you asking after me, my whereabouts, and comings and goings. Then you show up at my house and put bandages on my cuts. Wanting to kiss my boo-boos and make them better. Then you followed me around town, poking your nose in my business like a first-rate stalker. You’re worse than an ex, worse than a bad rash. You’re…” I pause, trying to find the right word, but it’s slipping away. “Unmanageable.”

I know I’m pushing him now, but hell, I’ve been pushing him for years. And for once, I’m not holding back. He’s always had this way of dancing around the edges, pretending like he doesn’t care, like he doesn’t get under my skin just as much as I do to him. But now? Now I’m calling him on his shit.

“Unmanageable,” he smirks. “A lot like the way you're looking at me right now.”

“How am I looking at you, Jax?”

Like I want to kiss you?

Like I want to devour you with one bite?

“Like you want to suck my dick.”

The superior expression on his face tells me how much he’s enjoying this. Maybe I haven’t pushed him too far at all.

I step back slightly and smooth my palms over his shirt, over his hard chest. The tight buds of his nipples poke my skin. “No,” I laugh with deliberate coolness, though I’m feeling anything but. “If I wanted to suck your dick, I would do this.” I reach down and mold my hand over his groin, cupping his dick. Jax grows harder in my grip until he fills my hand.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t back away. Jax boldly accepts my unspoken challenge, which makes me just as hard as he is.

“What about the way you’re looking back at me?” I ask, my voice rough.

His dark gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. The tension thickens, and for a second, the world seems to shrink down to just us.

“How am I looking at you, Pharo?” he asks slowly, deliberately—like he already knows the answer but wants me to say it.

And maybe I do. Maybe I want to hear him say it, too.

“Like you want me to suck your dick.” Just saying it aloud feels forbidden, like we’ve crossed a line that neither of us can uncross. My pulse hammers in my chest, a quiet drumbeat. Something dangerous. Something raw.

I watch Jax’s face, searching for a sign, for any hint that he’s feeling the same pull, the same tension. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just holds my gaze, like he’s daring me to make the first move.

I swallow hard, trying to push back the feeling that’s rising in me, but it's no use. “You know exactly how you're looking at me, Jax,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And you want it just as much as I do.”

The silence that follows is deafening, and in that moment, I know there’s no going back.

I dip my head, brushing my lips softly over his, the contact fleeting but electric. The world feels like it slows down, like time stretches in that one heartbeat. But he denies me entry, his mouth pressing firmly, almost like a challenge—like he’s waiting for me to push harder, to prove that I want this as much as he does.

His breath is warm against my skin, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away, push me back, maybe even tell me to stop. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, unmoving, waiting.

My heart pounds louder, a steady drumbeat that matches the way my blood rushes through my veins. I pull back just a fraction, my lips lingering close enough to feel his breath, but not enough to kiss him again. “You’re not the only one who’s been wanting this,” I murmur, barely able to keep my voice steady.

His eyes flash, something dark and hungry flickering across his face. And in that look, I see everything we’ve both been holding back.

I close the distance again. This time, he doesn’t pull away. Jax parts his lips, allowing my tongue to slide between them. He tastes like exotic destinations and mixed fruity cocktails. Coconuts, pineapples, and mandarins. His mouth is warm and soft, better than I could have imagined.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode. My stomach swirls with adrenaline.

And then that petty fucker bites my tongue.

“Fuck,” I hiss, pulling away.

Jax mocks me with his smirk, as if the kiss left him completely unaffected. “Isn’t that what you said you wanted? Cat and mouse, hot and cold?”

No. This isn’t how this is going to play out. Jax wants this as much as I do. He’ll give it to me, or I’ll take it from him. Maybe that’s what he wants, for me to take it, to call the shots.

Isn’t that how it’s always been with us?

“I’ll always be your Master Sergeant, and you’ll always do what I tell you.” My hand snakes around the back of his head, and I grip his short hair between my fingers, pulling tight enough that he can’t escape my hold. “Is this what you want? You want me to take it from you, to take away your choice so you don’t have to feel conflicted about giving in to me?”

Jax’s breaths become harsh, his nostrils flaring wildly with each rise and fall of his chest. He shoots daggers at me with his eyes, his jaw clenched tight like he’s holding back whatever insults he wants to hurl at me.

His eyes never leave mine, the intensity in them making my pulse spike. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, and it only makes the storm inside me rage stronger.

“After all these years, you still want your CO to tell you what to do?”

“You're playing with fire, Pharo,” Jax growls, his voice low and dangerous. His lips twitch, but he’s holding himself in check, barely. “You know that, right?”

“If you want me to touch you like that, you’ll have to ask me for it. I refuse to give you another opportunity to blame me for something I didn’t do. I’m not gonna let you twist it in your head like I forced you. You want my dick? Ask for it.” My tone is sharp, teasing, the confidence in my voice a mask for the heat pooling in my stomach.

The moment stretches, both of us caught in the pull of it, but Jax doesn’t break. Instead, he steps forward, closing the distance between us once more. This time, there’s no hesitation. His hand grips the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. His lips crash against mine, fierce and demanding, and I can feel every ounce of restraint he’s struggling to hold on to crumble.

This time, neither of us pulls away.

CHAPTER 15

JAX

The kiss deepens, and the heat building inside me threatens to burn me alive. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s been lit on fire.

Aw hell, we’re gonna fuck, aren’t we?

He slides his fingers into my hair again, taking possession of me and holding me prisoner against his lips. Pharo's presence is overwhelming—the way he towers over me, the scent of him, the incredible heat his body is throwing off—He’s suffocating me. He’s a force of nature, and I’m caught in his storm.

The world around us feels like it’s collapsing, and all that remains is him—his desire, his strength, the overwhelming intensity of it all.

The pressure in my groin tightens uncomfortably. There's only one way I can think to relieve the ache.

Yeah, we're gonna fuck.

He growls into my mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from tearing me apart. It's probably the hottest thing I've ever heard. Everything about Pharo is so intense. Why would the way he kiss be any different?

I can only imagine how he fucks.

Every touch sends a shock through me, every shift of his body pulls me closer into the chaos we’re creating, and I’m not sure if I’m fighting it or surrendering to it.

He pulls back just enough to peer at me, his eyes dark with desire, his breath uneven. “Are you sure you want this?” His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding it together, like he’s holding himself back from something bigger than both of us.

I want it, and I don’t. If he’d step back a little, maybe I could think straight. My heart is hammering in my chest, every nerve on high alert. I try to pull back, but he doesn’t let me, his grip tightening like he can feel the push and pull inside me.

I shake my head, trying to regain control, to find the space to breathe without him clouding everything. But when he presses closer, I’m lost again.

It’s a dangerous thing—His proximity, his intensity, his undeniable pull. But maybe… maybe I need to feel it, even if it burns me. Even if it’s the last thing I should let happen.

I tilt my head back, searching his eyes for something—anything—grounded, real, but all I find is fire.

“Pharo,” I whisper, my voice pleading. I need him to stop. To slow down so I can think. So I can breathe. “Stop.” He tightens his hold on me, like he’s never letting me go. “Stop,” I snarl, pushing against his brick-wall of a chest. But he doesn’t let go. His hands slide down my back, pulling me even closer, as if my resistance is nothing more than a challenge he’s determined to break. “I said stop!” My hands find his shoulders, pushing harder, but it’s no use. He’s too much. He’s always been too much.

For a moment, his grip falters, and I think I might have a chance to pull away, but then he shifts, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath hot and steady. Panic thickens my throat. I feel my resistance slipping, and I’m afraid that if we continue, I’ll lose myself in him completely, and that scares the hell out of me.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I— no, I’m not, but, fuck,” he hisses, pulling back slightly, like he’s at war with himself. “I came here to talk, to take you to dinner, and here I am about to…”

I’d love for him to finish that sentence, but I know he won’t. Because he can’t. The words are stuck in his throat, and I know damn well why. I know what he wants, but I don’t think he’s ready to admit it, not even to himself.

I pull out of his arms, stepping back just enough to regain some semblance of control. My heart’s pounding in my chest, my skin still buzzing from the heat of his touch. I smooth my shirt, the movement almost mechanical, trying to cover up the fact that every part of me still feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I take a step away from him. “You make everything complicated.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just stands there, watching me with those eyes of his—golden, intense, unreadable. I don’t know if he’s frustrated, confused, or just as turned on as I am. Maybe it’s all of the above.

“You don’t get to do this, motherfucker,” I add, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. “After years of putting up with your bullshit, you can’t erase years of hell with one apology and a kiss.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with himself. “It was one heck of a kiss.”

“Yeah, well, you can at least buy me dinner first.” It slips out before I can second-guess myself, my attempt at breaking the tension falling flat the moment it leaves my mouth.

Pharo’s gaze darkens, but there’s a flicker of something more in his eyes. He leans in just a little closer, his presence almost suffocating, and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll push me into another kiss.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets out a low chuckle, almost like a growl. “Dinner, huh?” His voice is soft, dangerous. “You think that’s all it’ll take to make you forget what just happened?”

I swallow, trying to keep my composure. "Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s a good start."

Pharo steps back, clearly wrestling with something behind his eyes. "You’re a pain in the ass, Jax. You know that, right?"

“I’ve been called worse,” I reply, trying to keep the teasing edge in my voice even though my heart is hammering in my chest. “But yeah, dinner. You owe me that much, at least.”

There's a beat of silence before he sighs, running a hand over his face. “Hell, I thought you were buying. I’ve had a hell of a week.”

And just like that, everything changes. The teasing, the tension, it’s all pushed aside, replaced with something deeper. Something real.

“Buy me a burger and tell me about it. I’m dying to know who Arlo is.”

* * *

The Black Mountain Tavern is, hands down, the best spot in town—at least, in my humble opinion. The burgers are perfect, the pasta is killer, and don't even get me started on the chicken. They've got a full bar, live music, a jukebox, a dancefloor, and best of all, karaoke. Honestly? You can’t beat it.

The place has this cozy, old-school charm—wood floors that creak underfoot, rustic beams hanging from the ceiling like something out of a country music video. I come here with the Bitches all the time, but never on a date. Not that this is a date. Definitely not a date. Honestly, I’ve never been on a date. Why start now—with this asshole?

Neither of us says a word as we look over the menu. The tension grows more awkward with each silent minute that passes.

Our waitress struts over, all smiles and energy. “Hey, what can I get you guys tonight?”

Before I can even open my mouth, Pharo jumps in, his voice smooth and commanding. “I’ll take the blackened pork chop with a loaded potato, and he’ll have the jalapeno, onion, and Monterey Jack burger with fries. Oh, and don't forget the pickle. In fact, maybe you could bring him an extra one?” he adds with a grin and a wink.

I wait for her to walk away before I shoot him a look. “I can order for myself.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, did you want to change your order?”

“No," I snap, "but that's not the point.” The fact that he knows my order grates on me more than I want to admit.

Pharo chuckles, the sound annoyingly smooth. “Pull your twisted panties out of your ass and take a deep breath.” He pauses, glancing down to silence his phone, and that tiny, casual movement somehow makes the tension in my chest tighten even more. This is important to him. “Should we talk about that kiss?” he asks, his voice hesitant but still probing.

“Anything but that,” I bark, my pulse picking up.

He tilts his chin, shifting in his seat. “I really appreciate you checking on my mom while I was gone.”

“Definitely not that either,” I mutter, my frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

Pharo grins, and something about it makes my skin prickle—like I’m some sort of amusement to him. “What’s a safe topic, then?” he asks, the challenge clear in his tone.

Just then, our waitress returns with our drinks. I unwrap my straw, taking a sip of my ginger ale, trying to keep my cool. “How about we start with where you went?”

“Egypt,” he replies easily. “I was deployed for work.”

I narrow my eyes, setting my drink down. “So that part wasn’t a lie? It’s getting hard to separate truth from fiction with you.”

“Did you miss me while I was gone?” he teases, his grin widening. “Tie a yellow ribbon around the tree? Light a candle for my safe return?”

Smug bastard. He knows I didn’t. “So what is it you do over there?”

“Pilot the helicopter. A Blackhawk UH-60A. She’s a beauty. I named her Raven.”

He takes a sip from his glass—no straw, because Pharo’s too cool for straws. “Raven? The harbinger of death. Fitting, I guess. What’s your call sign?”

His grin widens, almost like he’s savoring my reaction. “Havoc.”

“Of course it is,” I sneer, unable to hide the irritation creeping into my voice.

“What?” He laughs, playing the clueless act, but I see that spark in his eyes—he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Just looking at him makes my blood boil. With his sun-kissed shoulder-length hair that naturally catches the light, those topaz eyes that could melt women’s—and men’s!--panties straight off their asses, and that golden skin. His rugged, angular face could’ve been carved from stone—or cast in a movie. Ugh.

“Come on, really?” I can’t help it now. There’s no holding back. “I’m Pharo, but you can call me Havoc, because I’m dangerous and daring. Check out my bird, Raven—the death bringer.” My voice drips with mockery, every word sharp with cruelty. I even flip my head, pretending like I have his long hair.

Pharo laughs, clearly enjoying the sting of my sarcasm. “My team’s called Gehenna,” he adds with a conspiratorial smirk.

“God’s justice?” I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “Showoff. You don’t know when to quit, do you?” I take another sip of my drink, the tension in my shoulders easing just a bit. “I didn’t know you had your pilot’s license. What’s it feel like to fly that thing? And Egypt? Damn, you hit the jackpot with that assignment.”

He leans back, his gaze drifting for a moment, and his voice softens. “I requested Egypt because of my mom’s heritage. She taught me some Arabic when I was younger, and I just... I wanted to see where she grew up. I thought, how cool would it be if I could describe it to her in my own words? To help her see it in her mind one last time.”

Aw, fuck, there he goes acting human again.

Pharo continues, his voice turning more somber. “Egypt is unforgettable. Absolutely some of the most gorgeous sights I’ve ever seen, and the sunsets are priceless, but the country is steeped in conflict and—” he pauses, his face turning hard. “I’ve seen more violence there than I did in Iraq. Which is saying something.”

It sure is. I served with him in Iraq, and I know exactly what he saw. It still haunts me to this day.

“I’ve flown through regions hotter than a beach party in Cabo. I’ve washed so much blood out of my bird. I’ve heard men scream. I’ve heard them cry. I’ve heard them pray. But the worst is when they’re silent, because they’re already dead. Do you know what it does to your head when you know you’re not going to make it back in time to save them, but you tell them to hang on anyway, that help is coming? The screaming that you think is never going to end, but then it does, they go silent, and you know you lost them, you lost the race against time.”

My stomach churns with anxiety, for what he’s describing, what he lived through, and most likely, what he sees when he closes his eyes at night. I’m positive Riggs has suffered the same hell when he was a combat medic. I’ve seen a glimpse of the shadows that haunt him. Do they haunt Pharo as well?

“I’m glad Rhett found freedom in flying, but I don’t ever want to be up in the air again after my contract ends. And it’s not just the lives I couldn’t save. It’s the ones I took.” Pharo’s voice drops, heavy, somber. “I aimed my missiles and guns, pressed the button—and in the blink of an eye, I erased their existence. I’ve been shot at more times than I can count. Dodged missiles, rockets. Had two near-collisions with other birds. Hell, one time they shot out my tail rotor, and I almost went down—with a full crew and passenger load.”

Pharo swallows hard, his throat working as he shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the memory, but it lingers in his eyes.

The mood drops like a stone sinking in a shallow pond. I scramble for something, anything, to shift the conversation. “Tell me about this Arlo guy.”

A small twist tugs at his lips, but it’s not quite as light as usual. “Arlo Bacille. He’s a real badass. Our team leader.” He leans back slightly, his tone more thoughtful now. “When I first started, I shadowed him for a while. But after a bit, I realized I had no interest in having my boots on the ground anymore. So, I switched gears and started training for my pilot’s license.”

“And he’s the reason you ran back to Egypt like your ass was on fire?” My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. Do I sound bitter? Because I feel bitter.

“You can’t imagine the guilt I felt when he got hurt and I wasn’t there.”

Conceited bastard. “No? I can’t? It’s not like I’ve ever been through anything remotely similar.”

His eyes flash with a flicker of regret. “I’m sorry. Yeah, you’re right. You’d understand better than anyone, I guess. I had to go back, to…”

“Play hero? Save the world?”

Pharo exhales sharply, clearly frustrated. “Yes? No. I don’t fucking know, Jax. I look up to the guy, alright? I had to be there.”

I feel a bitter twist in my chest. The same way I used to look up to him when he was my commanding officer. I hate the loyalty, the affection he has for this guy—maybe because when he was my leader, I didn’t just look up to him. I was attracted to him. But is he attracted to Arlo?

“Let me see a picture of this guy.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t⁠—”

“Don’t bullshit, Pharo. I know you have pictures on your phone of your entire team.” What friend wouldn’t?

Our waitress interrupts by sliding our plates onto the table. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she adds, placing a bottle of ketchup before me.

Pharo pulls out his phone, scrolling through pictures with a casual flick of his thumb, then turns it towards me, like he’s waiting for my reaction.

Oh, this fucking guy! Really, Pharo? Dark hair peppered with gray and buzzed short, muscles bulging, and a jaw so squared it could cut glass. I whistle long and low. “You’re kidding me, right? This GI Joe wannabe is the guy you look up to? This Daddy? Or is it Zaddy? Is that what you call him when you’re alone?” I can’t help but snort, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it. “I bet you look up to him, from your fucking knees.”

“It’s not like that,” he wheezes, trying to hold back his laugh. “Zaddy? God, you’re a mess.”

“At least the money makes it worthwhile, right?”

“I guess. But money isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen your townhome—packed with expensive crap. Your clothes, that bougie cologne, your shiny new truck, and that high-end bike you ride. You pay for your mom’s care, and let’s not forget about that empty lot outside of town. Money might not be everything, but it sure as hell makes everything easier.”

“Damn, you’re a real snoop. You know about that lot?”

“You’re not the only one who’s good at his job.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t also make good money,” Pharo accuses. “What are you doing with it?”

“What are you doing with that lot?” I counter.

Pharo laughs, realizing he’s been beaten. He pops a forkful of potato in his mouth, chewing slowly to keep me in suspense. “I’d planned on building a garage.”

That’s it? That’s all he’s gonna give me? It’s been niggling at me for weeks and just when I’m close to an answer, he keeps me dangling, loading up his fork with more potato.

“Oh, come on!” I snap, grabbing his fork before he can take another bite. “What kind of garage?”

Pharo snatches the fork back from me, casually using it to cut a piece of pork. Watching him eat is enough to drive me crazy. He’s so methodical, so meticulous, so damn neat! Unlike me, who just shovels it in like it’s a means to an end.

“A place to restore vintage motorcycles.”

“Damn, that’s impressive. I can totally see you doing that.”

“I’m tired of destroying things. I want to create something, save something from the trash.” His eyes gleam with excitement. “Think of it. Salvaged brick walls, lots of chrome, steel, and glass. Bikes on display in various stages of restoration. Screens on the wall running videos of classic bikes, nostalgic footage of early manufacturing plants and shit. I can see it in my head clear as day.”

I choke up a little, watching him light up over something so close to his heart. “That sounds amazing, Pharo. Why haven’t you done it yet?”

He shrugs, the spark in his eyes dimming. “When would I have the time? I’m always crossing continents, always jet-lagged.”

I lean in, my tone sounding sharper than I expected. “A dream’s just a dream until you make it real. What the hell are you working so hard for if you die before you can build your garage?”

Pharo scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “I can’t believe I’m getting life lessons from Jaxon James. What the hell is this world coming to?”

I roll my eyes, trying to hide the flicker of annoyance beneath my calm exterior. “Hey, sometimes even the best need a little guidance. It’s why I have a habit of talking to myself. I like to hear expert advice.”

Pharo leans back, his grin never fading. “Yeah? Well, when you’re right, you’re right. But don’t expect me to start taking advice from you every day.” He chuckles, but there’s something behind his eyes—like he's not entirely joking.

I let out a breath, my mind spinning with everything we’ve talked about. “Whatever, Pharo. Just don’t wait too long. Life doesn’t wait for anyone, not even you.”

He stares at me for a moment, his expression softening, before he changes the subject. “So, tell me. What’s your dream, Jax? Or are you too busy shoveling food into your face to think about that?”

I pause with the sloppy burger halfway to my mouth, blobs of barbecue sauce and grease dripping from all sides. I glance at him, resisting the urge to wipe my face on my sleeve. “My dream? You really want to know?”

Pharo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’m all ears, Jaxon. Surprise me.”

I sigh, dropping the burger back onto the plate. He came clean with me, so the least I can do is return the honesty. “You know that last surgery Mandy had? The one the VA rejected?”

Pharo squints, his brow furrowing as he tries to recall the details. “Yeah. They said it was experimental because of the stem cells, so they rejected it.”

I raise my brows, silently implying the rest.

He stares at me for a beat, the pieces slowly clicking together. “Wait. Are you saying you…?”

I tilt my head, swallowing hard. “I paid for it. All of it. Out of my pocket. Every last cent.” I try to sound casual, but my chest twinges where my heart lies.

Pharo leans back, his expression unreadable. “Jesus, Jax. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” My voice cracks a little. “But I couldn’t let him suffer because some bureaucrat couldn’t bother to give a damn. It wasn’t their decision to make. It was mine.” Pharo appears shell-shocked. “There’s more,” I admit, drawing in a deep breath and bracing myself. “West and Brandt’s boot camp? The recent increase in revenue? That’s from some strategic advertising I did.”

“Seriously?” He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

I bob my head, swallowing hard. “Yeah, but it’s nothing. Less than half a day’s work. I just narrowed down their target audience, ran some analysis on the data, figured out where to hit these people with the ads… and voila! Targeted ads.”

Pharo blinks, processing it all. “Damn. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”

I let out a humorless laugh, shrugging it off. “I guess not.” Wait, did he just say he likes my face? “Don’t call me pretty. I’m fucking rugged.”

Pharo’s grin widens, clearly savoring the jab. “Rugged, huh? Sure, if you say so.”

Then he leans forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “When are you gonna stop pricking me with your porcupine quills and let me fuck you, Jax?”

Shit. My pulse jumps, but I keep my face cool. “Not today, Pharo.” I pop a French fry in my mouth, swallowing it down with a little too much force. “And not tomorrow, either.”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little dangerous. “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”

I meet his gaze, trying to stay steady. “Nope. Where’s the fun in that?”

“You know what I think?” Pharo says, leaning back with a smirk. “I think you love to hate me.” I’m starting to think he’s right, but I keep my face tight, hiding any reaction. “It certainly makes it hotter when you’re in my arms, doesn’t it?” he adds, his voice a low tease. “I wonder how much hotter it’ll be when we fuck. All that hate, heating up the sheets, making you sweat.”

The bastard licks his lips slowly, like he just tasted the most delicious dessert.

My traitorous cock twitches in my jeans. Great! Now I'll be imagining that all night. I guess I have to thank him, though. It’s an improvement from the dark shit I usually dream of.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thought, but I can't quite shake the image of Pharo's lips, the way he looks at me. It's distracting as hell, but somehow... I don’t hate it.

CHAPTER 16

PHARO

What in the fucking fuck?

My first day of relaxation with nothing to do in God only knows how long, and my phone is dinging like crazy, pulling me from the book in my lap. It has to be the group chat. Only the Bitches would have so much to say about absolutely nothing at eleven in the morning.

I groan and roll my eyes, knowing it’s only a matter of time before they drag me into whatever dumb thing they’re planning. I pick up the phone, half-expecting a flurry of memes and nonsensical comments.

Jax: Alright, boys. Mission "Slippery When Wet" is a go. The gates are down, and we’re inside. No turning back now.

Rhett: How’d you get past the gates?

Jax: R U serious? The gates are like a suggestion to keep out, not a hard rule.

West: My wingman and I are infiltrating the drop zone now.

I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m positive I want no part in it. The messages go on and on, and the only reason I pay them any attention at all is because Jax is participating, which is rare for him. Usually, he’d rather be sitting in front of his tech fortress, wasting away his afternoon. I can’t deny that I’m more than a little curious about what he’s up to. It must be good to drag him away from his desk.

I wonder what Jax looks like, actually relaxing for once. If he’s not buried in code or glued to his screen, what the hell does he do? Does he know how to unwind? Part of me wishes I was taking part in their shenanigans, just to see him at ease, laughing and fucking around with the guys.

You just want to see him, my subconscious goads.

Just as I’m about to write them off and return to my book, a message catches my attention. A message addressed to me. From Jax. It’s not part of the group chat. This one was sent to me directly.

Jax: Don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t care. Grab a towel and some beer, (not that nasty imported shit!) and drive around to the back of your neighborhood.

He follows up with another message that makes me crack up.

Jax: I hope you aren’t staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, stroking your ego.

I snort, shaking my head. Jax thinks I’m that conceited? He’s ridiculous.

I grab a towel from the bathroom, toss it over my shoulder, and grab a six-pack from the fridge, shaking my head. That’s Jax for you—always finding ways to get under my skin. But part of me can’t help but wonder if this little back-and-forth is his way of… I don’t know… breaking the ice? Is he trying to hang out, or is he setting me up for an epic prank at my expense?

That seems more likely, considering it’s Jax, but I can’t ignore his request. Mostly out of curiosity, even if it did kill the cat.

The only thing at the back of my neighborhood is the pool, beside a playground. It’s odd that the pool is this packed so early in the day, but maybe people are excited about the reopening after it being closed all winter. But then…

Is that West’s Jeep?

That’s definitely Jax’s Indian.

The fuck?

I park my truck alongside Riggs’s and hop out, feeling a little thrown off. What the hell are these guys doing here? I stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. The usual suspects are scattered around the pool—West and Brandt, Rhett and Riggs, Nash, Stiles, and McCormick. It’s not packed with my neighbors, it’s packed with Bitches!

Jax presses against the black wrought-iron fence, grinning wickedly. “‘Bout time you showed. Did you bring the beer?”

I hold up the six-pack, frowning. “How’d you get into my pool?”

“Really, Pharo? Was it supposed to be hard? Your fancy-ass security is no challenge for me.”

Christ. I might as well start leaving my door unlocked as well, so I don’t inconvenience him. Why do I bother? Jax is on a first-name basis with my security guard and my neighbors, whose names I don’t even know.

Unlatching the gate, I join the guys around the pool.

“Didn’t take you long to catch up,” West grins, not even glancing up from his phone.

I shoot him a sarcastic look. “Yeah, well, the real question is, how the hell did you two get in here?”

Brandt shakes his wet head, spraying his partner with water. “You mean you didn’t invite us?” he asks, laughing.

He knows I didn’t invite them. I’m not a planner, a joiner, a participant, or a socializer. I want to be, want to enjoy myself and the easy camaraderie they share, but I always let my job isolate me. I hide behind the walls I’ve built—walls that let me do my job, but leave me standing alone when I come home.

No more.

I promised myself that I’d step out of the shadows of secrecy. Arlo said it’s time to live my damn life, not just exist. And he wasn’t wrong.

“C’mon,” Jax calls out, “don’t let the water get lonely. You’re missing out on all the fun.”

I hesitate, glancing at the pool. I’m not a fun guy. Not the one who just dives in, no questions asked. But today? Today I’m gonna try it. One step at a time.

With a chuckle, I toss my shirt to the side and stretch out on a lounger beside West. Jax is splashing around, trying to wrestle a giant inflated unicorn from McCormick. The absurdity of it all doesn’t escape me.

“Careful,” McCormick cries, “you need to treat Josh with kid gloves. He’s delicate.”

Josh? Is he referring to the unicorn? With McCormick, there’s no telling.

I glance at West, who’s lounging back in his chair, grinning at the spectacle. He’s always the quiet one, but right now, his amusement is written all over his face. He’s shirtless, in just his black swim trunks, his colorful tattoos on full display, along with his prosthetic leg.

“Josh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” West chuckles, “You’ve never met Josh?”

I glance back at the absurd scene—Jax practically wrestling the inflatable unicorn like it’s some kind of prize. “Guess I missed that get-together,” I mutter, trying not to laugh.

“McCormick’s got this weird attachment to him. Don’t ask why.”

“McCormick’s attachment to weird things is a mystery to us all,” I remark, settling back in my lounger and trying to relax.

Jax climbs out of the pool, water dripping off his lean body. His dark nipples are hard points from the cold water, and his navy blue shorts are plastered to his skin, outlining… well, everything. My gaze involuntarily follows the droplets sliding down his torso, and I can’t help but feel heat rise to my face.

A playful smirk tugs at my lips, more to mask the uncomfortable stir in my stomach than anything else. “The water must be really cold,” I comment, my voice a little rougher than I intended.

Jax follows my gaze, eyes flicking downward to his wet shorts, before meeting my gaze with a wicked grin. “Freezing,” he insists, flicking his middle finger at me before reaching for a towel. His laugh is low and knowing, like he’s well aware of exactly what he’s doing.

It’s a little unfair how effortlessly he toes the line between playful and provocative. Every move, every look, seems designed to mess with my head. Just the other day, he insisted I had no chance of sleeping with him, yet here is, teasing me about his dick.

But I keep my cool. I have to. Jax is the kind of guy who enjoys watching people squirm, and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s affecting me.

How much I want him.

Hell, he knows. He just doesn’t want to face it, because he’d have to admit that he wants me too. I know he does. I can see it in the way his eyes linger, the teasing grin that never quite reaches his eyes. It’s like a game to him—testing the boundaries, seeing how far he can push before I snap.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of me wants to snap. Wants to see how far he’ll push before he does something about it. But then, there’s the voice in my head—cold, logical, and clear—that reminds me how messy this could get.

I can’t afford to mess this up. Not with him.

“Enjoying the view?” Jax’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, laced with that familiar cocky edge.

I force a smirk, pushing away the thoughts of him and how much I really want to throw caution to the wind. There isn’t much I can say with West listening. Jax knows it, too. His grin widens, the challenge in his eyes making my pulse race.

The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken tension. His eyes hold mine a moment longer than necessary, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. I could almost swear he’s thinking the same thing. The same need is pulling us together.

But then he laughs—softly, as though he’s amused by something only he understands—and it breaks the moment.

I should be relieved, but part of me is disappointed.

Rhett comes up behind Jax and snags his towel. He looks me over, and I swear the kid is checking me out. I almost laugh when he asks, “What happened?” Rhett points to my side, to where I was stabbed. Where Jax stitched me up.

“I uh,” I start, but Jax intervenes.

“That’s what happens when you run your mouth one too many times. Bitches get Stitches,” he scoffs, planting his fist in my thigh.

The guys laugh it off, used to our bickering by now. If they knew our relationship had shifted recently, their world might threaten to stop spinning on its axis. They’d never see it coming.

I grit my teeth, trying to hold back the grin that threatens to break free. He knows how to push my buttons, how to provoke me, and even now, his touch sends a jolt of heat straight through me. That damn fist on my thigh—it's harmless, it's playful, and yet... It's not. Not anymore.

“Keep it up,” I warn, voice steady, but I know the undertone is there—thick, unspoken. “You might find yourself with more than a bruise to nurse.”

Jax takes a seat on the end of my lounger, looking at me with that infuriating, knowing smile. The kind that makes me want to throw him in the pool just to wipe it off his face.

“Promises, promises,” he says, dragging his eyes over me in that way that has always gotten under my skin.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens. This whole dynamic is changing, and I’m ready as hell. But Jax? He seems like he’s struggling with the idea, like he’s fighting with himself.

Should I just give in to what I want and let Pharo fuck me? Or should I keep playing with him, drawing out the inevitable and pretending like I still hold a grudge against him?

The guys are still laughing, oblivious to what’s building in the silence between us. If they could see what I’m seeing now—the tension that’s laced in every word, every glance—they’d stop laughing, too. But for now, I’m keeping it buried, right where it’s been since the first time we locked eyes.

This isn’t a game anymore. Not for me. And if it is, it’s a game I plan to win.

Just when I thought the party was starting to wind down, Mandy pulls up, and he’s not driving his old beater of a truck. All heads turn in his direction as he struggles to vacate his large body from the tiny-ass car.

West lowers his sunglasses to get a better look and then pops off his lounger, hurrying through the gate to the lot.

“What’s this?” he asks, circling the car. “A rental? Couldn’t they have given you something bigger?”

“This,” Mandy gushes with pride, running his hand over the glossy roof, which comes to about his shoulder, “is my new ride. Sweet, ain’t he? Meet Coop.”

Jeez, how original. He named his Mini Cooper, Coop. Though no one can see my eye roll because of my aviators.

“Coop?” West repeats. “Are you pranking me?”

“No, why?” Mandy’s brows furrow. “Check out the way that blue metallic paint shines in the sun. He’s smokin’ hot.”

“He?” West asks, his voice laced with confusion. “More like mildly cute—if you were a sixteen-year-old girl who just got her license. Or a flaming twink who works at Starbucks! No offense to your man, by the way,” West jokes, referring to Tex, Mandy’s unrequited crush, who does not work at Starbucks, but I get his reference nonetheless. As does Mandy, whose expression darkens, as it always does when someone teases him about Tex.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” Mandy warns.

“But seriously,” West continues, raising his voice, “my nutter buddy can’t drive a Mini! I can’t be seen in this. Hell, I can’t even fit in this! How the hell can you?”

“It’s good on gas, low monthly payments, and he’s… zippy.”

“Zippy? That’s your justification? A scooter is fucking zippy, dude, but I’m not riding around on one, am I?”

They continue to bicker back and forth as the guys file out of the gate, snapping pictures of Mandy’s new ride, completely oblivious to the strange energy crackling between Jax and me.

I roll my eyes as Riggs argues with West about the best angle for the shot. Typical.

But Jax? He’s still hogging the foot of my lounger like it’s his personal throne, even though there’s an entire row of empty chairs beside me. I can feel the heat of his gaze roaming my face before settling on my lips.

The proximity is unsettling in a way that has my mind drifting off into dangerous territory. Then, he leans over my chest—too close, his breath warm against my skin, and I instinctively hold my breath. His voice drops to a whisper, sending a shiver straight down my spine despite the heat of the sun.

“Would be a shame if you came home from your next deployment to find a pink Mini parked in your driveway where your truck used to be.”

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips, and I feel his gaze linger a second too long before he straightens up, eyes sparkling with mischief. The bastard knows exactly how to fuck with me. He knows I would go feral if anyone so much as breathed on my truck wrong, much less confiscated it.

I’m reminded of just how easily Jax can fuck my life up with the stroke of a key. An IRS audit, identity theft, shutting off my utilities, or God only knows what else his evil little master mind concocts for his sick pleasure.

I glance up at him, my pulse hammering in my ears. “You’re really trying to get a rise out of me today, huh?”

He just shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s just a thought, but I’m guessing that truck of yours means a lot to you. I’d never do that... unless I knew you’d miss it,” he adds with a smirk.

He knows I’d miss it. I don’t want to admit it—especially not to him—but he’s right. I’d miss that damn truck more than I care to admit.

But the worst part is... I might just miss him more. Because I surely would, right after I buried him six feet under the ground.

“Don’t start,” I warn, narrowing my eyes. “I’m not in the mood for your shit today.”

Jax winks at me as he slides off my lounger, peeling his wet shorts away from his body. “Relax. I wasn’t planning on it.” His voice is too smooth for comfort. “But your bike…”

And just like that, the game continues.

CHAPTER 17

PHARO

“Yes, Mami. I’ll bring him. See you soon.”

I lay the phone down and frown. How in the hell am I going to get Jax to agree to come with me to visit my mother again?

I run my fingers through my hair, pacing the living room. I can already imagine the excuses.

“I’m busy.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Isn’t it a family thing?”

Yeah, I know him too well.

But this isn’t just about me. It’s about my mom, and I’m pretty sure if Jax knows that, he might at least consider it. He always acts like he doesn’t care, but I can see through that. And I know he’s got a soft spot for her, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Fuck it, best to get this over with. I grab my keys and the gift bag sitting on the console table by the door and head out to my truck. The drive to Jax’s place feels like it takes forever. I can’t avoid this conversation, no matter how much I want to. My mom’s waiting on me, and I need Jax to back me up.

When I pull up to his apartment building, I’m just in time. He’s sitting on his bike, still idling, the engine rumbling beneath him as he takes off his helmet. The sun hits his profile just right, casting a golden glow on his skin, and for a second, I forget why I’m even here.

He notices me pulling in and flashes that grin—half teasing, half smug—like he won some bet with himself by seeing me show up. He knows I want something, and I’m sure he’s prepared to deny me, out of hand.

I put the truck in park and rolled down the window on his side. “You just getting back?”

He gives me a lazy once-over. “Yup. Went for a ride with some of the ALR guys. What’s up?”

For a second, I debate not telling him the reason, just ordering him to get in, but Jax doesn’t respond well to orders. Or lies. So I take a deep breath and lay it all out.

“My mom wants us to come visit,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, but there’s no hiding the slight edge in my voice. “She’s asking for you, Jax. She wants to see you again.”

He quirks an eyebrow, looking me over like I’ve just told him I’m planning a funeral instead of a visit. “Is that so?” He leans back on his bike, arms crossed. “And you want me to tag along? Why?”

I groan internally. This is going exactly how I thought it would. “She says…” I can’t do it—I can’t bring myself to repeat what she said. My tongue freezes up, preventing me from speaking.

But Jax is waiting patiently for an answer, studying me with that insufferable calm of his, like he’s just about to watch the train wreck happen in slow motion. Again, I consider lying, but there’s no point. She’d probably just repeat the absurdity when she sees him. There’s no escaping the embarrassment now.

I rub the back of my neck, looking anywhere but at him. “She says you seem like a nice boy. A sweet boy with a heart of gold, which in her culture, is the highest praise.” I say it fast, almost like I’m trying to get it over with, but I can already feel the heat creeping up my neck.

Jax’s eyebrows raise all the way to his hairline, and he does that thing where his lips curl into a teasing grin, and I instantly regret every word that just left my mouth.

“She says what?” he asks, sounding like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going. “She says you… connected.”

The smirk on his face widens, and I can’t decide whether I want to punch him or bury my face in my hands. “Oh, we connected, huh?” He turns off the ignition and climbs off the bike. With his helmet in hand, he takes a dramatic step toward me, lowering his voice just a touch, making me want to slap him even more. “What exactly did I connect with, huh?”

I can feel my face flush, and I try to shove the words back in my mouth, but they just tumble out anyway. “She said you made a real connection with her. Like, a deep one.”

Jax lets out a low whistle, looking almost impressed. “A deep connection, huh? Damn. I must have really made an impression.” He laughs, clearly enjoying the hell out of this, and I want to crawl under a rock. “So, what, now she’s trying to set me up with you or something?”

“I don’t fucking know, Jax. But I wouldn’t doubt it, so be warned. Just visit, smile, play along, be polite, and we’ll be done. That’s all I’m asking. Just this once.” I hold his gaze for a second, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. “It’s important to me. And it would mean a lot if you came.”

The silence stretches between us, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to say no. Finally, Jax sighs, his shoulders dropping. “Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes as if he’s annoyed, but there’s a softness in his voice that catches me off guard. “I’ll come. But only because I know what that just cost you. And because I can’t say no to your mom.”

My heart stutters in relief, and I almost want to let out a loud whoop of victory. Instead, I force a smile, trying to keep things light. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

Jax climbs into my truck. He drops his helmet at his feet and buckles his seatbelt. “Yes the fuck you do. Don’t think I’ll forget that.” He shoots me a sideways grin, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “After all,” he grins sweetly, too sweetly, like saccharine. “We have a deep connection.”

I want to crawl into a hole, but instead, I just sigh deeply and mutter, “You’re the worst.” I hand him the gift bag, and he takes it with a raised brow.

“What’s this?” he asks, shaking it gently.

“Just a little something for my mom. She’ll like it.”

His head bobs, expression softening. “I’m just kidding. You’re not so bad, you know.”

It’s almost like he’s trying to make a joke, but there’s something in his tone that makes it feel more like a compliment than anything else.

“It’s a shame your mom likes me best, though. Let’s go make her happy, then. But don’t think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” he adds with a playful wink.

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. You don’t have a heart.”

Allison’s eyes pop wide when she sees Jax with me. I’ve never, not once in the six years my mom has resided here, brought a guest with me. I’m sure the entire staff will be gossiping about it before we even reach my mother’s room.

“Your mother is having a good day,” Allison beams. “She’s in the dayroom watching TV.”

“Thanks, Allison.”

Jax follows me down the long corridor lined with photographs of smiling families having the absolute time of their lives, unlike the residents here. Our heavy boots thudding against the scuffed linoleum is the only sound.

As we enter the dayroom, I spot my mom across the room. Her gaze is fixed out the window, not on the TV. The sunlight streams in, casting a soft glow across her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. I wish I had more time to spend here, taking her on walks outside, letting her feel the breeze on her skin, and enjoying the fresh air and the world outside of these sterile walls.

I can’t even remember the last time we did that—just the two of us, laughing without a care in the world.

I swallow the lump in my throat and turn to Jax, who’s trailing behind me at a respectful distance.

As we move toward her, I force a smile on my face, trying to push the overwhelming sadness back. I don’t want Jax to see how much this is affecting me, even though I know he can probably read me like a book. When I’m close enough, my mom blinks a few times and turns her head slowly toward us, her eyes softening when they land on me.

“Ramesses,” she says, her voice raspy from the medication.

“Hey, Mami.”

Her gaze falls on Jax behind me, and her expression turns sharper. “Did you bring my slippers?”

He rushes forward, holding out the gift bag clutched in his hands. “Sure did.” She beams, appearing surprised but satisfied. “You thought I’d forget, didn’t you?” Jax asks, sounding genuinely amused.

My mom takes it from him. She pulls out the soft, fluffy slippers from inside the bag, running her fingers over them with a small hum of approval. “They’ll do. Now, if I can just keep that thieving witch from stealing them again.”

“You want me to bust into her room and steal them back? I’m totally down for a little B&E action.”

I can’t help but laugh softly at the banter between them. It feels so strange, seeing Jax interact with my mom like this. He’s always been more of the stoic, brooding type, but there’s something about him now, in this moment, that feels lighter. He’s not just the guy I’ve been bickering with, the one who pushes my buttons at every turn—he’s also the guy who takes the time to listen to my mom, to make sure she has what she needs.

What could possibly be more attractive?

My mom inspects the slippers one more time before sliding them back into the bag, a satisfied expression settling on her face. “I like them. Good choice, Jax,” she says, giving him a small nod of approval.

Jax seems slightly taken aback by her approval, a soft flush coloring his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck. “Glad you like them,” he says, though his voice carries a hint of awkwardness. He doesn’t feel the slightest guilt over taking credit for my gift, which doesn’t surprise me.

“I’m glad you came,” my mom continues, her voice now softening. “You make him laugh more than I do.”

Her assessment catches me off guard, and my gaze snaps to her, a mixture of surprise and confusion flickering in my chest. Make him laugh? My mom isn’t the type to throw out compliments easily, and hearing her say something like that makes my heart twist in ways I don’t expect.

Before I can say anything, Jax chuckles, that deep, infectious sound that always seems to bring a little warmth to the air. A sound I don’t hear often enough. “I do my best,” he replies, offering her a casual grin.

I stand there, watching them, rubbing at the spot where pressure is building in my chest. This isn’t just about my mom anymore. It’s about Jax, about the way he’s shifting the dynamic between us, how easy he makes it to forget the years of walls I’ve built. And the fact that my mom is seeing this, is seeing him not as a stranger but as someone who might be worth her approval… well, that just complicates things in ways I didn’t expect.

It’s easier to understand the deep connection she spoke of. I thought it was a joke or misunderstanding on her part, but it’s not. The connection is there—it’s palpable. I can feel it.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to shake off the strange sensation in my chest. I’ve always been the one who’s here for my mom, always the one who’s put in the time, making sure she’s taken care of. And yet, here’s Jax—who’s barely known her a fraction of the time I have—and he’s already slipping into this role with such ease.

My thoughts swirl in a mix of emotions, a cocktail of gratitude and guilt. I wish I could relax, but the change of Jax’s place in my life, of the subtle shifts happening around us—is pressing down on me. I can’t stop thinking about how right this feels, even if it’s making me uneasy.

“Mom,” I finally say, trying to pull myself together, “you doing okay?”

She gazes up at me, eyes softening, a small curve tugging at her lips. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” she says, her voice more reassuring than usual. “You don’t need to worry so much.” Her gaze drifts to Jax, and for a moment, I’m certain there’s a quiet approval there. “And I’m glad you brought him with you. He’s a good one.”

He’s a good one. I try not to let it show, but I can feel the heat rising to my face. There’s a pride in her voice that I’m not used to hearing, especially when she’s talking about someone who isn’t me.

Jax, as usual, doesn’t help matters. He tilts his head slightly, smirking as if he knows exactly how much importance her opinion carries. “I try,” he says, that playful gleam back in his eyes.

I choke on the snort I try and swallow back, making my eyes water. Good? Jax? That’s rich. My mom doesn’t know the half of it. Jax is a lot of things. However, good isn’t one of the words I’d use to describe him.

Jax catches my expression and raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring me to challenge her assessment. “What? I am good,” he says, his tone mock-serious. He glances over at me, the playful smirk never leaving his face. “In fact, I’m a damn saint. Just ask anyone.”

I clear my throat, shaking my head. “He’s not exactly what you’d call… saintly,” I say, my voice dry. “But he means well. Sort of.”

Jax gives me a pointed look, but I can tell he’s not offended. We’ve been through enough of this banter over the years that nothing really hits anymore.

“Tell her, Jax,” I add, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “How many people do you know that can qualify for restricted duties while serving overseas three times? In one year?”

It seemed every time I turned around, I was writing him up for something else.

He doesn't flinch. Instead, he grins like I’ve just told a joke only we get. “I was young and ambitious,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “The world is full of opportunities. Who am I to turn them down?”

My mom’s expression is a mix of amusement and confusion, but I can see that she's trying to understand him in her way. She doesn’t have all the context, and maybe that’s for the best. The less she knows, the easier it is for me to pretend this whole thing with Jax isn’t complicated.

Jax gives me a sideways glance, like he can feel the shift in the room, too. But he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s always been good at pretending, at making everything seem effortless. Maybe that’s what makes him good—not the saint part, but the fact that he’s always there when it counts.

And maybe that’s why, for all the shit I give him, I can’t help but feel like he’s starting to earn a place in this weird little corner of my life.

CHAPTER 18

JAX

I keep glancing at the door like it’s the only thing in the room, hoping that any second now, Pharo will walk through it and break the tension that’s been building all day. The minutes tick by, slow and torturous, each second stretching longer than the last. My leg bounces anxiously, the constant motion almost a subconscious attempt to ground myself.

I curse under my breath and rub my palms over my jeans, hoping it'll settle the buzz in my system. Every damn thing feels loaded now. Every time he looks at me, I feel like he’s asking me to either sink or swim. And I’ve been treading water for far too long.

He wants to be friends.

He wants to fuck.

He wants me to know him and his mother better.

He wants… He wants more than I can give.

The door creaks open, and my heart skips a beat.

Pharo pauses in the doorway, taking in the room with that smirk of his, the one that always leaves me half-impressed, half-annoyed. His eyes scan the space, but I’m not sure if he’s looking at anyone else. All I know is that I’m caught in his orbit, and I hate how much I don’t mind it.

I swallow, forcing my hands to stay calm in my lap, and try to look anywhere but at him. Of course, that’s impossible. The pull is too strong.

Is he going to sit in his usual seat between Mandy and Rhett?

Or is he going to steal the seat beside me?

That would be too obvious. The Bitches know how much we can’t stand each other. What reason would Pharo have for choosing to sit closer to me? He might as well tell everyone we’ve been spending time together.

Sure enough, Pharo hesitates for a moment before doing the absolute last thing I expect. He starts walking straight toward me. My stomach drops as I try not to react, not to let the surprise show on my face.

What the hell is he doing?

He slides into the seat next to me, casual as hell, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment, I feel the ground shift under my feet. It’s like he’s planted himself there to make some kind of statement. The usual playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something else—something more serious, maybe even a little challenging.

“They just let anyone in here, huh?” He smiles at his joke, but I’m not smiling.

I freeze. Why would he do this? I can’t let him get away with making it appear like we’re... what, comfortable with each other?

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to break the tension, but my brain’s moving too slow. My pulse is racing, and I can’t stop my gaze from flickering over to him. The inches between us might as well have been a chasm a minute ago, but now—now it feels like a damn line in the sand.

He's too close.

This is all too much.

The Bitches are watching. They’re waiting for me to react. And I can already feel their eyes, like I’m starring in a movie they paid to see.

“Are we doing this?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but it’s not working. My voice cracks slightly, and I hate it.

Pharo just smirks, one eyebrow arching as he meets my gaze. “Doing what, exactly?”

I can feel my skin flush, but I won’t back down. Not now. Not with him sitting there like this, challenging everything we’ve built up—or destroyed—over the years.

“Don’t play games,” I mutter, trying to shove down the sudden tide of emotion.

He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, and the whole room goes quiet. Of course. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You know how this goes, Jax,” he murmurs, the teasing tone back in his voice, but underneath, there's a rawness that makes me pause. “We’re always playing games.”

It’s official. Things have shifted. We’re not just two people who can’t stand each other anymore.

And I have no idea what that means yet.

Riggs takes his seat and brings the introduction to a halt as he stares pointedly at us. “If the seating arrangement is a problem, you can take this opportunity to find a new seat.”

Pharo grins smugly. I’m so fucking annoyed to be the center of attention. “Thanks, Riggs, but I’m a big boy.”

I quickly turn away, my gaze darting around the room, trying to find something—anything—that isn’t him sitting way too close to me. The Bitches are still watching. They always are. My friends, my crew. They probably feel the tension. They’ve got to be wondering why Pharo, of all people, is sitting beside me. They’re waiting for me to make a move. To say something.

But I don’t know what to say.

He shifts in his seat, his thigh brushing against mine, and I swear my breath hitches. It’s not on purpose. Or at least, I tell myself it isn’t. He’s just that fucking close, and I can’t escape it.

Focus. I can't let him do this to me. He’s not going to make me feel something by sitting next to me. It’s just a seat. Just a fucking chair.

But the problem is, it’s not just a seat.

It’s Pharo.

I glance at him, and this time, it’s him who’s looking away, acting like he’s not aware of how his mere presence messes with my head. The way his hand is draped casually over the back of the chair like he belongs there—it makes my pulse spike.

Why the hell does he have to be so confident? So infuriatingly sure of himself, as if he knows exactly how much this fucks with me.

“Act natural. Take out your yarn and needles. Knit one of those hats you love,” he says after a beat, his voice soft, almost like he’s watching me, studying me.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. Leaning down, I grab my supplies from the bag at my feet. The charcoal grey yarn is in the beginning stages of what will be a new beanie.

He leans in a little closer, his face serious now, the playfulness gone. “Maybe I’m just tired of the games, too, Jax. Or maybe… maybe I’m tired of pretending we don’t want this. Don’t want each other.”

Motherfucker. He might as well shout it through a megaphone. Pharo doesn’t seem particularly worried about anyone overhearing or getting the wrong impression.

I shift in my chair, trying to regain some composure. “You’re out of your mind.”

His smirk widens, but there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Am I? Or maybe you're just afraid of what happens when you stop pretending.”

That hits harder than I want it to. Because he’s right. I’ve been pretending. I’ve been hiding behind the walls, the games, the bickering. But the truth is—deep down, I’m scared of what happens when I stop.

When I stop pretending, when I stop keeping him at arm's length.

“Just so you know,” I say sharply, “I’m not making this beanie for you.”

He dips his head close, his breath ghosting the shell of my ear. My heart skips a beat. “Don’t need it. I already have one of yours.”

He does? He must have stolen it, because I know for a fact I’ve never given him one. Why in the hell would I?

The bigger question is, why would he want one?

I’m dying to know the answer, but now isn’t the time to ask.

Riggs shoots us one last warning glare. “Suit yourselves, but remember, there’s no fighting in group. It’s my only rule.” He stares at each member of the circle, eyeing them carefully. “Who doesn’t have a lot going on this summer and wants to volunteer for a good cause?”

The room quiets for a second, the challenge hanging in the air as Riggs’s gaze lands on each of us, waiting for someone to bite. His eyes narrow when no one immediately speaks up. We all know that tone of his—he’s not asking out of kindness. He’s looking for someone to take the bait.

“Anyone?” he presses, his voice still sharp but with a hint of forced patience.

I feel a twinge of annoyance stir in my chest because I know exactly what he's doing. Riggs doesn’t ask unless he’s got something in mind—some mission, some task he wants done. He knows damn well how we all operate, and he’s testing to see who’ll crack first.

The silence stretches out awkwardly. It’s one of those rare moments when no one has anything to say. Normally, the guys are quick with a quip, but not today.

Riggs clears his throat.

Brandt kicks West.

Nash tips his chair back and points to Rhett behind his back.

“Well, I’d love to,” Stiles lies, “but I have a job.”

“Same,” West adds. “Brandt and I have boot camp and physical therapy.”

“I have therapy, too,” Rhett parrots, piggybacking on West’s lame excuse. “And I have to work.”

Nash’s chin bobs. “I have therapy, meetings, and… and… I’m sure I’ll have some work.” He rights his chair, and then tacks on, “I also have a cat and plant to care for. It’s a full-time job.”

Mandy stays quiet because he’s incapable of telling lies. He’s thinking them, though, because his cheeks flush bright red.

McCormick is next. “I’m almost positive I’m booked all summer. But I’ll get back to you, Riggs,” he says respectfully.

Pharo’s out because he’ll most likely be deployed. So that leaves me. I don’t have to tell lies, I just flat out don’t want to do it—whatever it is.

“This is fucking dumb,” I bitch. “We’re just going round and round in circles with our dicks in our hands. It’s literally the definition of stupidity.”

“It’s not stupidity,” Pharo snarks, “it’s the definition of a circle jerk.”

“Why are we sitting here arguing about dumb shit?” West asks, glancing around the group.

“Please,” Rhett snorts, swallowing his laughter. “I once wasted forty-five minutes arguing about the proper way to blow out the hem on my ABUs.”

Riggs rubs his temples like he’s warding off a headache. “That’s it. Consider yourselves voluntold. Problem solved.”

“Who?” I ask a little defensively? “Who’s being voluntold?”

Riggs fixes his steely gaze on me. “You, for starters. And every one of you who doesn’t punch a clock. Basically, everyone but Pharo and Stiles.”

Pharo grins.

Stiles blows out a relieved breath.

Everyone else whines and pouts.

“You still haven’t told us what we’re signing up for,” West points out.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Riggs says, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. He leans forward, resting his hands on his knees as he scans around the group, making sure every pair of eyes is on him. “You’re all going to volunteer as camp counselors this summer here at BALLS. They need all hands on deck.”

West furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed. “So we’re gonna babysit a bunch of kids for the summer?”

“Not babysit,” Riggs corrects, his tone too serious. “We’re going to mentor them. Guide them. Entertain them.” He pauses, clearly relishing the dramatic effect. “You’ll be helping with activities, tutoring, and just being a positive influence in their lives. Some of these kids don’t have much going for them, and we’re gonna give them something to look forward to.”

Nash’s expression is saying a whole lotta fuck this shit. “And what? We’re supposed to do all that for free? You know, I’ve got better things to do than play hero for a bunch of random kids.”

Nash shifts uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, clearly trying to protect himself. I can tell it's not about the kids, but about what volunteering might stir up inside him—emotions he’s not ready to face. Nash is easily triggered, and uncontrolled environments scare the shit out of him.

Mandy’s voice breaks the tension that’s building between Nash and Riggs. “I don’t mix well with kids,” he adds softly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off an old memory.

The silence that follows is thick, and everyone’s eyes flicker toward Mandy. His scars are hard to ignore, and we all know what they represent. It’s not just the physical ones, either; it’s the mental scars that make him vulnerable. He’s shared before that kids, especially when they’re scared of him, are one of his biggest triggers.

I peer over at Mandy, seeing the hurt behind his tough exterior. “You’re not gonna scare any kids, man,” I say, I say gently, hoping he believes it. “These kids? They’ll be more focused on what we can teach them than on how you look. Hell, if anything, you’ve got a story to tell, a real one. They could learn something from you.”

Mandy’s jaw tightens, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. It’s the closest I’ll get to seeing him soften, and I’m not going to push him too hard on this. But, goddamn, I know this is something he’s going to have to work through. If he decides to go through with this.

Riggs, ever the relentless bastard, pushes on, unfazed by the discomfort in the room. “That’s the whole point, Mandy,” he says, trying to rally us. “They need to see real people. Not some faceless adult who only shows up to lecture them. You guys have lived through shit, and if anyone can connect with those kids, it’s you.” Mandy doesn’t seem convinced. “If it becomes a problem, we can find you something to do behind the scenes.”

I catch Nash’s eyes and see that he’s still wrestling with the idea, his posture stiff and defensive. He’s not the type to open up easily, and he’s afraid of getting hurt—afraid of appearing vulnerable in front of people, especially kids. He doesn’t want to face whatever might come up if he’s forced into a situation that’s beyond his control.

“I don’t know, man,” Nash mutters, shaking his head. “I just don’t deal well with… things that remind me of my own shit.”

I get it. I get it more than I want to admit. That’s part of why I’m even considering this bullshit project. It’s not about the kids, either. It’s about me not wanting to be the one who hides from life anymore, like Nash is trying to do. But that’s a different story.

Riggs doesn’t back down. “You’ll be fine, Nash. All you have to do is show up, and it’ll be a hell of a lot easier than sitting at home stewing in your head. Brewer has already cleared you,” he adds, referring to the resident head doc and Nash’s partner.

“You realize we’re BALLS counselors?” McCormick asks, breaking the awkwardness with a ball joke. “Anyone having any issues they need to discuss? Jock itch? Chafing? Ingrown hairs? Unexplained blisters?”

“Why don’t you come over here and counsel my balls, Mac?” West jokes.

McCormick laughs, tossing up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just trying to make this more comfortable, alright?” He winks. “I’ve got a whole arsenal of remedies, guys. Seriously. If anyone needs any... specialized attention, you know where to find me.”

Riggs groans, rubbing his temples. “We're not doing this again, McCormick.”

“Come on, Riggs,” McCormick presses, clearly enjoying himself. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had that issue before. Don’t make me ask Rhett.”

West snorts, tossing a grin McCormick’s way. “I’m not gonna lie, man, there have been times I thought I was gonna have to call the fire department. Beard burn!”

Nash snickers reluctantly, his shoulders still tense, but at least the mood’s lightening up. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Enough with the ball talk. Let's just... get back to the part where we all agree to sign up for this thing and try not to look like a bunch of pansies.”

I snicker under my breath, glancing around the circle. Even Riggs cracks a smile, though he’s trying to keep the focus on the task at hand.

Mandy seems hesitant but bobs his chin. “Fine, whatever. If it helps kids, I’m in.”

Nash throws up his hands. “Alright, I guess if we're doing this, we’re doing it for the kids and not... ball issues.”

McCormick slaps him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

Riggs glances around, his earlier seriousness returning, but with a hint of pride in his voice. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Alright, let’s share, and no more ball jokes.”

The guys start chatting again, the mood shifting into a more comfortable, familiar rhythm. And for once, I feel like I’m actually in a place where maybe... just maybe... I can stop running from the things that make me uncomfortable, like Mandy and Nash.

I’m not alone in this. It’s something we all struggle with to different degrees, and if we stick together, we’ll get through it just fine.

Eventually.

But those kids at summer camp? I can’t guarantee they’ll be fine whatsoever. Not with the Bitches as their counselors.

CHAPTER 19

PHARO

The giant steel blades of the chopper beat steadily, a familiar hum that should feel comforting, but today it doesn't. I glance at Orson beside me. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, scanning for anything that seems off. The mission is simple—escort a group of medical volunteers to a village cut off by conflict. Nothing new. But something about today feels different. Like the air is thicker, more charged.

We’re outside Cairo now, the sun beating down on the desert, and the skyline fading behind us. I’ve only been back with the team for a little while, and I still feel the shift. Arlo’s back with us, but not fully present. Hogan’s the one taking the lead now, and though he’s solid, the dynamic feels... off.

I glance at Orson. “You think Arlo’s gonna be back anytime soon?”

Orson doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “He’s here, but he’s not here. You know how he is. He’ll lead even when he’s half-dead.” His voice is dry, but I can tell it bothers him, too.

“Yeah,” I mutter, focusing on the horizon to avoid thinking about it. “Guess we’ll just keep doing the job, right?”

“Always do,” Orson replies, voice calm, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

That’s the job, right? Just focus on the mission. It’s not about heroics or anything flashy. It’s about getting in, getting out, keeping civilians safe, and keeping the team safe. Simple.

But today, something doesn’t feel simple. My gut's telling me that this isn’t going to be as easy as we hoped.

Orson leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You see that?”

I follow his gaze, squinting as I spot the village below. It seems quiet. Too quiet. There's too much movement for a place that’s supposed to be under our protection.

“That’s... not right,” I mutter, my instincts kicking in.

Orson's already reaching for his mic. “Gehenna Two, this is Raven. We’ve got movement near the drop zone. Need confirmation before we proceed.”

They’ve been on the ground for two days. And until now, all’s been quiet. It’s like these sons of bitches were watching for us, waiting to fuck up our exfil op.

The comms crackle, and Hogan’s voice comes through, calm but with an edge. “Negative on the all-clear. Abort the drop. We’re doing recon. Hold position.”

“Roger that.” I keep the chopper hovering, circling the area as we wait for the all-clear.

The minutes stretch on, but no further updates come through. I try not to think about how long it’s taking. The sun’s starting to bake the cockpit, and it only adds to the anxiety building in my chest.

Finally, Hogan's voice breaks the silence. “Recon's clear. Looks like a false alarm, but we’re still not clear of potential hostiles. Keep your guard up.”

“Copy that,” I mutter, keeping my gaze fixed on the ground below.

I bank the chopper down, lining up for the drop. But as we get closer, I feel that knot in my stomach tighten. Something’s off.

The chopper touches down in an open field on the outskirts of the village, and the sound of the rotors slows. I turn over control to Orson. “Switching control to you. Stay sharp.”

He nods, keeping her warm as I jump out. I follow, keeping my hand on my sidearm, eyes scanning the village. The volunteers are already running to the LZ, the usual chaos of a humanitarian mission adding to my discomfort.

After things went south on my last mission with the team, and then Arlo’s injury, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“Orson,” I bark into the mic, “We’ve got hostile movement in the area. We need to get the volunteers back to the bird. Now.”

He raises his head, his face tense. “How much time?”

I pull my gun from its holster, gritting my teeth, and scan the surroundings again, trying to piece together what’s happening. “Not enough. I need to get them moving.”

“Shit,” Orson curses. He hates when I jump ship and join the team. It means shit’s going south. Fast.

I turn to the volunteers, yelling, “Get to the chopper! Now!”

I don’t wait for them to respond. I just grab the nearest volunteer by the arm, pulling them toward the bird. The team is close behind, bringing up the rear, running backwards with their weapons pointed toward the village.

Then, I see it—movement behind one of the buildings. It’s quick, too fast. I catch the metallic flash of a gun barrel.

“Shit!” I shout, pushing the last volunteer into the helicopter as shots ring out.

I climb back into the cockpit and resume control as the last man of my team boards. Arlo, legs dangling over the side, gun aimed. His head is on a swivel as he scans the treeline for something to shoot at.

We lift off in a hurry, the volunteers still scrambling to take their seats. More gunshots ring out, and Arlo returns fire.

The first bullet flies wide, but the next one clips the tail rotor. I jerk the controls, diving the chopper to the side, the force knocking my stomach into my spine.

We climb quickly to gain altitude, but the shots keep coming. More than a few miss us, but not by much.

“GSC, This is Havoc. We’re taking fire,” I tell Milo. I wish we were back at headquarters with him, safe and sound. “Hold tight,” I tell Orson, my voice tight, my grip on the controls like a vice. “We’re not done here yet.”

I bank hard, trying to lose any pursuers. But I know what’s coming. This mission isn’t about getting supplies to people anymore. It’s about getting out alive.

And we’re not out of the woods yet.

The chopper bucks under me as I pull up, the tail rotor wobbles, and I can feel the shift in my bones. That bullet that clipped it? Not good. It’s a damn miracle we're still airborne.

“Hogan, Arlo, buy us some time!” I bark, eyes darting between the ground and the sky. If we don’t get some altitude, we're easy targets.

"On it," Hogan responds, moving with urgency. He crouches down beside Arlo and pulls the 50 caliber into position. The sound of gunfire erupts again, and I duck instinctively, though I know it won’t help.

“My Fitty gonna teach these boys some manners,” Hogan vows, his voice ringing through my comms.

“We’re too exposed!” Arlo shouts, firing off a burst into the tree line. The impact of the bullets hitting the ground below creates small puffs of dust, but it doesn’t seem to deter the shooters.

I can hear the roar of an engine in the distance. Reinforcements? Or just more hostiles? Either way, we don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out.

I yank the collective, pushing us into a sharp climb. The chopper groans in protest, but it holds. Barely.

“We need to get above them,” I mutter, teeth clenched, sweat sliding down my neck despite the cool air. “Can you hit them from here?”

Hogan’s face is grim as he adjusts his aim. “If they’re out in the open, maybe. If not, we’re in trouble.”

The shots are coming faster now. A bullet ricochets off the fuselage, causing me to jerk the controls instinctively, but I keep it steady.

“Get ready to move!” I shout to the rest of the team. The volunteers are quiet, wide-eyed, peering up at us like they’ve stepped into a war zone. Which, I guess, they have.

“We’re going to try and get clear,” I yell to the crew in the back. “Stay down, stay low!”

I swing the helicopter hard right, trying to break the line of sight from the gunmen below. The wind hits hard as I bank, the force making the chopper shake. We’re close to the ground now, the buildings getting closer, but I need to gain speed.

“We’ve got two targets on our six!” Orson shouts, and I curse under my breath. I can’t keep this pace up for long. We’re losing fuel, the tail’s damaged, and our altitude is too low.

“We need to ditch,” I growl, fingers tightening around the throttle. “Get back to the base, now!”

But even as I say it, I know the reality of that. Headquarters is miles away, and we’re not going to make it if we keep taking fire like this.

Arlo doesn’t wait for my next order. He fires off another round, sending a few shots into the distance. The gunfire tapers off for a moment, but I know it's just a breather.

“Go low, we’ll have to dodge through the buildings,” I shout.

Thankfully, they’re short and squat, no highrises or factories here in this remote part of the country.

Orson inclines his head. “I’ve got it.”

We dive, threading the needle between two buildings, narrowly missing power lines and rooftops. The noise of the rotors screaming through the air drowns out everything else. The feeling in my gut twists, a sharp, painful reminder of just how much danger we're in.

The comms buzz in my ear, and Milo’s voice cuts through the static. “Havoc, you need to get out of there. We’ve got backup en route, but you need to clear the area and head toward the extraction point.”

No fucking shit, kid! “Copy that,” I respond quickly, glancing at the damaged dashboard. “We’re not going to make it to the extraction point if we don’t get some fucking breathing room.”

Orson shoots me a determined look, jaw clenched hard. “Hold tight. We’ll be there in five.”

Five minutes? With the tail rotor barely holding on and rounds still flying at us? Not likely.

Arlo takes out the most persistent gunman, and we’re able to limp out of the region with our tails between our legs. The foundation that sponsors the volunteers has a clinic not far from here.

The beige stucco building comes into view, and I breathe the first deep breath in an hour. “Hold on!” I shout, pushing the controls hard, throwing us into a sharp right turn.

“Fuck!” Orson curses, and I hear the volunteers cry out. Some are praying, some are silent, too terrified to speak.

“Orson!” I shout, my voice intense. “Get ready to bail if we go down!”

The engine sputters. The rotor is failing.

I pull the chopper upward, fighting against gravity, against everything that’s wrong with this mission.

We’ve got one chance to land this bitch without succumbing to a fiery crash. The impact of touching down jolts every bolt and screw loose, and my teeth as well. My body goes rigid as the chopper slams into the ground, and for a split second, I think we’re about to cartwheel into a heap of twisted metal and flames.

But somehow, by some twisted miracle, the bird holds together. The rotor blades screech as they scrape the earth, and the rear end swings out in a dizzying arc before hurling to a stop with a gut-wrenching thud. I grunt, my body slamming against the straps as the momentum throws me forward.

The world spins for a moment, but I force my eyes open, trying to focus.

“Everyone okay?” I rasp, teeth gritted, heart hammering.

Orson’s voice comes through the headset, gruff but steady. “I’m good. That was... too close, though.”

I take a quick breath, checking my gauges. The engine's still running, the chopper’s intact—somehow. We’re not going anywhere without a hell of a lot of repairs, but we’re on the ground now. Safe, for the moment.

“Yeah, I hear you,” I mutter, pulling off the helmet and tossing it aside, trying to shake the fog in my head. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. We need to get these volunteers out of here and find a ride home.”

The team scrambles out, and I give one last glance at the chopper’s busted tail rotor. It's a miracle it even managed to land. “I need a fucking vacation,” I bitch.

Orson’s laughter rumbles through my headset. “Hell, Havoc. You just got back.”

Yeah, well, I’m definitely ready again.

I push the thought aside, refocusing on the task at hand. The situation’s far from ideal, and there’s no time to daydream about downtime or a warm beach somewhere. We’ve got a mission to finish and people to protect.

Arlo catches up to me, rifle in hand, scanning the perimeter. “We get the volunteers to safety first, then we figure out how to get the hell outta here. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, adjusting the strap on my pack. “Let’s move out.”

We head toward the small structure, the rest of the team falling in behind us, moving with purpose. The dust from the crash still clings to my skin, the scent of burnt metal and oil wafting through the air, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters right now. Not the bruises, not the fatigue, not the fact that I’m pretty sure I won’t make it through this without at least one more near-death experience.

What matters is getting these people to safety.

I glance back at the chopper, the once-pristine bird now a crumpled wreck. Jax’s face flashes through my head like a pulse. He’d flip his fucking shit right now if he could see my ride. He hasn’t said as much, but I know he’s worried about me now that he knows the risks I take. If I get through this and manage to drag my sorry ass back to Black Mountain, I swear I’m gonna take that man out to dinner again. And this time, when I make my move, I’m not taking no for an answer.

Orson bumps my shoulder, snapping me back to the mission. “Focus, man. We’ll talk about your vacation plans later.”

Right. Focus.

I give a tight nod, the sound of my boots crunching on the dirt louder than anything else around us. It’s all a blur—the constant tautness in the air, the nagging thought that at any second, things could go from bad to worse.

But I’m here, and I’ve got a job to do.

Because for the first time in years, I’ve got a reason to get back home in one piece.

* * *

Being called into Jace Hampton’s office feels like being summoned by the principal. As head of Greystone’s Cairo headquarters, Jace has the final say on everything, and I can’t shake the feeling that he has a lot to say about the helicopter incident.

“Pharo,” he grumbles, “shut the door behind you.” Jace slides his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sounds exhausted, and the stacks of papers scattered across his desk might explain why.

I close the door quietly and take a step forward, trying not to let unease make my movements too stiff. Jace doesn’t look up right away, his attention fixed on the mess in front of him as though willing it to organize itself.

“Sir,” I start, my voice steady but my mind racing, “it wasn’t⁠—”

He cuts me off with a sharp gesture, his fingers drumming against the desk. “I don’t care about your excuses. I care about results. Do you understand the magnitude of this? The fallout from this… It’s not just financial. It’s going to cost us far more than just money.” He leans back with a sigh. “The government’s breathing down my neck. My superior has my nuts in a vice. And I have to call my wife and tell her our vacation is on hold—indefinitely. That might be the thing that scares me the most,” he jokes, though it’s clear his humor is strained.

I continue to stand at attention, holding my tongue.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Havoc. That was some fancy flying. You got the entire team and every single volunteer back safely, and that’s what matters most.”

A compliment was the last thing I was expecting from him. I blink, unsure if I heard him correctly, but his eyes are steady on mine, a rare flicker of something almost like respect in his gaze. It doesn’t soften the situation, but it’s enough to make me wonder what he’s really thinking.

“Thank you, Sir?” I say, unsure if I’m supposed to acknowledge it or just keep my head down.

Jace gives a slight nod, his expression hardening again. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re still on thin ice. But for today, you did your job. Now let’s make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

It's clear the leash is tight, but for now, at least, I'm not in the fire.

“This conflict is going to make an old man out of me way before my time. The Brotherhood will stop at nothing to keep our ‘western liberal evil’ from infecting their agenda. If the democratic elections succeed, their power is greatly diminished. As you can see, their attempt to maintain control is becoming desperate and destructive, for the people of Egypt, and us.”

Jace tosses his glasses onto the desk and sits forward, bracing his elbows. “What will it take to get you to agree to come on board full time?”

His question hangs in the air, unexpected, making me pause. I wasn’t prepared for this. He’s offering me more than just a job now—it feels like a line in the sand. The stakes just got a whole lot higher.

“Excuse me, Sir? I thought we were discussing how I cost you eight million.”

Jace chuckles. “We’ll circle back to that,” he promises, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “It wasn’t your fault, technically. I want you here full time. Not just piloting, but training the next generation of pilots, and overseeing the ground transportation as well. It would mean less time in the air and more desk action. Go ahead,” he urges, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “ask me how exciting the desk is.”

I hesitate, eyeing him carefully. “So, you want me to trade flying for paperwork?” I ask, half-joking, half-serious.

Jace smirks, but there's a hint of something genuine behind the sarcasm. “Pretty much. But think of it this way: you'll still be the one running the show. You'll be shaping the team, making the decisions, and having more control than you ever could in the cockpit.”

My chin dips, weighing the offer. It's tempting, but I can already feel the pressure of the desk job choking me. “And if I say no?”

He shrugs, but his gaze is intense. “Then you walk. But, honestly, Havoc, I’m not sure you want to. The work’s tough, but it’s important. You could make a real difference here.”

The room falls silent for a moment, his offer settling heavily on my shoulders.

Dozens of thoughts dance through my mind, trying to fit into the picture Jace is painting. The dream of opening my shop. Starting something with Jax that may or may not have a future. My promise to stop running and start living. None of these fit the picture.

Each option feels heavy, and none aligns with Jace's offer. It’s the kind of opportunity that comes with an unspoken cost, one I can’t quite put my finger on yet, but I can feel it gnawing at the edges of my decision. The dream of a quieter life feels miles away from the chaos of this job. But can I walk away from it all? From the chance to build something that might matter?

“I’ll think about it, Sir. As soon as I have an answer, you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER 20

PHARO

I don’t want to seem too eager—though I definitely am—so I’m not going to rush right over there with my cock in hand. Seeing Jax again has been all I could think about on the long flight home. Dinner, maybe another kiss? Maybe more?

Anticipation coils in my chest, making it harder to breathe as I make my way to the door. I tell myself to play it cool, but my heart is thumping harder than my knuckles on his door. Jax answers the door, looking less than thrilled to see me. Definitely not the warm welcome I was hoping for.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flicker over my face, studying me like he’s trying to decide something. I swallow, feeling that awkwardness creep in. Maybe I’ve misread things. Maybe I shouldn’t have come over.

“Jax?” I ask softly, taking a small step forward, unsure of what to do next.

He takes a breath and finally steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. “Come on in,” he says, though there’s no enthusiasm in his voice.

I nod, trying to shake off the discomfort as I step over the threshold. I’ve been imagining this moment for weeks, but now that I’m here, everything feels... different. The distance between us feels more than just physical.

“I’d ask if you missed me, but I can see you didn’t.”

“You know, I really hate when you show up here all beat to shit.”

I glance down at my nice threads and realize he must be talking about the scratches and bruises on my face. “So you did miss me,” I grin, my mood lifting considerably despite the lingering tension.

Jax rakes his eyes over my face scathingly, his lips curling into a half-amused, half-annoyed smirk. “Miss you? You’re lucky I’m letting you in the door looking like that.”

I chuckle, brushing past him into the living room.

“So, what’s the damage?” he asks, eyeing the bruises on my cheek like he’s mentally tallying them up. “Get in a fight with a bear or something?”

“No, nothing that exciting,” I reply with a wink, trying to keep it light. “Just the usual... You know, escaping a fiery crash, dodging bullets, saving lives. The normal stuff.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s something softer in his gaze now. He steps a little closer, just enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and for a second, it almost feels like everything else fades away. That energy between us? It’s still there, scorching and undeniable.

“You always do this,” he mutters, reaching up to gently touch the bruise on my cheek. “Risk your life trying to right the past.”

“It’s not just about the past, Jax. I care about the guys. They’re my team, my brothers. I care about right and wrong. I care about shaping the future for a country divided in conflict.”

“There’s always going to be a country in conflict and a team in need of saving, Pharo. Where does it end? Why’s it always gotta be you?”

My heart skips a beat at his touch, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here,” he agrees, but his voice is tight, like he's holding something back. “For now.”

“So,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to shift the mood, “you gonna offer me a drink or are you just gonna stand there glowering at me like I’m some stray dog you’re thinking about kicking out?”

Jax snorts, shaking his head, but finally breaks the strain with that familiar, sarcastic grin. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Fucker. “Quit being a bitch and offer me a drink.”

“All I’ve got is beer and whiskey. Pick your poison.”

“I’ll take the whiskey.”

Jax grabs the bottle from the cabinet and kicks back on the sofa, not even bothering with glasses. The loveseat has two cushions and is on the smaller side, not exactly built for comfort when you’re sitting so close to someone who feels like he’s simultaneously a thousand miles away and right in front of you. But I make my way over and sink into the space beside him, trying to ignore how my skin seems to buzz with the proximity.

Jax takes a generous pull, then hands the bottle to me without a word. I take a long swig, letting the burn slide down my throat. It feels like we’re on the edge of something I’m not sure I’m ready to face, even though it was my reason for coming here.

The room seems smaller now, the air thicker. Every movement Jax makes, every glance, every shift of his body feels amplified. I take another swallow of whiskey, trying to wash down the nerves rising in my throat. I open my mouth to break the silence, but nothing comes out. Everything I could say feels too loaded, too risky.

Jax doesn’t say anything either. His fingers tap lightly on the bottle, the quiet between us stretching longer than I’m comfortable with.

“So,” I start, my voice a little rougher than I expect. “What have you been up to, aside from looking like you’ve been avoiding daylight since I last saw you?”

He snorts, finally turning his gaze toward me. “Same old, same old. Work. Tinkering. Riding. You know, the usual.”

“Right.” My smile feels as forced as I reply. “I guess some things never change.” Life goes on without me.

“Guess not,” Jax says, but there’s something different in his tone now. It’s quieter, less guarded. Maybe even a little more open.

I shift slightly on the couch, leaning just a bit closer, feeling the heat between us grow with every inch. And yet, I still can’t bring myself to close the gap completely. The pull is there, undeniable. But what if it’s not the right time? What if I’m about to screw up the fragile connection we’ve already rebuilt?

“Glad to be back?” he asks after a few beats of silence. The question feels loaded, more than just casual small talk.

“Yeah. Missed you,” I answer, surprised by how honest the admission feels coming out of my mouth. I glance at him, hoping my voice didn’t give away too much, but Jax doesn’t react. He just takes a sip of whiskey, his jaw tightening slightly.

“You know,” he laughs, “You look all suave and shit, but you’re terrible at flirting.”

I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. It’s teasing, but there’s a playfulness behind it. Maybe even a little challenge.

“Flirting?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my cool exterior, but his laugh is messing with my composure. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” Jax says, leaning back a little, eyes scanning me with a smirk. “You think I don’t know when someone’s trying too hard? You’ve been giving off this ‘I’m too cool for this’ vibe, but trust me, you’re not fooling anyone. Before you left, didn’t you ask me when you could fuck me?”

I chuckle, trying to mask the nervous tightness in my chest. “Have you come up with an answer?” What if he says tonight? Right now?

He shrugs casually, taking another sip. “This is fucking weird, man. Look at us. We’re both sitting here like we’re not about to tear each other’s clothes off.”

I feel my breath hitch, my heart pounding in my chest. He wants to rip my clothes off? Cause I’m totally on board with that plan.

I shift uncomfortably. His proximity, the heat from his body, it’s like a magnet pulling me in, but I hesitate.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended, almost challenging him to respond.

Jax tilts his head, his eyes darkening just a little as he meets my gaze. “You tell me,” he says softly, his tone turning serious in a way that makes the world around us feel smaller.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” I murmur, leaning in just a little, my breath catching in my throat.

His lips curl, but it’s more intense now, less playful. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, “I think I do.”

Jax’s gaze lingers on my lips, and I witness the moment something inside him shifts and he decides he’s not backing down.

I search his face for something—what, I’m not sure. Something that will tell me if this is just a momentary lapse in judgment or if he’s sure. But Jax’s expression is unreadable for a split second before he gives a little smirk, and my stomach does that weird flip again.

“What's going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his voice quiet and teasing, like he's enjoying watching me squirm.

I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all. “I don’t know,” I admit, feeling strangely vulnerable. “I just… didn’t expect this, that’s all.”

He leans in a bit, his face inches from mine, and his breath is warm against my cheek. “Yeah? Well, sometimes the unexpected is exactly what you need.”

This would make so much more sense if he were drunk, but the bottle’s still half full, so why the one-eighty?

He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his touch surprisingly gentle considering his usual animosity toward me.

“Jax...” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

“Everything with us is a mistake. What’s one more?” His lips brush against my ear as he speaks, sending a shiver down my spine.

I lean into him, my hand instinctively resting on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm—fast, erratic, just like mine. The closeness, the intensity, it’s all too much, and yet I crave more.

Without thinking, I close the space between us, my lips finding his even with my eyes closed. My tongue is like a heat-seeking missile, zeroing in on his warm mouth, slipping between his lips. Quickly, the kiss turns deep and desperate, like we can’t get enough. The connection feels like it’s opening something inside of me that I’ve kept locked away for too long. His hand moves to my back, pulling me closer, and I let him, not caring anymore about boundaries or what this means.

When we finally pull back, both of us are panting, and I can see the desire flickering in his dark eyes. His thumb traces my bottom lip, a quiet twist tugging at his mouth.

“You’re not running away, are you?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

I shake my head. “And you’re not playing hard to get.”

Jax grins, a satisfied, knowing look in his eyes. “Good. Because we’ve only just started.”

The air crackles with static heat. I’m fully invested in this moment. There is no job, no past, no life outside of this apartment that exists for me right now. Just this kiss, this man, this feeling—everything else fades into nothing.

His lips press against mine again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring every second. I let myself fall into it, the world outside slipping away as my hands find their place on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. His presence is grounding, yet electrifying, like the storm that’s brewing inside me.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath, eyes meeting his. There’s an unspoken understanding there, something raw and vulnerable, but so incredibly real.

No matter the unresolved issues lingering between us, this is happening right now—me and Jax. After the flame that sparked six long years ago, we’re finally stoking the embers into a full-blown bonfire. The hostility, the silence, the space between us—it all dissolves in the heat of this moment.

Every touch feels like we’re making up for lost time, like we’re reclaiming what should’ve been ours all along. I can feel the burn of his lips, the fire in his hands as they slide down my back, pulling me closer.

There’s a hunger in the way he kisses me, a desperation, like he wants to grab onto this fleeting pleasure before the world crashes back down on us.

But right now, none of that matters. Not the uncertainty, not the past we can’t undo, not the fear of what tomorrow will bring. Right now, it's just us, in the warmth of this kiss, this connection, as raw and real as it gets. And for once, I want to let go of all the reasons we shouldn’t, all the reasons we can't, and just sink into the moment, letting him pull me deeper into the fire.

“Take off this shirt,” I growl, desperate to touch his skin.

Jax pulls it over his head, revealing a tight body inked with black tats. I’ve never stopped to look at them or ask what they mean. We weren’t exactly into conversation.

But now I can’t help but feel the pull of curiosity. Each tattoo tells a story, a history I’ve never heard, etched into his skin like secrets he's kept locked away.

His eyes catch mine, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he notices my gaze lingering on his tattoos.

“You like?” he asks, his voice low, almost teasing.

I swallow, a little caught off guard by the question, but dip my chin. “I’ve never asked before, but someday I want to hear all about these.” I trace over a line of code running down his ribcage, and Jax flinches from the tickling sensation.

Dipping my head, I latch onto his nipple and suck hard, taking greedy pulls until he’s pushing at my head to have mercy on him.

My lips trail up his neck, nipping a wet path to his ear. “You gonna let me fuck you this time?”

Jax shivers again in my arms and answers me with a kiss.

“Better hurry before I change my mind,” he breathes huskily, chasing my lips.

Lying fucker. He’s not changing his mind tonight. I know that for sure. I’ve got him right where I want him. It’s a dare in his voice, and I’m not backing down from it. I can feel his hesitation, the underlying battle he’s always fought with himself, but tonight? Tonight, it’s different.

I know he’ll regret it tomorrow. He’ll curse both of us, pretend it never happened, and pull back into that shell of his. But tonight, for one stolen moment, Jax is mine. Every inch of him, all of him, and there’s no turning back.

I pull him closer, the heat of his body pressing against mine, and I deepen the kiss. No more holding back, no more pretending we don’t want this. Just this raw, electric pull between us.

Jax pulls at my shirt, and it joins his on the floor. He’s got octopus arms, touching me everywhere, exploring my body, and follows his touch with his mouth. His lips close over my nipple and he sucks, not as hard as I did to him, but hard enough to make my cock jerk.

“Pull it out,” I rasp, sounding needy and feral. That’s what he does to me. This heat, these feelings, I’ve never felt them with another man. Just Jax.

“Fuck, take them off,” he begs, and I don’t hesitate for a second.

As I stand to push the pants down my legs, Jax surprises me, coming to his feet and beating me to it. His pants drop to the floor in a puddle before mine do. But then he blows me out of the water. Jax crosses the room and plants his hands on the wall, pushing out his bare ass, legs braced wide.

Like an offering to a God. Or a pharaoh.

Hell, his perfect ass, so tight and round, is definitely worthy of such a sacrifice. I drop to my knees and worship him with my tongue. It slides through his crease, making him moan, and when I lick over his hole, he clenches it tightly and says my name.

“Pharo, fuck. More.”

It’s probably the first time he’s ever asked me for anything. How can I deny him such a simple request? A request I feel would kill me if I didn’t comply.

Over and over, I lick him until he stops clenching and his rim softens for me, opening enough that I can slip my tongue inside him. His musky flavor makes me drool. I gather all that saliva and push it back inside him, coating his insides with moisture. It makes an easy glide for my fingers. Jax cries out as I breach him, glancing back over his shoulder at me with a look of pure want and need.

He looks wrecked, and I’ve only just begun to take him apart.

CHAPTER 21

JAX

I want to hate him for making me want him so much, but that’d be a bitch move.

I want to hate him for knowing just how to touch me to drive me crazy, but that’d be wholly unfair. Neither of us is a virgin. It’s just easier not to think about it.

With the feel of his fingers fucking into me and his tongue pile-driving my asshole, I can’t think of much, anyway. My head is fuzzy, so is my judgement. All I can do is feel. Feel and react.

“Just fuck me already, dammit.”

Pharo gives a satisfied, wicked little chuckle, like he’s enjoying my surrender way too much. I can’t blame him. I would, too, if I were him. Seeing how badly he wants me is definitely giving me a heady rush.

“In a hurry to get it over with that quick, huh?”

Yes and no. I could go all night, but tomorrow I’ll hate myself for every minute I enjoyed with him. Like self-flagellation.

Pharo straightens to his full height. “You have condoms?”

Please, like he didn’t bring any, hoping to score tonight. I call bullshit. “Nope. Just lube. You?” The satisfaction of seeing him reach for his pants is a small victory worth savoring.

Pharo pulls a foil packet from his pocket and tosses the pants back to the floor. “Skip to, boy. Grab that lube, unless you want me to fuck you dry?”

Motherfucker. Taunting me like that. I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or stab him. When I return with the bottle, I toss it to him, and Pharo catches it easily. “Come lean over the back of this couch.”

Fine. Perfect. No touching, cuddling, or kissing. Because I can’t do this if I have to gaze into his stupid citrine eyes like some love-struck lover.

Nope. Not happening.

Resuming the same stance I had earlier, I brace my hands on the back of the couch and spread my legs apart, ass pushed out and waiting. Over my shoulder, I glance at Pharo, stroking lube over the rubber stretched over his cock. Of-fucking-course he’s eight inches of thick, uncut perfection. Why would he be anything else?

I fucking hate him.

And if he doesn’t shove his cock in my ass soon, I’ll have another reason to hate him.

Pharo lines the tip of his cock up with my hole and leans over me, grabbing onto the couch beside my hands. He thrusts his hips, slowly pushing into me like he’s savoring the tight squeeze.

What was I thinking, asking him to hurry? Fuck, it’s not like I bottom regularly. My ass burns, but I know the pain is fleeting. So I grit my teeth and bear down, taking him deeper. He looks amused by the pain my grimace reveals.

“Feel good?” he taunts, knowing it doesn't. Yet.

“Fucking incredible,” I lie. Saying I’ve had bigger would just be juvenile, and I have no doubt he’d torture me by ramming me.

His chuckle tickles my ear. The full-body shiver makes me arch into him further, so that I’m practically impaled on his stupid horse cock. “It will soon, I promise.”

Aww, he cares. Kinda.

Thankfully, he keeps his pace slow until I’ve adjusted, and his shaft slides in and out with more ease. The drag of the latex along my inner walls makes my toes curl. It’s this weird combination of pleasure and pain, a tug-of-war that’s got me caught in the middle.

He buries himself balls deep and pauses, his cock kicking inside me. I squeeze back, and he nips my ear. “You ready?” he growls.

That means shit’s about to get started. The slow, easy fucking is over.

I push back against him in answer. Pharo straightens and grabs my hips, and slams into me hard, pushing me into the couch with a grunt. I know he’s watching my ass take his cock. I bet it looks incredible.

“Goddamn, son,” he breathes in awe. I can hear the pleasure in his voice.

Like any good bottom, I feel the undeniable urge to please him, to drive him wild until he’s singing songs about the perfection of my tight ass. Even if I hate him when his clothes are on.

I meet each of his thrusts with my own, fucking myself on his cock while stroking my shaft. Only the sound of our harsh breaths and his skin slapping against mine punctuates the silence. Maybe I moan a few times, but whatever.

Pharo switches one hand to my shoulder so he can really dig in and fuck me hard. The change in his angle rubs my spot just right, and my balls swell and tighten with my load, begging to spill.

The heat in my belly spreads as I jack my cock faster. “Yeah, like that,” I urge, slamming back on his dick.

He hasn’t said much, and I’m taking it as a good sign. Like, he’s so overcome with lust he’s speechless? Yeah, that.

“Waited too long for this,” he pants. “It’s too good.” Pharo slams into me again and cum pulses from my slit in an arc, staining the back of my couch.

Good thing it’s leather.

“Don’t wanna,” one more hard thrust, and he unleashes within me. “Coming,” he hisses, digging his fingers deep into my skin.

That’s gonna bruise tomorrow.

Then he collapses over my back, sweaty and breathless, while he recovers. Already coming down from the lust-nado of hormones swirling in my bloodstream, I’m starting to feel caged in and skittish. I need him off me, like now.

I manage to shake him off. Pharo slips out of me with a soft pop and plants a kiss between my shoulder blades. As he saunters into my bathroom to clean up, I shamelessly ogle his tight ass. Fucking perfection.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, I’m dressed and looking relaxed on the couch. I feel boneless, like every molecule in my body got a deep-tissue massage.

Pharo leans over the back of the couch and stares at me, appearing unsure. “I don’t know what to do here, Jax. I don’t want to push you too far, but if you want me to stay, I will.” He bends down to grab his pants, pulling them on as I think of what to say.

Do I want him to leave? Yes.

Do I want him to stay? Yes.

Fuck, this is what I wanted to avoid, and yet, here we are. Caught smack dab in post-coital weirdness.

If I had any common sense, I’d tell him to leave. Then again, if common sense were lard, most people wouldn’t be able to grease a pan. Including me.

“It’s getting late,” I answer casually, trying to hide the knot tightening in my chest. My mind’s a mess of conflicting thoughts, but I don’t let it show.

But the way he gazes at me, that heat still in his eyes—it’s clear neither of us is ready for this to be over. I can feel the pull between us like a force of nature, impossible to ignore.

“Then I’ll go.”

Damn, he actually looks disappointed! I wasn’t expecting that. I stand to walk him out, feeling my steps slow the closer I get to the door. Just as I reach for it, two things happen at once. My phone dings, and someone knocks.

“It's a little late for a social call,” Pharo says.

“I’m not expecting anyone.” Ignoring my phone, I pull the door open to find a goth sprite standing there, grinning and holding a file folder.

“Am I being served?” What else could it be?

“Sorry, I know it’s late. I texted first, though!”

She’s talking to me, but her dark eyes are on Pharo, sizing him up like a prime cut of meat on sale.

“Hi,” she says to him. “I’m Joey, Jax’s friend.”

“Jax has friends?” Pharo asks skeptically.

“Joey?” I take in her five-foot frame, her short, dark hair pulled into a ponytail high on her head, and her ripped-to-shit concert tee and cargo pants. “You’re a girl?”

“Yeah, what’d you think?” She returns her attention to Pharo with a smirk. “He’s a sharp one, huh?”

Joey practically dances into my apartment, and Pharo seems intrigued and amused. I get the feeling neither of them is leaving too soon. “What are you doing here?”

“I have some… uh…” She gives Pharo an assessing look and finishes, “confidential information I wanted to give you in person.”

Nothing makes sense, and I’m starting to get dizzy from trying to piece the puzzle together. “The fuck did you come from? And how’d you find out where I live?” It’s not listed publicly.

Joey shoots me a disbelieving look. “Are you serious? Come on, Jaxy. It’s me you’re talking to. And for your info, I don’t live far. Just past Asheville.”

“Jaxy,” Pharo echoes, trying the name on for size with a grin.

“No,” I warn him. “Double fucking no. In fact, weren't you just leaving?”

“I’m just dropping this off, if you wanna join me for a late snack somewhere,” Joey offers him.

Un-fucking-believeable! She’s been here two minutes and she’s already hitting on my man! I mean, he’s not mine, per se, but he sure as shit isn’t hers!

“Pharo, goodnight. Joey, you’re staying. We need to talk.”

Pharo still looks amused, but he nods and catches my chin in his grip. “Goodnight, Jaxy.”

Fucker. He appears to be debating whether he should kiss me or not, but fuck that. Not with an audience. And not a last-kiss-goodbye like I’m some first date he’s dropping off at his parents’ doorstep. Fuck no to both.

Pulling out of his grasp, I practically shoved him out the door. “Thanks for stopping by,” I call out as he makes his way down the hall, his laugh echoing off the walls.

Shutting the door a bit harder than necessary, I turn my attention to the stalker. “This better be good if you tracked me down. We’re supposed to have an understanding. No home addresses, no personal details, and no meet and greets!”

“Funny, I don’t remember signing that contract.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but there’s a smugness to it, like she’s enjoying pushing my buttons.

I take a step closer, crossing my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up at my door uninvited.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind.” She takes a deliberate step forward, not intimidated by my glare. “Wait till you see what I’ve got. It’s good,” she stresses, baiting me.

“Spill,” I say, holding out my hand for the manila folder.

“First, let’s discuss your guest.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Was that King Tut, the suspect in question?”

Damn her for spying on my desktop remotely. “Yeah, that was him.”

“Annnnd, I’m guessing he stopped by for some late-night entertainment?” Joey clicks her tongue. “Sleeping with the enemy, Jaxy?”

“He’s not the enemy.” Anymore. “And I’m not Jaxy!”

“Man, I wouldn’t mind cracking his password,” she says as she cracks her knuckles loudly. “I’d infiltrate his hard drive and encrypt his files in a heartbeat.”

Ew, she makes that sound fucking gross. “Good luck getting past his firewall.”

“Yeah, well, King Tut just accepted a job offer for that supersecret spy-ops outfit he works for. Did he tell you that? We’re talking a big promotion, here. Like higher ups, expense account, in so deep you can’t get out kinda stuff.”

Motherfucker! My ass burns and not because Pharo just fucked me. He’s a goddamn liar! Which I already knew, but still. I thought…

What, Jax? You thought just because he fucked you, he was going to come clean about everything and do a total one-eighty? Not fucking likely.

“Let me see that file.” Joey hands it over, and I scan the documents. She could have gotten busted big time for this info. “How’d you find this?”

“I set an alert on his name, and it dinged today. Luck of the Irish.”

I glance at her, sizing her up. “Are you Irish?”

“No,” she says cheekily, “But I am lucky.”

The contract states that he was offered a position as head of transportation and flight training. The six-figure salary is on the higher end. I don’t see his signature on it, but that might just be a formality because of the distance. Only a fool would turn down an offer like this.

Only a fool would fuck a guy he doesn’t trust after holding out for six years.

“Well, thanks for stopping by. It’s getting late. Next time, just send a message. No need to come all the way over here.”

She tilts her head slightly, a slow, deliberate grin curling her lips. “Maybe I just wanted to see you. Not everything has to be a transaction, you know.”

Great, just what I need. Another friend.

“By the way, Pharo is off limits, so don’t go snooping or plan on paying him a visit like this.”

Joey gives me a superior, all-knowing look as she brushes past me. “You mean he’s already taken? Message received, Jaxy.”

CHAPTER 22

JAX

I stare at the empty couch where Pharo bent me over last night. Every line from that document tolls in my mind, loud as a bell.

We formally offer you the position of Head of Transportation and Flight Training.

His absence is louder than any argument we could’ve had face-to-face, and the silence in my apartment is deafening.

All this anger and hurt are swirling inside me, demanding to be released, but I don’t know where to start. I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I thought we were building something. I thought the last few weeks meant something. The moments we shared, the quiet ones where he let down his walls, when we went to dinner and talked about anything and everything, and the understanding we reached in Brewer’s office... I thought he meant it. But that was before I found out he’s taking a six-figure job halfway across the world, like he’s throwing away everything we had. Throwing me away like I’m nothing.

Again.

Did all of that mean nothing? Did last night mean nothing?

I press my fingers to my forehead, trying to fight off the headache building behind my eyes. This isn't just about him taking the job. It's about what that job means—about the fact that he never even gave me the courtesy of a heads up. That this thing we were doing was never more than an afterthought.

A quick fuck between deployments to take the edge off. Maybe his idea of a farewell party.

A farewell fuck.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I was fooling myself. But now I can’t help but wonder if it was all just a game to him. And if it was, then I guess the joke’s on me.

I don’t know what hurts more. The fact that I feel used and discarded? Or that I won’t be seeing him again anytime soon.

Fuck… These are the reasons I kept him at arm’s length in the first place. I knew this shit would happen, and I’ve obviously felt this way about him all along, masked by hurt, fear, insecurity, and guilt.

I didn’t even get a chance to say what I needed to say.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my palm against the countertop. I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to get tangled up in him, to let him get so close, to start seeing a future that now feels like a joke.

I could’ve been prepared for this. I could’ve braced myself if I knew it was coming. But instead, I’m standing here, picking up the pieces of something I thought was real.

And now... I’m just trying to make sense of it, of him, of what the hell I was supposed to do with all the feelings I let myself have.

I’m so fucking stupid.

I drag my hands down my face, letting out a long breath, trying to steady myself. I need to move. I need to get out of this apartment before I do something stupid like text him or—no, I can’t do that. That’s not going to change anything.

I grab my jacket and step out the door, feeling the humid air hit my face like a slap, but I’m still burning up inside. The heat is no match for the fire that’s raging in my chest.

The tavern smells like stale beer and fried food, but right now, it’s exactly what I need. I don’t want to go home, not yet. Not while the hurt is still choking me, tightening its grip with every thought of Pharo and his sudden, cold departure.

The place is busy serving the lunch crowd, but I’m not here to eat. I take a seat at the far end of the bar, ordering a whiskey straight. I don’t want to waste time on beer. I need something stronger to burn away this ache that’s settling deep in my gut.

The bartender slides the glass in front of me, his eyes lingering just a bit too long, but I don’t care. He knows me, and seeing me here in the middle of the day, without the Bitches, drinking hard liquor, worries him. I grab it without a word, the amber liquid swirling as I bring it to my lips. The burn in my throat is nothing compared to the fire inside me. I down the shot in one go, slamming the empty glass onto the counter with a dull thud.

“Another,” I grunt, not bothering to glance up.

The bartender hesitates, but he pours the drink anyway, and I take it gratefully, not even letting it breathe before I swallow it down, this time a little slower. The warmth spreads through me, loosening something in my chest that’s been locked tight for too long.

Six fucking years too long.

I lean back in my seat, letting my eyes close for a moment. I don’t care that the world is spinning a little now. I don’t care that my mind is clouded, that my thoughts are starting to slow down and blur together. I just want to stop feeling this way.

Used.

Insignificant.

Humiliated.

Because I hoped for something more. Something real. What a fool I am.

God, I don’t know who I’m more disgusted with—him or myself.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Pharo’s face. The way he looked at me when he knocked on my door, like he was holding his heart in his hands. The way he touched me, like he couldn’t get enough. I’ve been blind, thinking that maybe—just maybe—there was something real between us. Something that wouldn’t end like this.

I need to forget. I need to forget the way he made me feel, like I was the only person in the world who mattered to him. And now? He’s gone. And I’m still here, mourning the loss of something that was never mine to begin with.

Another shot to drown out the ache in my chest.

“Maybe I’ll just keep this up all night,” I mutter to no one in particular. It feels like I’m speaking through molasses. “Who needs clarity, anyway?”

The bartender raises an eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut, probably used to the ramblings of a man who’s had one too many.

But it doesn’t matter. I keep drinking. One shot after another, until the world around me feels like a distant blur, and the only thing that’s real is the bitter taste in my mouth and the numbing silence inside. I don’t care. I just need the hurt to stop.

The jukebox starts playing in the background, a sad, old tune that seems to seep right into my soul. Perfect. Just what I need. I lean back against the bar, closing my eyes and letting the music carry me somewhere far away, somewhere where Pharo and his damn job offer don’t exist, where I’m not left here alone with nothing but the mess he left behind.

* * *

Sitting in this circle is the last place I feel like being today. And I’d have avoided it like the plague except that my phone’s been buzzing off the hook all day with messages from the Bitches making sure I’d show up today. They even resorted to threats.

I can only guess that Pharo gave someone a heads-up that I was going through something. Fucking fucker.

He doesn’t have the right to look out for me after the shit he pulled. After all, he’s the one constantly hurting me! If not for him, I’d be fine. Mostly.

West and Brandt file in, laughing and joking together, and their easy camaraderie lights the spark of anger simmering inside me all day. I’m hungover from yesterday’s whiskey marathon and slept for shit last night.

West makes the mistake of getting up in my face. “Whatever it is, Jax, a hug will make it better. Isn’t that what friends are for?”

My scowl is a warning, and his laugh is the last straw. I kick his leg, his good one, sending him stumbling backward into Brandt’s arms. Great, now they’re both pissed at me.

I could’ve just stayed the fuck home!

“I’m sorry I didn’t acknowledge whatever dramatic crisis you’re imagining today,” West bitches.

Thankfully, most of the guys keep their distance, giving me enough space to stew in my pissed-off mood. I can feel the hostility crawling up my spine, making it impossible to sit still. The last thing I want right now is to be surrounded by these people.

Riggs starts the meeting, his voice pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I hear him, but it doesn’t reach me—just sound, empty and distant.

Rhett kicks off the sharing, but I barely register it. I can see his mouth moving, but none of it hits me. Whatever he’s bitching about? I couldn’t care less.

Instead, I’m stuck replaying our first kiss. The nauseous fluttering in my stomach was so new, so different, from anything I’ve ever felt before with anyone else. How could he show up the other night acting like we had the rest of our lives ahead of us to build a future together, like he wasn’t breaking something between us when he made the decision to accept that job?

I drag my fingers through my hair, feeling the frustration tighten in my chest, but I know better than to let it show. This is the kind of stuff you keep buried.

The room feels suffocating. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to listen to all this pointless crap. I just want to throw back another drink and forget about everything for a while longer.

I catch Riggs’ eyes. He’s got that look—like he knows I’m not really here. Like he can see through my bullshit. I give him a tight, forced smile, but it’s clear he’s not buying it.

Rhett’s voice keeps droning on, but it’s all lost on me, a blur of noise I can’t focus on. All I can think about is how much I hate Pharo right now. How I hate him for making me feel like a fucking fool.

Someone else speaks up, and I’m barely aware of it, too deep in my head to care. It’s like I’m trapped in my own mind, circling the same damn thoughts over and over. Pharo. His decision. The way everything between us seemed like it was finally coming together—until it wasn’t.

My fingers drum furiously on my thigh, my way of grounding myself, but it’s not working. I can feel the anger, the hurt, the frustration rising like a tidal wave, and it feels like it’s swallowing me whole.

“Jax?”

I snap back to reality, realizing everyone’s eyes are on me. Riggs is staring at me, concern etched into his face. He knows something’s up.

“Yeah?” I mumble, trying to sound like I’m here, even though I’m not.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s an edge to it.

“Sure,” I reply quickly, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine.”

Riggs doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t push it either. He just nods, but I can tell he’s not buying my act.

I feel like I’m suffocating in this room, surrounded by people who don’t get it. Who doesn’t get me. I wish I could just leave, wish I could disappear into something that would numb all of this. All the confusion, the hurt, the anger I’m holding inside.

And then that lying motherfucker walks in and things go from bad to worse.

“Sorry I’m late,” Pharo apologizes. “I got held up.”

Yeah, packing up and making plans to leave town. For good. I’m surprised he’s even still here.

Oh, fuck no. There’re two empty seats left, and this asshole is gonna pick the one next to me.

“Hey,” he whispers, nudging me to get my attention. “I messaged you, but you didn’t respond. You still playing hard to get?”

It’s like he’s oblivious to the time bomb ticking inside me.

“I don’t mind,” he continues, unaware that his life is in jeopardy. “I’m starting to enjoy your little games, Jaxy.”

I swear to Christ, if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.

“What’s your problem?” he hisses, appearing confused. Pharo has no idea I know about his betrayal. Maybe he thinks if he continues to play the adoring beau, I’ll give up my ass once more before he skips town.

“Let’s play the fuck off game. You go first,” I snap, glaring sideways at him.

“Are you fucking kidding me? We’re back to this shit again? Fuck you, Jax.”

“You can’t unfuck what has been fucked.”

He chuffs, like it’s funny, but it’s not. “The human body has seven trillion nerves,” Pharo explains, “and some people manage to get on every fucking one of them.”

He glares at me, and the old familiar rivalry is in full swing.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms with a deliberate nonchalance, even though I can feel the heat of his glare burning into me. “Guess I must be a master then,” I say with a smirk, playing it off like I’m unbothered. “You’ve definitely been working overtime trying to get under my skin.”

Pharo’s eyes narrow, the sharpness in his gaze becoming more intense. “Oh, you think so?” His voice drops, low and steady, like he’s not only trying to get under my skin but trying to peel it back, layer by layer.

I don't back down, letting the silence stretch between us. “Why are you even here? Thought you’d be halfway to Egypt by now.”

“What? Why would I…”

We’ve drawn the attention of Riggs and the rest of the group, who are now wholly focused on our escalating discussion. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Is there something you’d like to share with the group?”

Pharo shoots up, bristling with anger. “Yeah. Jax seems to think I’m guilty of something I’m almost positive I didn’t do. I’d like to know what the fuck his problem is.”

“How is this new?” Stiles complains.

“Well?” Pharo snaps, pushing me to react.

“Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down.” I’m not doing this here with him.

“Jax,” Riggs prods. “Do you need to share?”

I’ve absolutely fucking have had it with this shit! “No, what I need is to get the fuck out of here.”

Grabbing my jacket, I shoot to my feet, but Pharo blocks me. He makes the unforgivable mistake of putting his hands on my chest to push me back.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what I did.”

I freeze for a second, his hands on my chest like an electric shock, my heart pounding a little too loud in my ears. I want to shove him off, but something about the way he stares at me—eyes searching, determined—stops me.

I take a step back, pushing his hands away with a force that surprises both of us. My jaw clenches as I meet his gaze, trying to hold my ground, but the anger inside me is rising too fast to keep it contained.

“Don't ever lay a hand on me again,” I growl, my voice low and sharp, warning him without leaving room for argument.

Pharo doesn’t back off. “You’re not leaving until you explain why you’re acting like this. What the hell’s going on with you, Jax? I thought we were... better than this.”

Better than this? I’ll fucking kill him. My fists ball at my sides, the anger mixing with something else—a kind of vulnerability I’m not used to feeling, not when it comes to him.

“What did you think, huh?” I snap, voice tight. “That you could apologize, buy me a burger, cry your fucking eyes out on my couch, and take advantage of me, and then just turn around and walk the fuck out? Was I not supposed to care? Maybe you should’ve considered that before you shoved your dick in my mouth.”

The Bitches gasp, chatter running rampant. Too bad they didn’t bring popcorn for the free show they’re getting today.

“Walk out?” Pharo seems confused. “I asked you if you wanted me to stay, but you told me to leave. I’m not going anywhere, Jax. I’m right here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m out.” As I take a step forward, Pharo grabs my arm, pulling me back, and the rubber band that’s been binding my anger snaps. I curl my hand into a fist, pull it back, and strike out, nailing him square in his stupid, perfectly cut jaw. His head snaps back with the crunch, and the sound is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard all day.

“Fuck,” McCormick grumbles, “they broke the group rule of no fighting.”

“It’s been a long time coming,” Nash points out.

Nobody tries to stop me as I storm out.

CHAPTER 23

JAX

I take the bend going seventy, flirting with the possibility of skidding right off this mountain. The tires squeal as they grip the asphalt, the sharp scent of burnt rubber in the air. My heart races faster than the engine, adrenaline pulsing through my veins like a drug. Every inch of me is alive in the danger of it, the control slipping through my fingers like sand. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

It’s the chaos I crave, the risk. Because, in a way, it feels like it’s the only thing I can control right now.

The road twists up ahead, a sharp curve with no guardrails, just the drop-off of the mountain staring me down. I can almost hear my breath in my ears, a mix of thrill and fear that’s almost intoxicating.

The world is nothing but a blur of trees and jagged rock. It would be so easy to let go—let the world pull me into the abyss.

Behind me, the roar of another bike threatens to overtake me.

I know without having to turn around that it’s Pharo. His Triumph Rocket is a lot faster than my Indian. I push the bike faster, not giving him an inch. But I know it won’t be long before he’s right on top of me. He’s not going to let up. Neither of us will.

Can things get any worse?

Thunder cracks across the darkening sky, and the heavens open up with a downpour.

“That was rhetorical,” I scream into the wind, “not a fucking challenge!”

The rain comes down in sheets, instantly soaking me to the bone. I squint through the downpour, trying to focus on the road ahead, but the world’s gone blurry, the blacktop slick and treacherous. I can’t even hear myself think over the roar of the storm and the pounding rain.

“Perfect timing, really,” I mutter, gripping the handlebars tighter, leaning forward as the bike fights the elements. The wind’s picking up, throwing the rain sideways, stinging my face. The sky flashes with lightning, casting everything in an eerie, yellow light. And just when I think it can't get worse, the bike behind me revs up, its engine growling louder as it refuses to be left behind.

“Damn it,” I grunt, kicking the bike into a higher gear. My hands are starting to slip on the handlebars, the leather gloves no match for the soaking wet grips. I’ve been through some shit in my time, but riding through a storm with some psycho tailing me on a mountain road at seventy miles per hour? This is a whole new level of crazy.

Pharo pulls up beside me, keeping pace. “Pull the fuck over or I’ll crash both of us into the fucking mountain,” he screams over the driving wind and rain. His face is soaked and he looks fucking pissed.

I pull ahead, ignoring his threat, and he catches up. “I swear to fucking Christ, Jax. Pull the fuck over!”

I slow the bike, because although I want him to die today, I don’t want to die with him.

The wind bites at my skin, the rain stinging like needles, but it’s nothing compared to the pulse of adrenaline pumping through my veins. I can’t outrun him forever. I don’t want to outrun him forever. I want him to feel what it’s like to be just a little bit closer to the edge. To know the consequences of his own decisions.

I slow down, just enough to give him a chance. Not because I want him to win, but because I’m done with the chase.

I want to see if he’s going to follow me straight into hell.

And then, as if we’re both caught in some sick, twisted game of fate, I make my move. I drop the throttle, not enough to get away, but enough to let him know he’s not in control. Not anymore.

He pulls beside me. For a second, I feel like we’re two wild animals in a death-match, the bikes growling beneath us, the storm above us, and the mountain roads dropping away into the abyss.

The cliffside opens up to the scenic overlook, and I can see the winding road ahead fading into the fog.

I barely avoid the rocks lining the edge of the road, my foot scraping against the gravel, and everything goes still. The only thing I can hear is the pounding of the rain, the thunder rolling across the sky, and the pulse of my heartbeat in my ears.

Pharo’s already pulled his bike to a stop at the edge. He doesn’t glance back, but I can see the silhouette of his body against the darkening sky. He’s waiting, like he’s daring me to come closer. So sure that I’ll come to him.

My tires scream as I brake hard to a stop just a few feet behind him, gravel scattering under my wheels.

He turns to look at me then, his face illuminated by the flashing storm above. His gaze is unreadable, dark, and intense. The rain clings to his skin, making his hair slick against his forehead, but he doesn’t move—just stands there, watching me.

I dismount, the roar of the engine dying down as I step off the bike, my legs unsteady beneath me. I’m soaked through, the wind biting into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire still burning in my chest.

He takes a step toward me, his eyes flicking between me and the road behind us. We’re both silent, the unspoken but familiar strain between us, the chaos of everything that’s led us here.

I take a slow step toward him, matching his gaze with equal intensity, not backing down.

“Done running?” he finally asks, voice low and gritty, the storm still howling around us.

“No,” I reply, my voice thick with defiance. “Not even close.”

“You crazy fucking bastard! You could have died. You almost killed us both.”

“Not yet, I haven’t.” I throw another punch, but Pharo blocks my fist, grabbing my hand in a vice-like grip and squeezing the bones to dust. “Let go of me,” I hiss, jerking my arm away, but Pharo tightens his hold, his fingers digging into my skin.

“Not until you stop running away,” he snaps, his voice low but insistent, the intensity in his eyes matching the grip he has on me. “You don’t get to walk away from this without talking about it. Not again.”

I feel the heat rising in my chest, the frustration boiling over, my hands itching to push him away. My chest heaves, and I’m trying to keep my composure, but it's slipping fast. “You really think I owe you an explanation?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I curse myself for it.

“I can’t keep doing this, Pharo. I can’t keep pretending.”

“Pretending?” he shouts. “That shit was real, Jaxon. For both of us. Neither of us was pretending.”

“Pretending I don’t care,” I explain. The confession costs me a huge chunk of self-respect, but I don’t care anymore. I just want this nightmare to end.

Pharo's face softens, just a fraction, but it feels huge. The walls I’ve been holding up against him—the anger, the hurt, the betrayal—are slipping. I don’t know if I want them to or not.

What the fuck is it about this guy? Why can’t I just walk away once and for all?

“I didn’t leave you, Jax,” he says quietly, his hand still hovering in the space between us like he’s unsure whether to reach out again. “I never wanted to leave you. I don’t know what you think I did, or what changed since I last saw you, but nothing’s changed for me. I didn’t do anything to hurt you.”

I shake my head, the accusation feeling like sandpaper against my tongue. “But you did. You chose to walk away. Accept the job promotion full-time. You made that choice. And now I’m left here trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the crap you left behind.”

I want to step back. I want to leave. I want to walk away from this and never look back, but I can’t. Not when he’s standing there, gazing at me like he cares. Like maybe this mess hasn’t been just mine to deal with.

Pharo appears shocked. “How’d you find out about that?” He shakes his head, scrubbing rain from his face. “You know what? It doesn't matter. I shouldn’t be surprised. But you got it wrong. I didn’t take the job. I turned it down.”

Now it’s my turn to be shocked. “You did?”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough that it still feels like there’s a gulf between us.

Pharo steps closer, his presence dominating the space between us. The rain continues to pour, but I can’t seem to focus on anything other than the fact that he’s standing in front of me, his eyes darker than the storm swirling above.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice rough from the storm and something else—something like frustration. “I turned it down.” His jaw clenches, and he runs a hand through his wet hair. “I thought about it, you know? But... it wasn’t the right move. Not for me.”

I stand frozen for a moment, reality not quite sinking in. This whole time, I’d been convinced he was leaving—thinking he had already made his decision. That the job overseas was the thing that was gonna tear us apart, that I was losing him for good.

“God,” I mutter, taking a step back, shaking my head, trying to process this. “I’ve been acting like a fucking idiot, haven’t I?”

“Common sense isn’t a flower that grows in everyone’s garden,” he teases with a smirk that I shouldn’t find sexy, considering I very recently wanted to yeet him over the side of the mountain. “It’s not just you, Jax,” he says quietly. “I’ve been... I’ve been a mess too. I didn’t want to drag you into anything with my job. But I’ve realized that maybe I’m already too deep with you. I can’t walk away, and I hate you just a little for making me care.”

He cares? How much, I wonder. “Not everything’s about you, Pharo.”

He grins, that damn knowing grin that gets under my skin. “Sure it is. You’re just pretending it’s not.”

I want to smack that grin off his face, but I know better. That’ll only make him want me more. Instead, I breathe out a long, controlled sigh, doing my best to keep the walls up.

“So,” I say, my voice barely a whisper now, “what does that mean for us? Are you... Are you staying?”

Pharo stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to make a decision in real time. His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t speak. It’s as if he’s weighing every possible answer, trying to figure out if he can say the right thing this time.

Finally, he steps closer again, and I feel the heat of his body even through the cold rain. “It means I’m still here, Jax. And maybe... I’m ready to figure this out. All of it.”

Whatever happens next, I know we’re facing it together. Pharo’s proving that to me. I have to take a leap of faith and meet him halfway. “Tell the truth, did you stay because you want to pursue the garage dream?”

“The garage isn’t the only dream I want to pursue, Jax.” He ghosts his wet lips over mine, just a breath. “You gonna let me fuck you again?”

“Right now?” I ask, knowing that’s not what he meant.

“Whenever. Wherever. I always want you, Jaxy.”

“No,” I correct, nipping his bottom lip as punishment. “I said we’re not doing that.”

I hate his grin.

I hate the twinkle in his gorgeous eyes.

I hate that he thinks he’s got me right where he wants me.

And I hate that he knows I’d fuck him right here, right now, without hesitation.

His blunt nails dig into my jaw as he takes hold of me, pulling me close. His warm breath puffs in a cloud over my lips, and all around us, the rain continues to fall, soaking us to the bone.

“You’re always gonna hate me a little bit, aren’t you?” Pharo asks with a hint of amusement.

“Thought you said it makes the sex better.”

“Agreed.” Pharo nips my lips, sucking the bottom one into his mouth. “In fact, what do you say we go work off a little of that hate right now?”

I say, fuck yes. “I guess I can throw you a bone, if you beg.”

Pharo turns my head, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, “Don’t get too comfortable, Jax. I may have stayed, but that doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you.”

I smirk, leaning in just enough to tease him, my pulse kicking up. “Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

CHAPTER 24

JAX

Despite my cold, wet clothes sticking to me like a second skin, I’m burning with need for this… Man? Asswipe? Nemesis?

Whatever the hell he is, he’s got me twisted in ways I never saw coming. Every inch of my skin feels electric when he’s near, but damn if I’ll ever admit it to him. I can barely stand the sight of him one moment, and the next, I want to drag him into the nearest corner and show him just how wrong we both are for each other.

So when Pharo suggests stopping at a roadside inn instead of riding back to town in the rain, I jump at the idea.

We roll up to the inn’s shabby parking lot, the neon sign flickering weakly above us, casting an eerie glow on the cracked pavement. Pharo looks at me, and I can see the same thought run through his mind—this place is a mess. But there’s a mischievous spark in his eyes, like he’s enjoying the absurdity of it. Without a backward glance, Pharo kills the engine, and we head inside.

The moment we step into the lobby, I almost laugh out loud. The decor is a bizarre mix of mid-century kitsch and random animal taxidermy. There’s a giant moose head hanging over the check-in desk, its glass eyes staring down at us like it's judging our life choices. The carpet is this awful shade of orange that looks like something straight out of a bad 70s sitcom, and the wallpaper... Well, I don’t even know how to describe it. It looks like someone threw up a bunch of tropical patterns and then covered them in glitter.

The innkeeper glances up at us from behind the desk, a tired old man with a smile that seems more like a grimace. He hands over the key wordlessly, sizing us up like we might be the weirdest guests he's had all week.

I glance at Pharo, raising an eyebrow. “This place looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie,” I say, my voice laced with amusement.

I can't help but laugh when I notice the odd shapes of the various stuffed animals—there’s a bear in the corner that seems far too friendly, and a bobcat staring at me like it’s about to pounce.

“Dude,” he exhales, “I’ve seen that movie, and it doesn’t end well for anyone.”

“We’re gonna need therapy after this,” I mutter as Pharo grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Hope you're not planning on making it weird in here.”

Pharo scoffs, leaning against the counter as he takes the key from the innkeeper. “Weirder than this?” He gestures to the walls laden with dead animals.

I shake my head as we head toward our room, dodging another weirdly positioned owl that seems to be eyeing me suspiciously from the hallway.

He gives me a wicked grin. “I’ve got to admit, this place has character. Maybe I should consider a remodel at home.”

Once inside the room, things don't improve much. There’s a paisley bedspread on the bed, and the curtains are the most garish shade of purple. The bathroom light flickers when I turn it on, and the mirror's so old that the reflection is kind of fuzzy. It’s like stepping back into some sort of time warp.

Pharo steps inside, tossing his jacket on the chair. “Well, at least it’s dry. That counts for something, right?”

I turn to peer at him, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “If by ‘something’ you mean an episode of terrible design, then sure. We’re definitely winning.”

He chuckles, stepping further into the room. “Don’t knock it 'til you’ve had a nap on that bed. It’s practically a vintage experience.”

I shake my head but can't stop laughing. “Yeah, I’ll take my chances with the weird taxidermy out there before I lie down on that. I’m pretty sure I saw that featured on the CDC’s website as a cautionary tale.”

“We could do it against the wall again, just to be safe,” he suggests, removing his sopping shirt.

Heat blooms in my belly, remembering the way he spread me open and ate my ass. Maybe if we skip this talking bullshit and get right to the sex, things won’t feel so weird.

I sidestep him, moving into the bathroom as I remove my shirt. “A hot shower would feel like heaven right now.”

When I turn the knob, an unholy sound rumbles from inside the wall, and the shower head vibrates like it’s trying to have a meltdown. I jump back, startled, my heart racing. A spurt of water shoots out, cold as ice, before it sputters into a dribble.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath, but then I hear Pharo's voice from the other room, laughing quietly.

“Maybe it’s a haunted shower,” he teases, his voice muffled by the walls. “You know, those ghostly plumbing spirits who haunt run-down inns.”

I scowl at the shower, glaring at the nozzle like it’s personally insulted me. “Why, God? Why are you fucking with me like this?”

Pharo creeps up behind me, in nothing but black briefs. His teasing voice caresses my ear, making me shiver. “Life is a lot like my dick. Short until it gets hard, and then it seems very long. Is your day feeling very long, Jax?”

Fuck. How does he do that? How does he come off so smooth and make everything about his dick? Did he go to some class for that—How to be a player 101?

I roll my eyes, but there's no hiding the grin that forms at the corner of my mouth. Despite the absurdity of the situation, I kind of like that we’re both embracing the ridiculousness of it all. “You have no idea how long, Pharo.”

Finally, after a few more frustrated twists of the knob, the water bursts to life. Peeling off my wet pants, I step under the warm spray and breathe out a sigh of relief.

I lean my head back, letting the warm water soothe my stiff muscles, despite the weirdness of this place. Sometimes, it’s the most messed-up situations that make you laugh the hardest.

If we’d ended up at a swank hotel in a suite with a plush bed and soft robes, I’d probably feel even more nervous. This hillbilly hideaway from hell? Yeah, we could deal with this. It takes the emphasis off of us.

Pharo steps into the tiny stall, crowding me from behind. He reaches over me to adjust the shower head to accommodate his towering height. His hard cock pushes against my ass, and I realize we’re at the perfect height to fuck standing up.

He wraps his arm around my chest, pulling me close. “It makes sense to share. Who knows how long the hot water will last.”

He has a point.

The only bar of soap in the shower has already been opened and used, so that’s out of the question. I reach for the shampoo, pretending it’s an acceptable substitute. Pharo takes the bottle from me, and while I’m soaping my chest and belly, I feel his fingers in my hair. He massages my scalp with soft strokes and works my hair into a sudsy lather. His hands shape my spiky ends into an exaggerated mohawk.

“Have I ever told you how much I like your hair?”

“Uh, no? Not sure you’ve ever given me a compliment of any kind.”

“How rude of me.” He breathes over my ear, and I shiver and press back against his solid chest. “I’ve thought of them many times in my head.” The gentle scratching over my scalp has me hypnotized. “I’ve thought about your tight ass, how perfectly round it is. I’ve thought about your talent at knitting beanies,” he chuckles. “And I’ve admired your skills at breaking and entering.”

Are we flirting? Fuck, this feels stranger than the decor in the lobby.

“Come on, Jaxy, play along,” Pharo urges, nipping the shell of my ear.

Letting my eyelids drift closed, I rest my head against his chest and give myself over to his magical hands. “I’ve noticed your eyes. They’re… unique.”

“My eyes? Is that all?”

“And that little smirky-smirk you do. It feels… dangerous.”

Pharo’s fingers pause for a split second, and I can practically feel the grin spread across his face. “Dangerous, huh? Guess I’ll have to keep you on your toes then.” His voice drops an octave, and I feel a flicker of heat flare up.

“Is that a threat, or are you just that good at flattery?” I reply, trying to sound casual, but I can already tell I’m losing the fight against whatever this is between us.

“You’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to warm my ear. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. This could be dangerous for both of us.”

It already is. I’m in danger of realizing I actually like Pharo.

I shiver involuntarily, and for the briefest of moments, I want to lean into him even more, to feel that smirk against my skin and let myself get swept up in whatever this magnetic pull is. “Funny,” I say, my voice a little tighter than I intended, “I was thinking the same thing.”

His hands resume their work, but now they feel like they’re doing more than just relaxing me. They’re... claiming. His fingers glide over my skin like he’s memorizing every inch, marking me in a way that feels intentional. His touch is deliberate, lingering in places that are too personal, too close.

But hell if I don’t want more of it.

“Jaxy…” His voice is a low whisper now, teasing, coaxing. “What’s it going to be?”

I open my eyes and glance back over my shoulder, meeting his gaze—his piercing, dangerous gaze—and for the first time, I don’t feel like I need to hold back. “I don't know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I sure as hell want to find out.”

CHAPTER 25

PHARO

As soon as Jax gives me the green light, I’m going to push inside his tight ass and pound the ever-loving shit out of him. And I won’t stop until he screams so loud that every occupant in this shitty-ass motel hears him.

I’m done running.

I’m done taking a backseat to my life while I watch it pass me by.

Whatever this is between us, I’m here for it. I want it. And I’m taking it.

And not just the sex and the promises. Jax and I have some long conversations ahead of us, tough ones, but I’m committed to being there for every one of them.

He’s going to fight me tooth and nail every step of the way. I expect no less from him. In fact, I look forward to it. But if he ever tries to run again, I’ll chase him. If he tries to hide, I will find him, and I will drag his ass back home, and sit on him, literally sit on his fucking ass, until he understands that I’m not going anywhere, and neither is he.

We’re in this fucked up chaotic thing called life together. I let him slip away from me once, and just when I thought we had a future together, I almost lost him again.

Never again will I make that mistake.

“I chased you up a mountain in a goddamn storm and saved you from killing yourself. How are you gonna thank me?”

“Let me guess,” he says with his signature snark. “You think me giving up my ass is a reward.”

“Don’t you? Just think what would have happened to your precious bike if you drove it over the side of the mountain. That at least deserves a blow job.”

“And I guess I should thank you for springing for these fancy digs as well?” His question is well-timed. The hot water is running out fast.

“It’s the very least you can do. I wouldn’t bring just anyone here. This place is special.” Reaching around him, I shut off the water and then squeeze him in my arms, tweaking his nipple until he flinches. “Just like you.”

Jax snorts, and though I can’t see his smile, I can hear it in his voice. “How many guys fall for that bullshit?”

Grabbing his hips, I spin him to face me, giving him a look that conveys how serious I am. “I’ve never told another person they were special. Ever, Jaxon. I’m blunt and honest to a fault when it comes to people I sleep with, even if it comes off as insensitive or crass. So when I tell you I think you’re wicked smart, hot as fuck, intriguing, and a pain in my fucking ass, you can bet I’m telling you the truth.”

Jax’s throat slides, and I can tell he’s carefully thinking it over.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable as he stares back at me, the intensity between us palpable. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, like he’s caught between disbelief and something else—something deeper, more vulnerable. After a beat, he exhales sharply, his gaze never leaving mine.

“I guess that’s the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” His lips curl into a small, reluctant smile, and there’s a hint of appreciation in his eyes, mixed with an edge of uncertainty. He’s not sure whether to take me at face value or if I’m just messing with him, but I’m not backing down. “You’re not as easy to shake off as I thought,” he adds, tracing the hieroglyphics tattooed on my forearm.

It’s not the kind of compliment you’d frame on a wall, but coming from Jax, it feels like a trophy. He’s never been one for sweet words, the kind that make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. So, hearing this from him? It’s a fucking victory. I don’t even know if he realizes it, but that little piece of praise is more meaningful than anything else I’ve heard in a long time.

“Come on, let’s dry off and go inspect the bed for insects.”

“That has to be the most creative line I’ve ever heard to get me in bed with you.”

His damp skin, inked and scarred, calls to me. Not giving Jax the chance to overthink, I reach for him, pulling him closer. His warm body presses against mine, and I can feel the tension in his muscles coiled tight. I take his lips in a heated kiss, sweeping my tongue into his mouth, and Jax responds with a breathy sigh. He melts into me, his body going limp in my arms, like he’s surrendering to everything I’m offering.

His reaction to me satisfies my need to feel desired, to know that I’m not just some fleeting moment to him. The way he melts into me, body and soul, tells me everything I need to know—he’s here, fully, just as I am. His hands, pulling me closer, are a quiet confession, a wordless promise. Every shudder, every sigh against my lips confirms that we’re both losing ourselves in this, and I want nothing more than to drown in it with him.

This is how it should have been six years ago. This is what I used to fantasize about when I lay in my cot and beat off to the idea of him and me.

“Jax,” I pause, panting for breath, “I wanna fuck you so bad, but we didn’t come prepared.” Neither of us has a condom or lube.

His eyes flutter open, breaking through the fog of the kiss. He blinks, trying to shake off the haze, and his lips part slightly as he catches his breath. Jax’s gaze meets mine—intense, raw—and I can see everything in the way he looks at me.

“Fuck it. I always test negative. Is there a reason you need them?”

“No, I’m good without. But the lube?”

His expression falters, his disappointment palpable. “If you didn’t have that ridiculous horse cock, I maybe could take it, but…”

A chuckle curves my lips. “Thanks?” I’ve never cursed my size before, until right fucking now. “Let me show you how good it can be without penetration.”

Dropping to my knees, I suck his engorged cockhead between my lips, licking around the head. I suck hard, drawing out a drop of salty liquid, and Jax hisses, gazing down on me with hooded eyes. He takes my head in his hands and guides my mouth along his shaft.

“That’s so good. Take more.” He follows his breathy plea with a surge of his hips, forcing another two inches down my throat.

Loosening my jaw, I slurp and suck until a steady stream of drool drips from my lips. Jax catches it and smears the moisture over his balls, rolling them between his fingers as I work him over. A constant symphony of moans and whimpers falls from his lips the closer I push him to the edge. When he throws his head back, his face tightening with the act of holding back, I pop off and lick up the mess I created, straightening to my feet.

In an attempt to avoid touching the bed, I lean against the dresser and spread my thighs for him. Jax drops to his knees and eyes my cock with challenge.

“Your turn,” I say, grasping the base of my cock and pointing it in his direction.

Jax doesn’t disappoint. I don’t want to think about how often he practices, but he’s damn good at sucking cock. Just the right amount of suction, his hand in perfect sync with his mouth. His wicked tongue teases my dick in all the right places. Peering up, he shows a flash of vulnerability and so much heat, it hits me like a kick to the balls. Jax doesn’t show emotion often—not like this.

For a second, I forget how to breathe. The world narrows down to the space between us. His eyes search mine, as if he’s asking for forgiveness. Laying himself bare at my feet, asking me to fix everything and rewrite our past. My heart stumbles in my chest, because I know—whatever this is, whatever we are—it’s about to change.

I can’t change what came before this moment, the heartache and bitter guilt and misunderstanding. But our future going forward is going to look a lot different.

Sliding my palm over his cheek, I give him the reassurance he’s silently seeking. “Your mouth is fire. Keep sucking me, JJ. Don’t ever want you to stop.”

His eyes flare with the new nickname. No teasing Jaxy that I appropriated from his friend, Joey. No full-naming him. JJ is different. It’s ours. Just ours. He knows I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t want him to be all mine.

It’s a claiming thing, a mark of possession. A nickname is intimate.

Jax doubles his efforts, trying to swallow as much of my thick shaft as he can fit down his throat. His eyes water and his nose runs, but he doesn’t quit. He’s so fucking hot I can’t stand it. I don’t doubt he’s enjoying this, but nowhere near as much as I am.

“Get up,” I urge, pulling my hips back. He let’s go of the chokehold his mouth has on my cock and swallows, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I grab a towel from the bathroom and lay it over the nasty quilt. Then, I lie back on it and peg Jax with a teasing smirk. “Come here, JJ. Straddle my lap.”

He obeys immediately, climbing over my legs. His hard cock bobs straight up, proudly showing off how turned on he is. The tip is glossy with precum and I swipe it with my thumb and suck the flavor, my eyes gleaming wickedly.

I cup my hands and hold them out. “Spit.”

Jax seems unsure, but then he clears his throat, collecting a mouthful of saliva, and spits into my palms. I add to the puddle and take hold of our cocks, smearing the saliva down both our shafts. The easy glide in my tight fist feels fucking insane against my sensitive skin. When I squeeze up to the tip, Jax’s head spills more pearly drops. He swipes them and slips his thumb between my lips.

I suck gently, keeping my gaze locked with his so he can see how much I love the taste of him. My tongue swirls around his thumb and I can’t help but wish it were his cock in my mouth, instead.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice low.

“I could drink your entire load and still be thirsty for more.”

“Fuck, Pharo. The shit you say.” He glances down to watch my fist work our cocks together and spits again, a thick trail of saliva that tracks from his mouth to our cockheads. “That’s so fucking hot,” he moans, thrusting into my grip.

Increasing my pace, I stroke faster, tighter, until he squeezes his eyes closed and drops his head back, giving himself over to the wave of heat riding him hard.

“I’m close. You close?”

I wish it could go on all night, but yeah, I’m close. I love watching the muscles in his abs ripple beneath his skin, watching the outlines of his ink stretch and distort as he moves with me. His chest rises and falls with each labored breath.

“Almost. Let me watch you come.”

Jax bites his bottom lip, and his face goes lax with pleasure. Thick spurts of cum pulse from his slit, crisscrossing over my knuckles and wrist. The sight pulls my orgasm from me, and I grunt as my abdomen clenches tightly. Waves of electric heat roll through my groin, and my balls draw up tight as they release. The arc that pulses from my cock hits Jax across his chest. He looks down with amusement and smears his hand through the mess, licking it clean.

“I knew you’d taste good. You do everything good,” he says, sounding almost bitter about it, though he’s smiling.

“As long as I do you good, that’s all that matters.”

Jax leans down and sucks my lip between his, taking pulls on it like it’s my cock. “We’re pretty good at that, huh?”

He once told me he liked my eyes. I hope the way I’m gazing at him now makes them appear irresistible.

“Practice makes perfect,” I murmur.

His mouth quirks, not quite a smile, but close. “As much as I’d like to keep practicing, there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in this bed tonight. So if we’re finished, let’s get dressed and hit the road. Rain’s stopped.”

I glance around the room—cracked ceiling, stained walls, a mattress that’s seen better centuries. Yeah, fair point. No matter how much I want to go again, I’ve also got standards, and this place fails on all counts.

CHAPTER 26

PHARO

“...and that’s how Brandt’s mom’s rosebush caught fire,” West finishes explaining.

Brandt rolls his eyes at the absurdity, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

“It was an accident. I swear!” West insists.

“She asked me to leave you at home next time.”

West grins like he’s won the lottery. “Well, that’s a damn shame. My loss, I guess.”

Riggs suggested insisted I not sit beside Jax today, so I chose a seat next to West, which technically puts me next to share. But since I never have before, Riggs skips over me.

“Rhett?” he asks, his voice softening on his partner’s name.

“Hold up. I’ve got something to say.” My fingers rub over the cardboard heart pinned to my chest. It's covered with pink glittery hearts and reads:

“We're not fighting today. Ask us how!”

Jax is wearing an identical one.

He already has specks of pink glitter dotting his face because he touched it, then rubbed his eye. Now he’s blinking like a confused raccoon who just discovered a highlighter.

The Bitches thought this was a suitable punishment for fighting in group.

They weren’t wrong.

All eyes turn to me, including Jax’s. The words press against my throat. My palms sweat. I’ve imagined speaking up a hundred times, but now that it’s real, it feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I’ve been quiet because I didn’t think it mattered,” I say, voice low but steady. “But it does. At least, it does to me.”

Jax’s gaze sharpens—like he’s trying to read between the lines, like he already knows where this is going.

I take a breath and keep going.

“I didn’t come here to make friends, or to talk, or to… feel anything, really.” My voice wavers, just slightly, but I push through it. “But something shifted. And I think I’ve been pretending not to notice.”

A few people glance at each other, but I don’t turn away from Jax. He’s still watching me—still unreadable, except for the way his jaw tightens.

“I keep telling myself it’s easier to stay quiet. Safer.” I swallow hard. “But silence isn’t safety. It’s just another kind of hiding. And Jax and I agreed we weren’t doing that anymore.”

The guys swap looks, maybe guessing what I’m going to say. They have no idea what’s coming.

“Four years ago, I was a different man. A master sergeant. Confident. Not scared of anything. Cocky.”

Jax snorts and murmurs, “Thought you said you were different.”

Ignoring his snark, I take another deep breath for courage and continue. “Jax was under my command, and so was his friend, Jordan.”

Jax’s eyes darken, not just with emotion, but pain.

“He was in a bad place, and his recklessness and my lack of intervention got him killed. And now, the only thing that scares me is losing someone I’m responsible for.”

There it is. The truth, laid bare and buzzing in the open air like a live wire. My heart’s pounding, and I’m met with the reaction I expected most. Silence.

Jax blinks once, slowly. His hands flex on his knees, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“Not only did I fuck up with Jordan,” I say, voice rough, “I fucked up with Jax. See, we had a thing simmering between us. An attraction we had to deny—but it was there, beneath everything. And I hurt him. Bad. The kind of hurt you don’t come back from. The kind you don’t forgive.”

Jax doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. But his hands curl into fists on his knees, and I know he’s hearing every word.

“I shut him out. After everything went down with Jordan, I couldn’t look at him without seeing my own failure. So I pretended he meant nothing. Like none of it ever happened.”

Still no reaction from Jax—but the muscle in his jaw ticks, and that silence? It’s louder than a scream.

A bitter laugh slips out of me. “But then Jax gets this hair up his ass to move to some nowhere town smack dab in the mountains because he needs help but won’t let himself ask for it. And I feel this undeniable need to follow him. To keep an eye on him—since, you know, I’m the one who put him in that bad spot.”

I glance at him, but he’s still stone-faced. Still unreadable.

“So here we both are—too close for comfort and too damn stubborn to talk about it.”

The room is dead silent, the kind of quiet that settles in your bones. My heart’s thudding like I’ve just sprinted a mile, but I keep my gaze steady.

“I thought maybe being here, around people who get it, might help him. Might help me, too. But instead, we’ve just been circling each other like live grenades.”

Jax finally raises his head, eyes burning. “You followed me?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Not proud of it. Not ashamed, either. The fuck do you think I’m here for? Do I look like a Balls Buddy to you?”

West and Mandy snicker. All eyes volley back and forth between me and Jax like they’re watching a tennis match.

“But you can only milk a grenade for so long before it explodes in your face—and Jax and I finally exploded. It wasn’t dramatic. No yelling, no fists. Just a quiet night, too much whiskey, and years of tension finally snapping like a tripwire. We said things we shouldn’t have. Didn’t say the things we should’ve. And somewhere between the silences and the stares, we crossed a line we can’t uncross. For weeks, every time I looked at him, I saw the fallout—his pain, my guilt, and that goddamn spark that never went out, no matter how hard we tried to smother it. And trust me, Jax really fucking tried.”

Finally, a crack in his exterior! A grin.

“With Brewer’s help, we came to an understanding about some things and got some much-needed clarity.” I pause, locking eyes with Jax, my voice hard but honest. “I’m not here to rewrite history.” I take a breath and push through. “I’m trying to make sure we don’t repeat it.”

His hard expression softens, and he swallows, nodding. For once in our miserable history, Jax and I are on the same page.

“See, the thing about Jax is, not only is he a monumental pain in the ass, but he won't back down when he thinks he's right. And Jax always thinks he's right. It’s fucking infuriating. Exhausting. Occasionally impressive. But mostly, it just makes me want to throttle him.”

Snickers from the guys who know him best. They know I’m not telling lies.

“But he's not the same man he was four years ago, either. I never thought I’d see the day Jax could forgive me—but that’s exactly what he did.”

Fuck. I didn’t mean to let my eyes water.

I didn’t realize talking about it would hit me this hard.

Breathing in through my nose, I clear the sniffles and take a slow, steadying breath. No one says a word. They just… let me have this moment.

“I'm sorry as hell that I broke the group rule by fighting with Jax the other day. I can’t apologize enough for that—but I won’t take it back. Because of that punch? It led to a new beginning. One that's been four years in the making.”

I pause for effect.

“I won't get another chance with him. So I better fucking make this one count for all it’s worth.”

Getting to my feet, I cross the room and take the empty chair beside Jax—the one I wanted to sit in before Riggs separated us.

With my heart in my throat, I hold out my hand.

And Jax slips his into mine.

“Hey,” I say softly.

He grins. “You say fuck a lot.”

“It’s an acceptable response for everything,” I say, matching his grin. “Also gender neutral—so it fits any scenario.”

Jax’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.

“You're fucking unbelievable,” he laughs.

A round of applause starts up—slow at first, then building into a chaotic mess of claps, whistles, and a couple of dramatic gasps for good measure.

“I won’t believe it until I see it,” McCormick calls out, grinning. “Prove you’re together.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m already moving.

Pulling my hand from Jax’s, I slide it behind his neck and tug him in—pressing a kiss to his mouth. Just long enough to prove our point. Just short enough to leave them wanting more.

Jax blinks at me when I pull back, lips parted in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in like he’s tempted to go for round two.

There’s a loud whoop from the back of the room.

“I didn't even know they were gay,” McCormick admits. “I mean, not for sure.”

“Look who's talking,” Nash teases. “You and Stiles were straight a few months ago. Who knew you'd take your love of hot dogs a little too literal?”

A speck of pink glitter under Jax’s right eye catches the light, and I smile and brush it away.

“How long do we have to wear these again?” Jax mutters, tugging at the safety pin on his shirt like he might free himself with sheer willpower.

“Until the glitter becomes part of your soul,” I say solemnly.

Riggs chuckles. “Until the end of the day. Or until you two find five compliments to say about each other. Whichever comes first.”

Jax groans. “That’s extortion.”

“That’s justice,” McCormick calls from across the room. “You two were a menace.”

I roll my eyes, but don’t bother arguing. Because somehow, the worst part isn’t the glitter. It’s the way Jax’s hand brushes against mine when he adjusts the heart again, and I want him to do it on purpose.

We’re not fighting today.

But we’re definitely something.

Resting my forehead against Jax’s, I grin against his lips. “You want to get out of here?”

“Fuck yes. Save me.”

We dip out of the group meeting and leave the peanut gallery behind in our wake. “That felt fucking amazing,” I admit as we walk down the hall, hand-in-hand.

“You've got some big balls. If I hadn't seen them for myself, I wouldn't believe it,” Jax teases with a pointed look at my groin.

“You want to see them again? Just to be sure? There’s a bathroom up ahead.”

* * *

“This is fucking absurd,” Jax complains, sulking like a toddler.

Rhett scoffs. “Oh, you thought wearing a glitter heart pinned to your chest for an hour was sufficient punishment?”

Nash backs him up. “No fighting in group. Period. End of discussion. Time to pay the piper.”

“So,” West asks with a wicked grin, “What’s it gonna be, Jax?”

As I watch Jax hesitate to buy more time, I can’t help but laugh at the predicament we landed in. Punishment karaoke. It had to be Brandt’s idea, I’m sure. He thinks karaoke is the answer to the world’s problems. If he could introduce it to the Earth Summit, the world’s leaders might find a way toward world peace.

McCormick scrolls through the karaoke tablet with the evil glee of a man who lives for drama.

“Oh,” he says, eyes lighting up, “Shallow. That’s the one.”

Jax groans. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You get to be Bradley. Your boy over here’s Gaga.”

Fuck. Me. I push my chair out and straighten up, hiking up my pants. “Fine. But I’m going full Oscar performance.” Might as well own it.

“You better,” McCormick smirks. “Your glitter hearts depend on it.”

The karaoke machine crackles to life, and McCormick shoves the mic into my hand like he’s handing over a loaded weapon.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he grins. “Win your man back.”

“We weren’t even—” I start, but Jax cuts me off with a sigh and grabs the second mic like a man accepting his fate.

“Go big or go home,” Rhett calls, cracking up with Mandy.

The track starts. Low piano notes echo through the room. The opening line looms.

I glance at Jax. He’s already glaring at the lyrics screen like it personally betrayed him.

Taking a breath, I begin.

“Tell me somethin’, boy…”

My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Too steady, maybe. It’s almost… sincere. I don’t look at Jax when I sing it. I can’t. But I feel the room go still.

He exhales hard through his nose and picks up his line like it tastes bad.

“Aren’t you tired tryin’ to fill that void…”

McCormick’s whispering “Oh my god” behind his hand. Someone’s already recording on their phone. Riggs is stone-faced, but I see the twitch in his jaw—he’s holding in a smile.

And then it happens. The part.

My cue.

I close my eyes.

“I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in…”

I sing, because yeah—no metaphor could be more accurate.

My voice breaks on dive, but I push through. Jax’s eyes are on me now, burning holes in the side of my face. Sweat blooms under my arms, and the stage lights feel hotter than torches.

We hit the chorus together, our voices not blending so much as colliding—a little off, a little raw, but honest. Painfully so.

I look at him finally.

And I’m gone.

We finish the song in total silence—no applause, no commentary. Just that weird stillness that happens when everyone’s pretending not to feel something.

Jax sets the mic down gently and breaks the silence. “I’d like to formally request a different punishment next time.”

McCormick blinks. “What the hell could top that?”

Jax mutters, “Public execution would be less painful.”

But his hand brushes mine as we walk off the makeshift stage. And he doesn’t pull away. We take our seats at the table, and I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable ribbing.

The Bitches don’t disappoint.

“Pretty sure I’m pregnant now,” Brewer says, deadpan. “Thanks for that.”

Laughter erupts. Loud, chaotic, exactly what Jax and I deserve.

“Y’all good now?” Riggs asks, one brow raised like he’s only half-joking. “Or do we need to set up a second duet?”

“Can we not?” Jax mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. He’s blushing. Blushing. That glitter heart on his chest sparkles.

I feel like we’re walking Hallmark cards or some shit.

“You hit that high note like you meant it,” McCormick says, pretending to wipe a tear. “So raw. So tender.”

“You guys want a moment alone?” West asks, smirking. “We can step outside. Let you work through the rest of that tension.”

Jax looks like he’s contemplating a second fight just to reset the energy.

I nudge him with my elbow. “Admit it. You liked it.”

“I liked that it’s over.”

“You sure?” I grin. “Because I’m pretty sure you were about to cry when I sang to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was trying not to laugh.”

“Uh-huh.” Leaning in close, I whisper just loud enough for his ears only, “Later tonight, I’ll give you a private encore, JJ.”

Jax spits out his mouthful of soda, spraying Brewer’s shirt. But there’s a faint blush tinting his cheeks, just above his scruff. And despite the ribbing, the humiliation, the glitter slowly coating my shirt…

It kind of feels like a win.

CHAPTER 27

PHARO

After the chaos of the tavern, the silence of my home makes our world feel smaller, like we’re the only two people who exist.

Jax seems uncomfortable. The way he stands there, shoulders stiff, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s unsure if he should even be here—it's a sharp contrast to how he normally carries himself. He's always been so confident in his own skin, in control of every situation. But here, it feels like he's out of his element.

He hasn’t spent much time here, and we were always at odds. Our history is littered with sharp jabs and conflicting energies, but it’s different tonight. He’s... here, and I want him to feel welcome. I want him to feel like he belongs here, with me. The desire to pull him into my arms, to ease the tension from his body, almost overwhelms me. “I don’t bite,” I say, my tone softer than I meant.

“How disappointing,” Jax protests, his voice carrying that familiar teasing edge, though there's something more vulnerable behind it. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, his shoulders dropping an inch or two, as if the anxiety that’s been holding him tight is starting to loosen.

I reach for him, my fingers grazing the cool leather of his jacket, pulling it off his shoulders with a deliberate slowness. He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t pull away, so I take it as an invitation. The jacket slides from his arms, leaving him a little more exposed. I set it over the back of my couch, then tug off his beanie, letting the soft fabric slip through my fingers. The glittery pin is next. Jax smiles gratefully, glad to be rid of it.

“I didn’t realize pink was your color.” My lips tilt playfully. “If I ever learn to knit, I’ll make you a pink beanie.”

“Please, God, no. Pink? I told you, I’m not pretty, I’m rugged. It’d probably have more holes than a lace doily.”

My chest shakes with silent laughter. Reaching for the hem of his tee, I slide it up over his head, exposing all that smooth tatted skin I’m dying to get my mouth on. “What do you say we add a little more sparkle to you?” My tongue snakes out to lick his jaw, then a nip of my teeth. His mouth falls open on an exhale, and he breathes out, his warm breath ghosting my lips. “You gonna let me fuck you, JJ?”

He answers by sliding his tongue in my mouth. My hands roam over his back, his shoulders, pulling him close. “Nothing’s shinier than lube,” he pants, dipping his head for another kiss.

He makes an excellent point.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it fun. More like humiliation and torture.”

“What do you say we continue to make up? I have a little game we can play that is much more fun than singing. Strengthens communication, too. We’d make Brewer so proud.”

Jax lingers just a breath away, drawn to my lips like gravity won’t let him go. “Let’s not talk about Brewer right before we’re about to fuck.” His fingers work the buttons of my shirt open, and he slides it from my shoulders. Jax sucks in a breath, biting his bottom lip as his eyes roam over my chest and stomach. “Mmmphm,” he sighs.

He’s got the same look in his eyes I get when I’m at a restaurant and my server places a juicy steak in front of me.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” My voice is smooth and playful. “It’s called the compliment game. You pay me a nice compliment, and I reward you. And vice versa. What do you say?”

Jax’s eyes narrow, like he’s considering it. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, but there's a challenge in his gaze, too, like he’s not going to make this easy for me.

After a beat, he leans in closer, and his hand gently rests on my chest, his thumb brushing over the skin there like he’s testing the waters. “You think you can handle a real compliment from me?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

I lean back, deliberately slow, allowing him to close the gap, but I don’t back down. “I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever you’ve got, Jax.”

He chuckles, low and throaty, before his eyes slide down over my chest again. “Alright then,” he mutters, as if making up his mind. “You’re a damn work of art, Pharo. But I’m not just talking about the body.”

His eyes lock on mine now, and the playful edge softens just a little, something deeper flickering beneath the surface. “You’ve got that thing about you, y’know? That magnetism. People can’t help but look, can’t help but want to be near you.” He licks his lips, looking unsure again. “It’s... It's impossible to ignore. You’re impossible to ignore.”

My heart beats a little faster, and the compliment, unexpected as it is, sends a rush through me. I can’t help but feel a little undone by it, though I cover it with a grin. “How long have you felt that way?”

“Pretty much from the beginning,” he admits. “You’ve always had that... effect on me. Didn’t know what to do with it at first.”

My breath catches. He’s always been this storm of contradictions, and hearing him admit it—this—feels like a crack in the shield he’s built around himself. I can’t help but let my own walls fall just a little, the tension between us giving way to something that feels like honesty, like truth.

“Well,” I murmur, my voice warm, “you definitely didn’t make it easy for me.”

His eyes flicker with a grin, but there's something softer in the way he looks at me now, like a weight has been lifted. “Didn't want to make it easy,” he says with a slight shrug. “Guess I was... afraid.”

Afraid. The word lingers between us, heavier than I expected, but it doesn’t scare me. In fact, it only draws me closer.

“Of what?” I ask, my voice quieter now, almost teasing.

“Of you,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of this.”

I can feel the air shift between us, a strange mix of vulnerability and intensity. His admission hangs there, raw and unguarded, and it’s enough to make my pulse quicken. It’s not like I expected it—Jax, usually so sure of himself, confessing fear? Of me? It’s unsettling in the best possible way.

“Of me?” I repeat, just to make sure I heard him right, a slight curve tugging at my lips, though there’s a knot of curiosity forming in my chest. “Guess I must be pretty intimidating then.”

He lets out a low laugh, but it’s not his usual sarcastic chuckle. It’s almost... soft, like he’s unsure whether to hide behind humor or face what’s really going on between us.

“You’re not intimidating,” he says, his voice just shy of a whisper. “You’re... too real, too intense. I didn’t know how to deal with that.”

The honesty of his confession settles between us, heavy and undeniable. I try to swallow the sudden tightness in my throat, but it doesn’t go away. This, this—this feels different than the banter or the usual back-and-forth.

My hand slides to his jaw, gently tilting his head so he’s gazing at me, and for a moment, I just let the silence wrap around us, our faces inches apart.

“You don’t have to deal with it,” I murmur, my voice barely audible, as though speaking any louder might shatter the fragile moment we’ve created. “You just have to be with it. With me.”

It doesn’t come out easily, but once it does, it feels like the truth I’ve been holding back for too long. The need to close the gap between us has become unbearable, yet I hold myself just shy of crossing it, wanting to give him the space to decide.

In one smooth movement, he closes the distance, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that’s slow, deliberate, and full of unspoken understanding. It’s not a rush; it’s a question—a dare, even. Are you ready for this?

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with mine. “Guess I’m figuring it out,” he says, voice thick with meaning.

His honesty—his openness—he’s showing me parts of himself I’ve never seen before. It’s more than I ever expected from him, and I’m suddenly reminded of how little I knew about the layers beneath that tough exterior of his.

I brush my thumb lightly along his jaw, studying his face—those subtle, almost imperceptible shifts in his expression. “You know,” I start, my thumb moving slowly over his skin, “it’s not just the way you look or how you carry yourself... It’s the way you feel—like there’s always more going on beneath the surface. You’ve got this quiet strength, Jax, the kind that doesn’t need to shout. People see the bravado, the tough guy act, but the truth is, you’re a hell of a lot more than that.”

His expression softens even more. His eyes flicker slightly, almost like he wasn’t expecting something so genuine, but that’s the thing about Jax—he hides it so well that it’s easy to miss just how much depth there is.

“You make it easy to forget,” I continue, voice steady, “how much you actually care. You don’t let people in, and maybe that’s because you’re afraid they won’t see the real you. But... I see you. All of you. And I think that’s fucking incredible.”

The silence that follows feels full, heavy with unspoken things, but also comfortable. I feel like, for the first time, he’s letting me in, even just a little. I can tell he’s not used to hearing this, but his gaze softens as he looks at me, and I think—maybe—I’ve managed to crack the shell he’s worked so hard to build.

“You know,” I say, voice low, deliberately teasing, “I like this side of you, Jax. The one who doesn’t hide behind all the bullshit.” I work his jeans down his hips, smiling with satisfaction as they pool at his feet.

“I thought you liked the bullshit,” he says, his voice a little rougher, a little more breathless than usual.

I lean in, my lips brushing against his ear as I reply, “I like you better.”

Jax’s hand slides to the back of my neck, tugging me in for a kiss that’s slow, deliberate—almost like he’s finally giving in, letting me see all the parts of him he’s kept hidden. But right now, with the way he’s sucking on my tongue like he wishes it were my cock, I’m more interested in what’s hidden in his briefs.

They’re next to go, followed by my pants and underwear. Jax smirks at the slate blue bikini briefs I’m wearing. He hooks his finger beneath the band as he slides them down my thighs.

“Silk? Why am I not surprised? Only the finer things for you, huh?”

“Definitely,” I rasp, kicking out of them, “finer things, like you.”

I couldn’t care less how much I paid for the soft silk/nylon blend. I step over them and drag Jax closer.

“That’s cheesy as hell,” he chuckles.

“Romantic,” I correct, slipping into his mouth. When the kiss ends, I tug his arm. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

I lead him down the hall toward my room, stroking my cock to keep it hard. My imagination races with all the ways I’d like to take him—against the wall with my hand around his throat, on his knees like a dog, on his back with his feet touching his ears—but we started something tonight, something real, and I’m not ready to let go of it yet.

Gently pushing him onto his back, I stand between his legs, still stroking. “Let me watch you, JJ. Touch yourself for me.”

The only reason I’m stalling is because I’m afraid that if I touch him, it’ll all be over. One simple move, and I’ll lose every bit of control I’ve been clinging to. I’m not a hearts and flowers and foreplay kinda guy, usually. This is new territory for me. I’ve never been the type for slow build-up or gentle moments—I’m usually more about directness, getting to the point. But with Jax… it feels different.

My body is practically humming with energy. “Stroke it, touch your balls.”

Jax’s eyes are hooded with lust. He trails his fingers down his hard shaft, tracing over every thick vein. He cups his balls and rolls them before tugging them away from his body. His thumb swipes away a bead of moisture seeping from his slit and he sucks it into his mouth, eyes locked on me to make sure I’m watching… like I could look away. Not a chance in hell.

“Touch me,” he pleads, sounding seconds away from outright begging.

“If I touch you, I’m not sure I’ll want to stop,” I admit, the truth coming out before I can stop myself.

“Then don’t stop,” he says simply—a challenge, an invitation, a promise.

Fuck. It’s going to be over before it even begins. Good thing we have all night.

Bending down, I suck his fat cockhead between my lips, taking him to the back of my throat and holding him there as his cock kicks like it's seizing. When I let him go, Jax breathed out in a sharp hiss, grabbing onto my shoulders to ground himself. I bathe his balls with my tongue, lapping at his smooth, firm sac until he’s panting and tugging at my hair. With great reluctance, I straighten up and grab a condom from my nightstand, rolling it over my dick as my eyes roam over his body, laid out and waiting.

“Turn over, JJ. Show me that ass.”

He rolls to his stomach, and I drizzle a stream of lube down his crease. I slide my fingers through the slippery trail, spreading it over his hole. Jax tenses, making his pucker clench, and the sight of it makes my cock drip. Dipping two fingers into his tight heat, I work my way inside his body, until he’s writhing and pushing his tight little ass out at me, begging for more.

Begging for my cock.

Grasping my cock, I smear whatever’s left on my hand down my latex-covered shaft and crawl between Jax’s thighs. On my knees, I rub my cockhead over his ass, making a slippery mess of his skin, before slipping between his cheeks. Lowering myself down over his back, I hook my feet around his calves and grab onto his tense shoulders, pushing into his body an inch at a time.

It’s slow going because he’s so incredibly tight. “Fuck, JJ, you feel… I have no words.”

“That’s a first,” he grunts, bearing down to take more of me. “G-go slow. You’re fucking huge.”

“More compliments? You’re on a roll tonight.” I chuckle against his ear, earning a shiver that makes his ass press against my groin. “I wanted to take this slow, to make this last, but…” My breath whooshes out and I suck in another, straining not to pound into him like a jackhammer. “... It’s gonna be over pretty quick. Fast and dirty. The next round,” I grunt, praying for restraint, “We’ll go slower. Promise.”

Jax fists the duvet and grits his teeth. “Do it. I’m ready. Fuck me, Pharo. Hard.”

He gives me the green light, and I go to town, unleashing my pent-up desire on his poor hole. My hips slam into him again and again, my fingers digging into his shoulders, marking him with bruises.

Half-formed words slip past my lips, teasing his ear, giving away how lust-drunk I feel. From being inside him. Jaxon James. My JJ. The man who barely tolerates me most days, submitting to me, beneath me, taking my cock—no, begging for it. The rush is too heady. It crests, sneaking up on me before I’m ready, but I’m powerless to hold it back.

“Jax,” I pant, warning him.

“Come on,” he urges. “I’m there.”

He slips his hand beneath him and jerks his cock in sync with my brutal thrusts. “Fuckkkkkkkk,” he hisses, drawing it out as he comes.

His ass squeezes my cock in a chokehold and it’s too much. I fill the condom with a grunt, gasping out his name as stars burst behind my closed lids.

Intense.

Overwhelming.

Unforgettable.

Whatever that was… making love… fucking… malucking… it was all of those and more.

I drop a kiss to the back of his sweaty neck and clench the muscles in my abs, making my cock twitch inside him. Jax chuckles and squeezes back.

“You may be on the bottom, but you’ve definitely got the upper hand over me, Jaxon. I’m fucking putty in your hands.”

It’s the truth, and I know he’d want to hear it. Jax lives to have the upper hand over me.

“I like hearing you admit that,” he says, voice a little rougher than usual, but still dripping with that easy confidence. “Makes everything that much sweeter.”

“You love being in control,” I murmur, my voice tinged with a mixture of admiration and challenge. He thinks he’s got me right where he wants me. And he does, but I’ll be damned if I admit that much to him. “But don’t forget... even when you think you’ve got the upper hand, I’m still playing the game with you.”

Jax glances back at me, clearly intrigued, but there’s no denying the flicker of excitement in his eyes. “Oh, I like the sound of that,” he says, a dangerous glint in his smile. “Now, do me a favor. Get the fuck off me. You weigh a ton.”

CHAPTER 28

JAX

The stretch of highway behind us is still humming in my blood when we pull off at a rest stop just shy of nowhere. Asphalt heat, leather seats, and the unmistakable musk of road sweat—smells like brotherhood.

McCormick swings off his bike and groans like a man twice his age. “I swear, I was taller this morning.”

“You were never tall,” Stiles says, cracking his neck as he paces in a tight circle. “You just had better posture before your spine gave up.”

“Eat shit,” McCormick shoots back, flipping him off. “You can’t remember to change your underwear, but you remember how tall I used to be?”

I tune them out, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders until they pop. The sun’s starting to dip, and the idea of a cold drink is suddenly top priority.

After a rest and then a few more miles, we end up at Smokes and Spokes, just like every Sunday. Neon signs flicker like they’re giving up the ghost, and the parking lot’s more pothole than pavement. The smell of stale beer smacks me in the face as soon as I step foot through the door.

We slide into a booth, order drinks, and start arguing over who won the last poker night (it was me, and everyone knows it except the sore losers in denial).

And then⁠—

The bell above the door jingles, and Pharo walks in like he owns the damn joint.

Which is weird. Because he’s not one of us. He’s not affiliated with the ALR. He’s not supposed to be here.

My gut does this weird, traitorous flip.

Dressed in black jeans and a shirt the same color—the boots, the ponytail—he looks seriously out of place. Then again, he always does. Pharo just carries himself differently. A God among mortals. His movements—quiet confidence, easy swagger, and a smirk hinting at inside knowledge—are his trademark.

And trailing behind him is Joey!

She spots me and lights up like a damn sunrise. “Hey, Jaxy!”

“Hey,” I say, wary. The fuck is she doing here? With him?

Pharo grins, claps my shoulder like we’re best buds, and plops into the seat across from me like he’s invited. Joey slides in beside him, practically vibrating with excitement. She’s wearing that groupie-stalker grin I saw the other night when she met Pharo, the night she couldn’t take her eyes off him long enough to even spare me a glance. Just like she’s doing right now. She giggles, and I swear she’s blushing.

I recognize that laugh. It’s the

I-like-you-but-I’m-trying-not-to-make-it-weird kind.

Spoiler: it’s weird.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” McCormick says, eyebrows shooting up.

Pharo doesn’t even blink. “Heard you girls were in the area. Figured I’d say hi.”

Joey giggles again, tucking her short hair behind her ear like she’s in a shampoo commercial. Seriously?

Does she not realize he’s gay?

I hate gigglers. How did I ever mistake her for a sharp-witted genius hacker? A male hacker.

Stiles, ever the instigator, nudges McCormick and stage-whispers, “Ten bucks says Jax’s blood pressure just spiked.”

“Make it twenty,” McCormick says. “Look at his jaw. That’s a clench.”

I ignore them. Barely.

Joey leans toward Pharo, eyes sparkling. “Pharo helped me fix my car the other day. He’s so handy.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, voice flat. “Did he teach you how to rotate the air in your tires, too?”

McCormick coughs into his drink. Stiles loses it completely.

Joey blinks, missing the sarcasm by a mile. “No, but that sounds useful—can you do that?”

Pharo just grins like a smug bastard and flags our server.

“So,” Joey says brightly, leaning across the table to place her hand on my arm. “Pharo was just telling me about this time he outran a storm on the backroads not far from here. It sounded terrifying.”

“Mostly just wet,” Pharo mutters. His gaze is on where her hand is touching me. Huh.

“But heroic,” she insists, eyes wide. “You’re so brave.”

I don’t roll my eyes, but I feel the ghost of an eye roll tickling my brain.

“Is that right? He sounds like a real road warrior,” I say, trying to sound as impressed as she does. “Did Pharo also tell you about the motel and the⁠—”

That smug fucker kicks me under the table with his boot.

Our server drops off two glasses, and Joey reaches for one. “So, are you guys staying long? Maybe we could all hang out tomorrow. Go for a ride? I’m sure Pharo wouldn’t mind showing me a few more back roads.”

I don’t look at Pharo, because if I do, I’ll probably say something dumb. Or worse—honest.

“Yeah,” I say drily. “He’s good at leading people in circles.”

That gets Pharo’s attention. He turns to me, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Just you, JJ. You’re special like that.”

Joey blinks between us, then grins sweetly. Too sweetly. “You two always bicker like this? It’s kind of cute.”

McCormick chokes on his drink. Stiles mutters, “Dead. I’m dead.”

Joey beams like she’s none the wiser—or maybe she’s exactly as wise as she seems and she’s playing us both like a fiddle.

I lean back, cross my arms, and stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers.

Today was supposed to be easy. Beer, bullshit, bed.

But Pharo’s sitting three inches too close, Joey’s playing matchmaker or saboteur or both, and I’m sitting here wondering if it’s possible to die of tension alone.

And I still haven’t gotten my damn fried pickles.

Why’s he got to ambush me in front of the ALR? Like I need a beef with these assholes over preferring to suck dick. Most of them are cool, but there are always a few that like to show their true colors.

“I’m going to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” Pharo says, standing with all the casual confidence of a guy who knows people watch him when he moves.

But it’s the look he throws my way—sharp, expectant, almost smug—that really gets me. Like I’m supposed to drop everything and trail after him like some lovesick puppy.

I raise my beer and take a long sip instead.

Not your bitch, Pharo.

He disappears toward the back of the bar, and I keep my eyes firmly on the condensation running down my glass. Joey’s still chattering beside me about some hike she wants to do, but I’m not listening. My brain’s already a block away, following him.

Thirty seconds.

Forty-five.

Almost a full minute passes before I sigh dramatically, get to my feet, and mutter, “Guess I should piss, too.”

McCormick snorts. “Sure, buddy.”

“Hydration’s important,” Stiles deadpans. “Don’t strain yourself.”

I flip them both off without looking and head toward the back hall where the flickering neon ‘Restrooms’ sign buzzes like it’s deciding whether to die or not.

The hallway’s dim and smells like bleach and bad decisions—kinda like the one I’m about to make. I push open the heavy door to the men's room—and there he is. Leaning against the sink, arms crossed, like he’s been expecting me this whole time.

“You always take that long to follow directions, or just when they come from me?” he asks, one brow raised.

I let the door swing shut behind me. “Didn’t realize you were still giving orders, Master Sergeant.” I give him a salute as I glare.

He tilts his head, a crooked smirk curling on his lips. “You sure as hell followed them.”

“Coincidence.”

“Uh-huh.”

The air between us tightens, the way it always does when it’s just the two of us.

“You jealous?” he asks, real quiet.

Of Joey?

Of you, for not noticing sooner?

“No,” I lie, because I’m a goddamn expert at that.

He steps forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne under the road dust. His voice drops, low and lethal. “Liar.”

I’m cornered—not by the cinderblock walls or the flickering fluorescent light, but by him. By the way he stares at me, like he already knows what I’m going to say, and worse, like he knows I won’t say it.

Pharo takes another step closer, and I swear I stop breathing. His eyes are sharp, like he’s waiting for me to quit pretending I don’t want this—don’t want him.

“I’m…” I start, but my voice catches halfway through. Goddamn it.

His lips twitch. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Smug bastard.

I roll my eyes, but it’s weak at best. “You’re real confident for someone who ambushes me in a bathroom.”

Pharo laughs softly, and it’s the kind of sound that digs under my skin and stays there. “You call it an ambush. I call it giving you an out from pretending like you’re not pissed off and dying to say something about it.”

I clench my jaw. “Why are you here?”

It comes out sharper than I mean it to, like I’m pissed off he’s breathing the same air as me—which, to be fair, I kind of am. But mostly I’m pissed because I want him here. Because the second he walked into the bar, the whole damn room shifted. Like it always does when Pharo’s around.

He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Same reason you are. Cold beer, bad music, some grease-soaked fries I’ll probably regret later.”

I narrow my eyes. “Try again.”

His gaze sharpens. “You really want the truth?”

“No, I want the weather report,” I snap. “Of course I want the truth.”

Closing that last bit of space between us. Now we’re practically toe to toe, and my pulse is going off like a goddamn fire alarm.

“I’m here because I knew you’d be,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “I’m here because it beats being home alone. Without you. I’m here because I don’t like you having hobbies outside of me. You didn’t invite me to join you. You didn’t offer me a consolation prize, like stopping by for a quick blow job or a post-ride beer.” Pharo studies my mouth like he’s never seen it before. “Not even a quick text saying ‘Don’t wait up.’”

“Were you? Waiting up for me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

I shift my weight, arms crossed now like they’ll somehow protect me from the way he’s gazing at me—like he sees straight through the leather and sarcasm and bullshit to the part of me that only ever wants him.

“I didn’t think you’d wanna be here,” I mutter. “I didn’t ask you because I figured you’d say no,” I say finally, quietly. “This has never been your thing, these people, organized rides, this was beneath you or some shit.”

“Jesus, Jax,” Pharo breathes, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You think that low of me?”

“I think I’ve got four years’ worth of reasons to be careful.”

That shuts him up—for a beat.

Then he steps in closer, voice softer now, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he says it too loud. “I’m not trying to collect on your mistakes. I just want in. You, me, the stupid ride, even this disgusting dive bar that I bet is owned by the guy who owns the motel we stayed at. I spotted a dead animal on the wall out there, nailed to the wood-paneled wall. I want to be where you are.”

My throat feels tight.

“So this is you… what? Being all in?”

Pharo’s head moves up and down, the simplest of gestures. “This is me, standing in a bar bathroom like an idiot, telling you I miss you even when you’re five feet away. That all in enough for you?”

It is. Of course it is.

But instead of saying anything smart or helpful or remotely emotionally mature, I say, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

His smile eases the tightness in my chest, just enough for my lungs to remember how to work.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Pharo’s head dips toward mine, and my breath catches. But at the last second, I twist away, breaking the moment before it begins.

“Does Joey really think she stands a chance with you?” I ask, my voice low, more bitter than I mean for it to be.

Pharo blinks, then straightens slowly, his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide if he’s amused or offended. “Seriously?” he asks. “That’s what we’re doing now?”

I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it cool while my insides are doing cartwheels. “She follows you around like a lost puppy. Practically drools when you look her way.”

“And you think I encouraged that?” His brows arch, disbelief written all over his face.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. My silence is loud enough.

A breathy, almost incredulous laugh escapes Pharo, shaking his head like the moment’s too much. “Jax. She’s sweet. And yeah, I noticed. But if you really think I’d show up here with her, knowing you’d be here, because I wanted her⁠—”

“Then what were you doing?” I cut in, my chest tight with something halfway between insecurity and defensiveness. “Because it sure as hell felt like you were trying to get a rise out of me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not right away.

“I was,” he admits, eyes locked on mine. “But not for the reason you think. I wanted to see if you’d finally stop pretending you don’t give a shit.”

I stare at him, jaw tight.

“Mission accomplished,” I mutter.

Pharo steps closer again, slower this time, more careful.

“For the record,” he says, voice dropping as he leans in, “if I’m going to kiss someone in a bar bathroom, it’s not going to be Joey.”

This time, when he dips his head, I don’t pull away.

His mouth brushes mine—lightly at first, just a test, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t. Can’t. The second his lips meet mine, something in me snaps loose.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in harder, like I’m trying to make up for every minute we wasted not doing this.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s years of wanting and months of pretending and one long-ass motorcycle ride’s worth of simmering frustration, all crashing together in a kiss that’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Pharo makes a sound—low in his throat, surprised, maybe. Then his hands are on my hips, grounding me, holding me there like he thinks I might bolt.

And I might. Eventually. But not right now.

Right now, I press him back against the sink and kiss him like I’ve got something to prove. Because I do. I’m not sure what it is yet—something about regret and second chances and how maybe I am his, just a little—but it’s there, unsaid but loud in the way I bite his bottom lip and feel his breath hitch.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

Pharo’s lips are red. Swollen. Smug.

“You always kiss like you’re starting a fight?” he says, breathless.

“Only with people who deserve it.”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “So… always, then.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t let go of his shirt. I don’t want to.

And I definitely don’t want to go back out there and pretend like none of this happened.

But I know I’m going to have to. At least for now.

He reads the hesitation in my eyes—of course, he does—and just nods.

“Later,” he says quietly, arranging his dick to a less obvious position. “We’ll finish this.”

“Yeah,” I agree, stepping back, trying not to appear too wrecked. “Later.”

Then I open the door, walk out like I wasn’t just making out with him in a bar bathroom, and head straight for Joey—who’s watching me with one brow raised and a knowing little smile on her lips.

Shit.

“Bathroom buddy system?” she asks sweetly, eyes flicking to Pharo as he steps out behind me, looking approximately eighty-five percent ravished and not at all sorry about it.

“Yep,” I deadpan, sliding back onto my stool. “We held hands and braided each other’s hair. Very bonding.”

McCormick chokes on his beer. Stiles whistles low, really dramatic. “Damn, Jax, if you’re gonna sneak off for a quickie, at least take the club vest off first. It’s a little sacred, bro.”

I glare at both of them, but they’re grinning like assholes. Pharo, meanwhile, just reaches for his beer and takes a long, lazy sip like he didn’t just have my tongue down his throat in a dingy bathroom.

Joey hums, all fake-innocent. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days—hydration breaks.”

I give her a side-eye. “You want me to draw you a diagram? Color-coded?”

She grins, pleased with herself. “Nah. I’ve got a vivid imagination. Though I was hoping you’d come back less grumpy.”

McCormick snorts. “Why? You don’t like angsty Jax?”

Joey rolls her eyes, still smiling. “No, I’m just a fan of that totally unhinged idea where people enjoy each other’s company without turning it into a soap opera. You know, friendship?”

That shuts me up. For a second, anyway.

“I’m serious, Jax. I don’t wanna get in the way of whatever this is.” She nods subtly toward Pharo without looking at him. “But I like you. As a friend. You’re one of the only people who doesn’t treat me like I’m a kid or a project.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Joey⁠—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, holding up a hand. “I flirt when I don’t know how to say hey, please like me platonically, and maybe let me crash your weird little club sometime. It’s dumb, I know. I just suck at asking for things straight.”

I glance at Pharo, who’s watching her now with something like quiet respect. Then I look back at Joey and exhale slowly.

“You don’t have to flirt your way into the group,” I say. “You want in? You’re in. No weird hazing required.” I suspect Joey’s lack of social skills has something to do with her being on the spectrum. Why I didn’t realize that sooner, I have no clue.

“Well,” Stiles says, raising a finger, “there is a trial by tequila, but that’s tradition. And you have to get the all clear from my unicorn, Josh, our mascot.”

“Don’t forget the initiation karaoke,” McCormick adds. “We still got that video of you belting out ‘Shallows,’ Jax.”

“Delete it or die,” I say, deadpan.

Joey beams. “Cool. I’ll bring the glitter and questionable life choices.”

Pharo raises his glass. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, it feels easy again. Messy, yeah—but the kind of messy I can live with.

Or at least drink through.

CHAPTER 29

PHARO

It starts with a sound—soft at first. A rustle of sheets, a shift of his body. Then the sharp, guttural edge of a name torn from his throat.

“Jordan—no, no, Jordan⁠—”

My eyes snap open.

Jax thrashes beside me, caught somewhere between sleep and hell. His jaw clenches, breath coming in ragged gasps, and his fingers clutch at the blanket like he’s trying to hold something that’s already gone.

I sit up fast, heart hammering.

“Jax,” I say, reaching for his shoulder. He doesn’t hear me. Doesn’t feel me. He’s lost in it.

“Jax,” I say again, louder this time. My hand grips his arm, firm but careful. “Hey. You’re dreaming. You’re safe. It’s me.”

He jerks like he’s been hit. His eyes open wide—blank, distant, like he doesn’t recognize me. That’s the part that guts me. That flicker of pure panic before recognition sets in. Like I’m the enemy.

“Pharo?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

“Yeah. I’m here.” I cup the back of his neck and lean in, grounding him with my hands, my voice, whatever I can offer. “You’re okay. You’re out. He’s gone.”

He swallows hard, blinking fast, like he’s trying to force himself back into this moment, this room, this bed. His chest rises and falls in shallow waves.

I shift closer, pressing our foreheads together.

“You don’t have to go through that alone,” I whisper. “Not anymore.”

He never should have had to face it alone. I should have been there from the first night.

Jax exhales shakily, the fight slowly leaving his body. One of his hands finds mine under the blanket, rough fingers curling tight.

“I couldn’t save him,” he says, barely audible.

“I know,” I whisper. “But you’re still here. And I’m not going anywhere. I was there the day it happened when you saw it for the first time, and I’m here now. And I swear to God, the next time you have this nightmare, I’ll be right here.”

We stay like that for a long time. His heartbeat slowly calms beneath my palm, and the only sound is the quiet night pressing in around us.

I don’t let go.

By the time his breathing evens out, my eyes are still wide open, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give me answers. I don’t sleep. Not really. Just lie there, listening to the soft rhythm of Jax’s breaths, steady now, no more whispers of Jordan’s name in his sleep.

It’s morning before I know it. Pale light slips through the blinds, painting the room in soft gray. I shift a little, and Jax stirs beside me. He blinks slowly, like his body’s reluctant to admit it’s awake.

He groans and throws an arm over his face. “Fuck.”

“Morning to you, too, sunshine,” I say gently, my voice low so it doesn’t feel like too much.

“Did I…” he sighs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me. The screaming did.” I offer a half-smile, not teasing exactly—just trying to ease the sharp edges.

He winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I sit up and lean back against the headboard, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’d rather be awake with you than asleep without you.”

He lowers his arm, just enough to peek at me. “That’s disgustingly romantic.”

“Yeah, well. I had to balance out your brooding somehow.”

That gets the smallest, reluctant twitch of his mouth. A win, in my book.

Jax turns onto his side, propping his head up on his fist. “You’re leaving today, aren’t you.”

It’s not so much a question as an accusation.

His silence lingers long after I’ve started moving around the room, gathering up my things—jacket, wallet, phone charger tangled in the outlet like it’s trying to delay me.

Jax doesn’t say a word. Just watches from the bed, head resting on his hand, eyes sharp and unreadable.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, then pause at the door.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?” I ask.

He shrugs, too casual to be real. “You’re doing what you gotta do.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Jax sits up straighter, running a hand through his spiky hair. His jaw flexes, and I can practically hear the fight happening inside him—say it, don’t say it, say it.

Finally: “You said this was your last rotation.”

“It is.”

“Right.” His tone is flat. Defensive. “Except that’s what you said last time, too.”

I exhale, step back into the room, and close the door behind me. “This is different.”

“Why? Because of me?” he snaps, and then instantly appears to regret it. “Because if that’s the case, maybe you should think twice.”

I take a beat. Let him hear the silence.

“Yeah,” I say. “Because of you. Because I want something more than war stories and bullet scars. Because I want to wake up next to someone who makes the world feel less heavy for once.”

He swallows hard.

“And yeah,” I continue, softer now, “I’m scared too. Scared I’ll get back there and forget what this feels like. Scared I’ll start running again. But I’m more scared of losing this.”

Jax rolls out of bed with a groan like he’s battling the hardest part of his day.

“You promise you’ll come back?” he asks. No sarcasm. No snark. Just raw.

I walk up to him and place my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at me. “I promise. No extensions. No detours. Just one last goodbye.”

He dips his chin—just barely. But in that tiny shift, I see it: a fracture in all that steel.

Jax searches my eyes. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it. I can’t change what happened,” I murmur. “But I can be here for what comes next.”

He exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in days. “You always say the right thing. It’s annoying.”

“I practice in the mirror.”

He cracks a smile and pulls me into a kiss that’s not rushed or desperate. It’s steady. Solid. Like something worth returning to.

* * *

The hangar smells like jet fuel, sunbaked steel, and dust. Familiar. Grounding. The kind of scent that worms into your bones and stays there even when you're continents away.

Rand is hunched over a clipboard when I walk in, squinting like the numbers are trying to lie to him.

“Rand,” I call, dropping my duffel with a thud. “How’s my ride?”

He glances up, straightening with a sly smile that’s equal parts trouble and affection. “Not ready.”

I frown. “Not ready?”

He shrugs, too casually. “She’s grounded for another hour. Compressor’s acting moody. Maybe more.”

I leveled him with a stare. “What, did she wake up on the wrong side of the hangar?”

He doesn’t answer, just gestures behind me with a tilt of his chin. “Why don’t you ask your team?”

I turn.

And just like that—I’m not in a hangar anymore. I’m home.

Orson’s the first to step forward, a wide grin splitting his face. “Thought you could sneak out without saying goodbye?”

Hogan’s right behind him, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Didn’t want you getting soft on us, Havoc. Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe, chest tightening. “You assholes—what are you doing here?”

“Rotation ended early,” Hogan explains with a shrug. “Two weeks stateside for a little R&R.”

“And we figured we’d make the most of our liberty,” Orson adds, clapping me on the back hard enough to jolt my ribs. “By tormenting you one last time.”

I laugh—gruff and surprised and so damn full of feeling I can barely hold it in. God, I hope it’s not the last time.

Then Arlo steps out from behind them, hands in his pockets, that crooked grin of his intact.

“You didn’t think I’d let you leave without a proper sendoff, did you?”

“Don’t we usually have some kind of hazing ritual for retirement, Boss?” Hogan asks.

Arlo grins and shakes his head. “Having to entertain his entire crew for the day is punishment enough. Besides, I’m not shipping out with the rest of you tonight. Havoc is putting my needy ass up for a few days.”

I blink. “You’re not shipping out?”

“Not right away. Took a few extra days. Figured I’d hang around. Get underfoot.” His sharp gaze cuts to Rand, where it lingers. Interesting. “Raid your fridge.”

I can’t believe they’re here. The whole team. For me. A sharp twinge of pain stabs my chest at the idea of losing them, but I know I’m making the right decision. No second-guessing required.

We pile into the bar like we own the place. Which, to be fair, we sort of do for the next couple of hours. Hogan tosses his arm around Orson’s shoulder like they’re heading into battle, and Rand’s already eyeing the jukebox like it owes him money. Arlo walks beside me, hands in his pockets, taking everything in with that quiet, observant calm of his.

And then I see him—Jax. Leaning against the end of the bar, beer in hand, forearms flexed, looking like a wet dream in a worn band shirt, leather jacket, and a scowl meant specifically for me.

He got my text.

He sees the crowd behind me and arches a brow. “So. This is what you meant by one last goodbye.”

I grin. “Surprise.”

With a dry tone, he says, “You brought your whole damn squad into our quiet town.”

“They’re housebroken,” I lie smoothly. “Mostly.”

I gesture for the team to gather around, but Jax’s eyes lock onto Arlo, like he’s running a threat assessment on the guy. A guy he nicknamed Zaddy and accused me of sleeping with.

I clear my throat and shove my hands in my back pockets. “Gehenna—this is Jax, my partner.”

Orson nudges Hogan and mutters, “Called it. Should we nickname this guy retirement?”

“I’m standing right here,” Jax replies flatly.

Rand whistles, a smirk playing at his lips. “Took you long enough to say it out loud.”

Arlo just smiles, slow and knowing, and offers Jax his hand. “Thanks for keeping him grounded. He doesn’t make it easy.”

Jax shakes it, eyes never leaving mine. “I like a challenge.”

Orson leans in toward me with a playful grin. “So is this the guy you were mooning over when you thought we weren’t looking?”

“Mooning?” I echo.

“You absolutely mooned,” Hogan confirms.

Jax’s lips twitch. “Gonna need to hear all those stories.”

“Please don’t,” I mutter.

Too late. The floodgates open, and suddenly I’m drowning in tales of our most questionable missions, worst decisions and fuck ups, and that one time I nearly got arrested for “allegedly” stealing a camel.

Jax laughs—actually laughs—and it hits me all at once: this weird, ragtag moment is everything I didn’t know I needed. Him, them, us.

Different worlds colliding. And somehow, it works.

Maybe I don’t have to say goodbye. Maybe there’s a way to have both in my life, even if Gehenna’s world is at a distance.

The noise from inside the bar fades behind me as I step out onto the back deck. The stars are out in full force—clear, sharp, and scattered like someone up there threw a handful of diamonds across the sky. I lean on the railing, beer in hand, letting the cool night wrap around my shoulders.

Footsteps creak behind me.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” Arlo says, settling beside me like we’ve done this a hundred times before. He doesn’t look at me, just follows my gaze up to the sky. “You’ve got that ‘thinking too hard’ face on.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. You get this little crease right here.” He taps between his brows. “Like you’re arguing with yourself.”

I chuckle softly. “Might be.”

He lets the silence settle, comfortable as always, then says, “So? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I exhale, slow and measured. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe I don’t have to walk away from everything.”

He hums, motioning for me to go on.

“I mean, Gehenna’s been my whole life for so long. The deployments, the training, the adrenaline. The sense of purpose. But being home, seeing Jax, making peace with the past… I don’t know. It’s like I remembered there’s a version of me that isn’t always waiting for the next mission.”

Arlo’s quiet, thoughtful. Doesn’t interrupt.

“So what if I stayed on?” I say. “Not in the field. Not training teams. But as a consultant. Updating training manuals and procedures. Helping with transport tactics. Passing down the stuff I’ve learned without being the guy getting shot at.”

Arlo finally turns to face me, his expression unreadable—but something in his eyes shifts. “You’d be damn good at that.”

“I’d still be part of it. Still connected. But I’d have a home base. With Jax. With…something steady.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Arlo’s mouth. “You don’t sound conflicted. You sound ready.”

“I’m tired,” I admit. “Tired of pretending I have to keep proving something out there. Maybe it’s time I started showing up for myself instead.”

Arlo lifts his bottle, clinks it against mine. “To showing up. And to finding a life that fits.”

I clink back. “To both.”

We drink in silence. The stars above us. The noise of laughter drifted from inside. And for once, I’m not stuck between two worlds. I’m standing right in the middle, and it feels like balance.

CHAPTER 30

PHARO

The automatic doors whoosh open, and the familiar scent of antiseptic and lavender hits me square in the chest. It’s strange how something can be both comforting and slightly clinical at the same time.

Jax hangs back just a little as we walk in, hands in his jacket pockets, posture loose but alert. I know that stance. It means he’s trying to play it cool but has already scanned the exits, counted the nurses, and clocked the guy in the corner reading upside down.

The front desk is manned—womanned—by Allison today. She brightens when she sees us. Or more accurately, when she sees him.

“Well, look who’s back so soon,” she says with a teasing smile. “Good to see you again, Jax.”

I arch a brow. “So soon? It’s been weeks since I asked you to visit.”

Jax shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “I dropped by a few times while you were deployed. Then a few turned into... more. Figured someone should keep her company. And you know. A promise is a promise.”

My stomach does that annoying little twist it sometimes does around him—equal parts admiration and what did I do to deserve this guy?

Though, ironically, that’s also something I ask myself when he’s being a pain in the ass.

“You promised her you’d visit?”

He shrugs again, cheeks definitely pink. “We have a connection. She likes me.”

“She called you a ‘slippery bastard’ the first time she met you.”

“Term of endearment. You should hear what she calls you,” he smirks.

I shake my head, but before I can make a sarcastic comment, Allison buzzes us through with a grin. “She’s in the garden room today. Go on back.”

We find her parked by the window, wrapped in a quilt patterned with cartoon birds. Her gaze is distant, flicking over the flowers outside with a dreamy kind of detachment.

“Hi, Mami,” I say gently, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Brought someone you might recognize.”

Her eyes snap into focus like a camera lens sharpening. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite delinquent.”

Jax salutes. “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”

She cackles and the smile lights up her eyes. “Don’t tempt me. You still owe me for the time you spilled prune juice on my bingo cards.”

Jax appears confused. “I... never did that.”

She raises her brows. “Not yet. But bingo starts in an hour.”

Jax kneels beside her wheelchair, still grinning like an idiot, and she runs her hand over his carefully gelled faux hawk, then smacks the back of his head lightly. “Your mind is rotting, like mine is.”

He winces playfully. “What’d I do now?”

“You took too long to see what a catch my son is,” she mutters, then shoots me a sideways glance. “Though you do clean up nice.”

My mouth opens, but she cuts me off before I can speak. “You two together yet, or are you still pretending it’s just friendship?”

Jax chokes. I blink.

“Uh. We’re... together,” I say.

“Finally,” she sighs. “I was beginning to think I’d have to haunt you both from the afterlife just to force a confession.”

Then—with absolute precision—she rolls forward and runs over Jax’s foot.

“Ow!” he yelps, hopping back.

“Oh dear,” she says innocently. “Was that your toe?”

Jax glares at her, and she beams, absolutely unrepentant.

“I like him,” she whispers to me conspiratorially. “He’s sturdy.”

“Not sure that’s what he was going for,” I murmur, trying not to laugh.

Jax rubs his foot, grumbling under his breath. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, he shifts a little closer to her chair, their shoulders brushing, and for a brief second, the three of us just sit there in easy silence.

It’s chaos. It’s imperfect. It’s home.

And for the first time in a long time, I started to believe I might actually get to keep it.

CHAPTER 31

MAMI MERNEITH

The sun is warm on my knees. That’s nice. I don’t always notice warmth. Some days it feels like my skin belongs to someone else.

The boys are sitting nearby. I call them boys even though they’re all grown up and taller than my memory says they should be. Pharo, my son. He’s got that line between his eyebrows again. He tries to hide it, but I can always tell when he’s worrying. His heart is a loud thing.

And the other one. The soldier with the clever hands. Jax. He’s got eyes like shadows and summer all tangled up together. I liked him the moment he showed up, grumbling about dietary restrictions and trying to sneak me extra cookies. I liked him even more when he came back to visit, even after my son returned home.

They think I don’t remember.

Sometimes I don’t.

But I remember what love feels like.

I remember Pharo sitting on the floor in his pajamas, playing with plastic planes and mumbling to himself about velocity and lift.

I remember the way he used to come home scraped up and grinning, full of fire and impossible ideas.

I remember the heartbreak in his voice the first time he said goodbye to someone he loved—and the way that voice has softened, now, with someone who came back.

They’re not touching, not right now. But they’re orbiting each other like moons. I can feel it. The way Pharo’s foot taps in rhythm to Jax’s fingers drumming on the armrest. The way they steal glances, like teenagers trying to be cool. Lord, they’re terrible at hiding it.

“You took your sweet time,” I mutter under my breath. Don’t know if I mean it for Jax or for time itself.

Jax leans over, all quiet warmth. “What was that?”

I blink at him. He’s got kind eyes, this one. A little tired, but kind.

“You make him smile,” I say. “Even when he’s trying not to.”

His expression softens. “Yeah, well. He makes it hard to do anything else.”

I laugh. A sharp, barking thing. Then, softer, I whisper, “Promise me you’ll be there. Even on the hard days.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t hesitate. “I already promised.”

I nod, satisfied. My fingers find the hem of the quilt in my lap. It’s soft. Familiar.

A warm hand covers mine. My son’s. He doesn’t say anything, just holds on like he’s anchoring us both.

And for a little while, the world stills. My mind quiets. I don’t feel like I’m floating away.

Just here. With them.

Exactly where I want to be.

CHAPTER 32

PHARO

We step outside, and the door clicks shut behind us. The sky’s painted with the soft blue of early evening, sun just starting to tip toward the trees.

Jax exhales slowly beside me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to settle the world back into place.

I shove my hands into my pockets. “Didn’t know you were visiting her that much.”

He doesn’t look at me right away. Just shrugs, one shoulder lifted like a half-admission. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is to me.”

That gets his eyes on me—sharp, unreadable, then slowly softening.

“She asked me once to take care of you,” he says, voice low. “Said you act like you don’t need it, but you do.”

My throat tightens. “She said that?”

Jax nods, then squints up at the sky like it’s somehow safer than looking at me. “So I figured, if I couldn’t get to you, I’d sit with her. She’d talk sometimes. Mostly ramble. Once she tried to set me up with a nurse named Daryl.”

“She thinks Daryl’s a woman.”

“Daryl is a woman. Pretty sure she’s married to someone named Carmen. Or possibly a golden retriever. Jury’s out.”

I laugh. It catches me off guard. And Jax grins, the real one—the one that peeks out when he’s not thinking about it.

He kicks at the gravel. “I didn’t go to score points, Pharo. I just... missed you. And she’s a part of you. She loves to go on and on about her Ramessus, and I don’t mind listening.”

The silence between us stretches, warm and full. He steps closer.

“You still planning to go back?” he asks quietly. “Egypt. The training role.”

I give a slight tilt of my head. “Just for a few weeks. Then I’m home for good.”

He lets that sit a second, then tilts his head. “You mean it this time?”

“I do.”

Jax studies me like he’s checking for cracks. Then, satisfied, he nudges my arm with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not visiting your mom every damn week just to end up single.”

I snort. “She’d never forgive you.”

“She’d run me over again.”

“She absolutely would.”

There’s a beat, and then I reach for his hand. Not because I have to—but because I want to. Because this—him—feels like the part I’ve been missing.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just laces our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And in this quiet, golden light, with his hand in mine and the promise of home waiting on the other side of goodbye, I finally feel like I don’t have to choose between the parts of me anymore.

Maybe I get to have it all.

EPILOGUE

PHARO

One Year Later

The shop smells like engine oil and old leather and something sweeter—coffee, probably, or the lingering scent of Jax’s cologne.

Sunlight cuts through the wall of windows, dust motes dancing in the golden haze as Stiles curses gently under his breath over a stubborn carburetor across the room. I’ve been busy all day, I haven’t even stopped for lunch, but Jax stopped by half an hour ago and hasn’t left.

Not that I want him to.

He’s leaning against the workbench now, arms crossed, watching me as I wipe down the vintage tank I’ve been nursing back to life for the last few weeks. It’s a 1968 Triumph Bonneville. Same kind of bike my father rode when he was young and reckless.

I glance up at Jax, and he’s smiling that lazy, fond smile—the one he thinks I don’t see.

“What?” I ask, brushing grease from my hands.

“Nothing,” he says, pushing off the bench to walk over. “Just thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He hums, stops beside me, eyes on the bike. “You look good like this.”

“Covered in engine oil?”

“Happy,” he says, and his voice goes quiet. “Rooted.”

I peer down, fingers running over the freshly painted tank. There’s a stillness here I didn’t know I craved until I found it. The kind of stillness that lets you breathe all the way to the bottom of your lungs.

“I used to think purpose had to come with a uniform,” I admit.

Jax leans in, resting his chin briefly on my shoulder before kissing the spot just beneath my jaw. “Turns out purpose can smell like gasoline and sound like classic rock.”

We both laugh quietly. Across the shop, Stiles mutters something about “get a room,” but he doesn’t even glance up. He’s used to us by now. The gruff grumbling is just for show.

Jax walks around the bike, trailing his fingers along the seat, the chrome, the bones of it. “You think you’ll keep this one?”

I give a slight tilt of my head. “Yeah. This one’s not for sale.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sentimental?”

I glance at him, catch the way his eyes soften when they meet mine. “You could say that. It’s the one I was working on the day you finally admitted you were head over boots in love with me.”

“That’s not exactly the way I remember it,” Jax scoffs.

I press against him, my lips just inches from his. “I remember it vividly. You took me into the backroom and blew me, and then after you made a show of swallowing my load,”--Stiles interrupts by coughing loudly, like he swallowed a bug he’s trying to hack up,--“you said you loved me, and that no matter what happened in the past, no matter what the future holds, you were here for all of it. Through thick and thin, and that not only were you in love with me,” I tease, sliding my tongue over his bottom lip, “but that I was the only man you’ve ever loved, and ever will. Once in a lifetime, you said.”

Jax sucks my tongue into his mouth and kisses me like he’s making the same promise all over again. When he pulls back, he stares into my eyes, smiling softly. “Don’t get sappy on me, Master Sergeant.”

“Too late.”

He rolls his eyes but grins, and it sticks, wide and real.

I swipe my thumb across his bottom lip, still feeling the echo of his kiss, the way it said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Like it always does.

“You know, if I’d known how good this could be, maybe I’d have retired years ago, skipped the whole merc thing, and gone straight for the prize.” I press my dick into his, emphasizing which prize I’m talking about.

“Please,” Jax snorts. “You’d have lasted two weeks behind a desk before you started yelling at spreadsheets.”

He’s not wrong. Thank God he handles that shit for me.

“Besides,” he adds, palming my rapidly thickening cock, “you needed all those years to become the kind of man who could build something like this. And maybe… the kind who could stay.”

That quiets the teasing retort and the bathroom quickie I had planned.

I tip my forehead against his and close my eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to take in the way the air smells, the hum of classic rock in the background, the steady press of Jax’s body against mine.

Yeah. This is what staying feels like.

“You’re not so bad at the sappy stuff yourself,” I murmur.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he replies, brushing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Stiles clears his throat loudly from the other side of the shop. “If y’all are gonna start dry humping the Bonneville, I’m taking my lunch early.”

Jax doesn’t even flinch. Just flashes him a thumbs up without turning away from me. “We’ll lock the doors.”

I shake my head, chuckling as I go back to the bike, but Jax stays close—his hand still resting on my back like a promise.

Like home.

God, if only the old me could see us now. Happy. Rooted, like Jax said. In love with a man who wouldn’t have pissed on me if I were on fire.

Who would’ve thought we’d end up here?

He catches me staring and quirks a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, but it’s not true. There’s a knot in my throat, and I’m not sure if it’s gratitude or disbelief.

Jax, being Jax, doesn’t push. Just leans against the workbench again, arms folded, giving me space but not going far.

“I was just thinking,” I say finally, “if the version of me from four years ago could see us now, he’d probably call it a hallucination. Or a midlife crisis.”

Jax smirks. “Joke’s on him. You hit your crisis early.”

“Thanks for the support,” I mutter, but I can’t help smiling.

He shrugs, his expression softening. “You changed. I did, too. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

I dip my head, wiping down the last smudge of oil from the tank. The shop’s quiet now. It’s peaceful. Real. The kind of moment you don’t realize you’ve been craving until it’s right in front of you.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” I admit. “A second chance. You. Us.”

Jax steps close again, slipping his hand into mine like he’s done it a thousand times, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You didn’t get it,” he says. “You earned it.”

And somehow, that matters more than anything.

* * *

Are you pumped for Mandy and Tex’s story? Read The Tex Hex, a hurt comfort friends to lovers romance that will leave you in pieces before healing you. Come along with the Bitches with Stitches on another emotional and thrilling journey for their long-anticipated love story!

DEAR READER

Thank you so much for reading Coming In Hot, the second novel in the Bitches With Stitches series.

If you enjoyed Pharo and Jax’s romance, please leave a review to tell other readers how much you loved them. Telling your friends and spreading the word on social media helps people find their new favorite book.

With love,

Raquel Riley

ALSO BY RAQUEL RILEY

Proof Of Life is available in Ebook, Audiobook, Paperbacks, and Hardcover

The Darkness Within is available in Ebook, Audiobook, Paperbacks, and Hardcover.

Warrior’s Walk is available in Ebook, Audiobook, Paperbacks, and Hardcover.

Next In Series: The Tex Hex

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Raquel Riley is a native of South Florida but now calls North Carolina home. She is an avid reader and loves to travel. Most often, she writes gay romance stories with an HEA but characters of all types can be found in her books. She weaves pieces of herself, her family, and her travels into every story she writes.

For a complete list of Raquel Riley’s releases, please visit her website.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Marsha Adams Salmans I’m so grateful you came into my life. Your dedication to my reader group and promotion of my books is invaluable. Thank you for being irreplaceable and amazing!

Tracy Ann, Your support and promotion of this book was monumental and key to spreading the word so readers everywhere can enjoy it.

Dianna Roman, your sense of humor breathed life into this book. Thank you for the Bitches and the BALLS, lending me your cousin for research, and for the inside look at life in the Army.

Also, thank you to my ARC/street team for your insightful input and reviews and outstanding promotion.

Christy Ragle, thank you for the sensitive and valuable insight into mental health and motorcycles. I love working with you. If not for your eagle eye, this book would be nothing but rotor blades and gut-punches.

THE Emerson Beckett, I can’t write anymore without spitballing at lunch or on the phone with you. XOXO

Last, but never least, thanks to my family for being so understanding while I ignore you so I can write.