Page 12 of Coming In Hot
JAX
My thighs pressagainst 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 justthere—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.
