Page 13 of Coming In Hot
“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 heexpectsme 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?
