Page 16 of Coming In Hot
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?
