Page 19 of Coming In Hot
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.”
