Page 20 of Coming In Hot
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 saysI carelike 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 tosomething. Maybe peace. Maybe redemption. Or maybe just the next fight. Either way, I’ve got no time to waste.
CHAPTER8
JAX
“I thinkyou’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.Togetherisn’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 meanstalking.
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.
