Page 30 of Coming In Hot
I hate him for it. But I hate myself more for still wanting him. For still feeling that pull, even now, even after everything. It’s like a sickness, a weakness I can’t seem to shake. It eats away at me, that twisted combination of desire and rage, the way his memory lingers in my veins, in my breath, in every corner of my mind.
I felt it the night I stitched him up in his bathroom.
I feel it every time he walks into group, every time his eyes land on me, or I hear the deep timber of his voice when he speaks.
That little hitch in my chest is always there, buried beneath the resentment and the pain. My hate for him has so many layers, it’s like a hate lasagna—each one stacked on top of the other, each one toxic like poison. Jordan’s death is the first layer. The deepest, most bitter one, the one that still feels raw even after all this time. I can’t even think about it without my chest tightening, that pain flooding back like it was yesterday.
The second layer is my attraction. The fact that, despite everything, I still fucking want him. How is it possible to hate someone so much and still feel that pull? That twisted, magnetic force that keeps drawing me back to him, even though he’s the one who wrecked my life. I can’t stand myself for it. I can’t standhimfor making me feel that way.
The third layer, though, is what gets under my skin the most. It’s his complete indifference to the aftermath of all this—his total lack of responsibility for anything that happened. He just fucking walked away, like nothing mattered. Like,Ididn’t matter. Like Jordan didn’t matter. And now he’s acting like he can fix all of it with a few empty apologies, with some bullshit conversation that will make it all go away. “Let’s hug it out, let bygones be bygones, bury the hatchet,” he might as well say. It’s insulting. It’sinfuriating.
I’d like to bury the fucking hatchet, all right. Right in his back. Let him feel the consequence of everything he’s done, the years of pain, the years of bitterness that he thinks can just disappear with some weak apology. If only it were that easy.
The road opens up ahead, and I twist the throttle again, pushing forward, but my resentment stays with me, lingering on my mind, echoing off the granite mountains.“So, that’s still there.”
Yeah. It’s still there. Just like everything else.
I lean into another curve, the tires gripping the road just right, and I let out a breath. Eventually, I end up at the Smokes and Spokes, a little dive bar on the edge of the county line. The American Legion Riders end up there every Sunday. The smell of stale beer never fully leaves. It's the sort of place where you can sit in the corner, disappear into the haze of smoke and low hum of country music, and no one will bother you.
Except when it’s packed with ALR. They’re a different breed—hard as nails, with the kind of camaraderie you can’t fake, the kind of bond forged through miles of open road and years of shared experiences. Some are current or retired law enforcement. Others work construction and trade jobs, or run their own businesses. All are former service members. It’s the one requirement for membership.
I do a quick scan of the room, my eyes drifting over the familiar faces, but I don’t see the two I’m searching for—Stiles and McCormick. I’d know if they were here. They stick out like sore thumbs. I settle back in my seat, nursing the drink the bartender just slid in front of me. That’s my limit when I’m riding, just one drink. I hit my vape, the soft cloud of coconut and mandarin swirling in the air chases the lingering taste of sour hops on my tongue. Sliding my phone from my backet pocket, I pull up the Bitches’ group chat.
Yo, Stiles, McCormick, where you at? Obviously not at Smokes & Spokes.
Stiles responds immediately.
Stiles:
There’s a Pimp My Bike marathon on. We’re on the couch.
Thinking of those two cuddled together, most likely in their underwear, or maybe not even that much, makes me crave another drink to wipe my head clean.
There’s no point hanging around if they’re not here. I slide a ten-dollar bill across the bartop, and the bartender gives me a nod as I stand, and I walk out without turning back.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward my bike. I throw my leg over the seat and for a moment, I just sit there, hands on the grips, eyes on the empty stretch of road ahead. The world feels a little too still, like something’s waiting to break the silence.
I rev the engine once, just to hear it roar to life, and then I twist the throttle, rolling out of the lot, the mountains around me swallowing up the sound of the engine, and the sound of everything in my head.
* * *
Joey's message flashes across my screen.
Joey:
Have you read anything interesting lately?
He’s referring to the files he sent the other day. I tilt my chair back and glance at the folder on my desktop screen markedKing Tut. The name’s fitting—a nod to Pharo’s heritage, sure, but also a perfect match for his inflated ego. The man honestly thinks he rules over everything and everyone. Maybe because someone once had the dumb intuition to make him Master Sergeant, or maybe he’s just conceited as hell. Heck, it could be a little of both.
I take a slow breath, tapping my fingers against the armrest, debating my response. Do I tell him everything? Do I give him anything at all?
Nothing I can act on just yet. But it's all there. Just waiting for the right moment.
This started out as a way to bust Pharo for lying, to pull back the curtain and expose the man for the fraud he is. It was supposed to be about the truth. Simple. Clean.
But now? It’s about his safety.
Somewhere along the way, things shifted. What was once a mission to destroy the superhero facade he’s been hiding behind is now tangled in something darker, something more dangerous. If I take this any further, if I expose everything I know, I’m not just digging into his lies—I’m putting him in a place where no one can protect him.
