Page 6 of Coming In Hot
It’sa habit I can’t shake.
Every day, without fail, I find myself taking that extra exit, turning onto the street that leads to Pharo’s townhouse. It’s not exactly on my route home—technically, it’s a little out of the way, one exit past mine and six blocks west—but it’s close enough. Close enough that I can’t help myself, close enough that the curiosity always gnaws at the back of my mind.
I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m not really looking for his truck. But as I round that last corner, my eyes are already scanning, seeking the familiar black truck parked out front, the one that marks his presence like a scar on my mind.
Some days it’s there, sitting like an unwanted reminder of everything that’s happened. Other days, it’s gone, but I never stop checking. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Maybe it’s the hope that one day, I'll catch him in the act of something, or maybe I just need to see the truck to feel some kind of closure, even if I know it'll never come.
It’s a strange obsession, but one I can’t let go of. It’s like rereading a story I’m no longer sure I want to finish, but I can’t help myself. I pass by it, day after day, like some sort of silent ritual, and the knot in my stomach tightens each time.
My heart kicks into overdrive as I spot it—the unmistakable black pickup sitting just beyond the wrought-iron gate. The shock hits me like a lightning bolt, sending a wave of electricity through my chest.
He’s home. Finally.
I know I shouldn’t, that it’s stupid and reckless, but the curiosity is overwhelming. I have to get closer. Just a peek, that’s all. No harm in that, right?
I steer my bike into the subdivision; the streets are lined with identical homes that feel almost too perfect, too pristine. My fingers tremble just slightly as I punch in the code—the one I had to dig for online because Pharo would never give it to me, nor would I ask him for it. The gate’s mechanism whirs to life with a click, and the heavy metal bars swing open, granting me access to the private little fortress Pharo tries so hard to keep secure.
Once, the security guard busted me on his little golf cart, asking what I was doing idling in Pharo’s driveway, checking his mailbox. I lied and said I was Mr. Kendrix’s friend and that he’d tasked me with looking after the place while he was gone. Now, whenever I see him, I roll the empty garbage cans out to the curb and wave like the lying schmuck that I am.
I push down the rising tide of anxiety, telling myself it’s just a quick detour. A glimpse. That’s all. The subdivision stretches before me, quiet and still, as if the houses themselves are holding their breath.
The sun set two hours ago, but I don’t see any lights inside. It’s not that late, so I doubt he’s in bed already.
Suspicious.
I park my bike across the street from his driveway and creep through his yard. If I can just peer through the window, I might see?—
A shadow moves through the living room. There’s not enough light to make out his face, but I suspect from the large, hulking form that it’s him.
The fuck is he doing sneaking around in the dark?
Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me that I'm also sneaking around in the dark. At least Pharo has a legitimate reason to be here.
Actually, I have a completely legit reason to be here. If no one else is going to ask the tough questions, then I guess it’s up to me to investigate his suspect comings and goings.
His front door is framed by glass on both sides, and I press my face against the pane to get a better look. Without warning, the door bursts open, and I hear the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked in my face. My heart plummets down into my stomach, and my breath seizes in my lungs.
“Jax?” he asks, sounding as surprised as I feel. “The fuck are you doing out here?”
He clicks on the outside light above the door. I caught him mid-something. He’s dressed in soft, black pajama bottoms, barefoot and shirtless, with his shoulder-length hair tied up in a messy bun. Day-old beard growth and a fresh jagged scar covers his chiseled cheek.
My brain struggles to come up with a lie, a reason that I could be lurking outside his door past eight o’clock at night when I realize he’s clutching his ribs. When he moves his hand, I see an angry red gash marring his golden skin.
“You’re hurt.” I forget about the lie and the snooping as my training kicks in. Instinct and concern make me shoulder my way inside before I can think better of it. Maybe it’s my sense of duty as a soldier, or because he was once someone I regarded as my brother. Maybe it’s because if I keep him alive, I can torture him longer.
“I was just about to bandage it when… what are you doing here, Jax?”
I ignore his question, leaving it hanging in the air, and focus instead on the task at hand. The lamp on the console table is within reach, and I flick the switch. A soft, warm glow fills the room, casting long shadows against the walls and bathing Pharo's bare torso in light. It's then that I get a better look at the gash—deep, jagged, the kind of cut that doesn't heal well on its own.
I can see the blood, already beginning to congeal, but it’s the severity of the wound that stops me. His skin is a map of old scars, a history written in flesh, but this one is fresh. Too fresh to ignore.
Pharo’s the kind of guy who doesn’t believe in going to the ER unless it’s absolutely necessary. Nothing short of a bullet wound will get him to a doctor. Everything else is treated in the field, in his bathroom, or with whatever supplies he can scrounge up on the go. Self-care, to him, is a luxury. And right now, it's looking like that’s going to cost him.
His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, but the way he winces as he moves tells me this isn’t a minor cut. It’s bad. Really bad. And if he’s not careful, it could get infected—or worse, it could open back up at the wrong moment.
“You’re going to need stitches. Where’s your med kit?”
“In the bathroom.”
