Page 65 of Coming In Hot
The bartender hesitates, but he pours the drink anyway, and I take it gratefully, not even letting it breathe before I swallow it down, this time a little slower. The warmth spreads through me, loosening something in my chest that’s been locked tight for too long.
Six fucking years too long.
I lean back in my seat, letting my eyes close for a moment. I don’t care that the world is spinning a little now. I don’t care that my mind is clouded, that my thoughts are starting to slow down and blur together. I just want to stop feeling this way.
Used.
Insignificant.
Humiliated.
Because I hoped for something more. Something real. What a fool I am.
God, I don’t know who I’m more disgusted with—him or myself.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Pharo’s face. The way he looked at me when he knocked on my door, like he was holding his heart in his hands. The way he touched me, like he couldn’t get enough. I’ve been blind, thinking that maybe—just maybe—there was something real between us. Something that wouldn’t end like this.
I need to forget. I need to forget the way he made me feel, like I was the only person in the world who mattered to him. And now? He’s gone. And I’m still here, mourning the loss of something that was never mine to begin with.
Another shot to drown out the ache in my chest.
“Maybe I’ll just keep this up all night,” I mutter to no one in particular. It feels like I’m speaking through molasses. “Who needs clarity, anyway?”
The bartender raises an eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut, probably used to the ramblings of a man who’s had one too many.
But it doesn’t matter. I keep drinking. One shot after another, until the world around me feels like a distant blur, and the only thing that’s real is the bitter taste in my mouth and the numbing silence inside. I don’t care. I just need the hurt to stop.
The jukebox starts playing in the background, a sad, old tune that seems to seep right into my soul. Perfect. Just what I need. I lean back against the bar, closing my eyes and letting the music carry me somewhere far away, somewhere where Pharo and his damn job offer don’t exist, where I’m not left here alone with nothing but the mess he left behind.
* * *
Sitting in this circle is the last place I feel like being today. And I’d have avoided it like the plague except that my phone’s been buzzing off the hook all day with messages from the Bitches making sure I’d show up today. They even resorted to threats.
I can only guess that Pharo gave someone a heads-up that I was going through something. Fucking fucker.
He doesn’t have the right to look out for me after the shit he pulled. After all, he’s the one constantly hurting me! If not for him, I’d be fine. Mostly.
West and Brandt file in, laughing and joking together, and their easy camaraderie lights the spark of anger simmering inside me all day. I’m hungover from yesterday’s whiskey marathon and slept for shit last night.
West makes the mistake of getting up in my face. “Whatever it is, Jax, a hug will make it better. Isn’t that what friends are for?”
My scowl is a warning, and his laugh is the last straw. I kick his leg, his good one, sending him stumbling backward into Brandt’s arms. Great, now they’re both pissed at me.
I could’ve just stayed the fuck home!
“I’m sorry I didn’t acknowledge whatever dramatic crisis you’re imagining today,” West bitches.
Thankfully, most of the guys keep their distance, giving me enough space to stew in my pissed-off mood. I can feel the hostility crawling up my spine, making it impossible to sit still. The last thing I want right now is to be surrounded by these people.
Riggs starts the meeting, his voice pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I hear him, but it doesn’t reach me—just sound, empty and distant.
Rhett kicks off the sharing, but I barely register it. I can see his mouth moving, but none of it hits me. Whatever he’s bitching about? I couldn’t care less.
Instead, I’m stuck replaying our first kiss. The nauseous fluttering in my stomach was so new, so different, from anything I’ve ever felt before with anyone else. How could he show up the other night acting like we had the rest of our lives ahead of us to build a future together, like he wasn’t breaking something between us when he made the decision to accept that job?
I drag my fingers through my hair, feeling the frustration tighten in my chest, but I know better than to let it show. This is the kind of stuff you keep buried.
The room feels suffocating. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to listen to all this pointless crap. I just want to throw back another drink and forget about everything for a while longer.
