Page 68 of Coming In Hot
“That was rhetorical,” I scream into the wind, “not a fucking challenge!”
The rain comes down in sheets, instantly soaking me to the bone. I squint through the downpour, trying to focus on the road ahead, but the world’s gone blurry, the blacktop slick and treacherous. I can’t even hear myself think over the roar of the storm and the pounding rain.
“Perfect timing, really,” I mutter, gripping the handlebars tighter, leaning forward as the bike fights the elements. The wind’s picking up, throwing the rain sideways, stinging my face. The sky flashes with lightning, casting everything in an eerie, yellow light. And just when I think it can't get worse, the bike behind me revs up, its engine growling louder as it refuses to be left behind.
“Damn it,” I grunt, kicking the bike into a higher gear. My hands are starting to slip on the handlebars, the leather gloves no match for the soaking wet grips. I’ve been through some shit in my time, but riding through a storm with some psycho tailing me on a mountain road at seventy miles per hour? This is a whole new level of crazy.
Pharo pulls up beside me, keeping pace. “Pull the fuck over or I’ll crash both of us into the fucking mountain,” he screams over the driving wind and rain. His face is soaked and he looks fucking pissed.
I pull ahead, ignoring his threat, and he catches up. “I swear to fucking Christ, Jax. Pull the fuck over!”
I slow the bike, because although I want him to die today, I don’t want to die with him.
The wind bites at my skin, the rain stinging like needles, but it’s nothing compared to the pulse of adrenaline pumping through my veins. I can’t outrun him forever. I don’t want to outrun him forever. I want him to feel what it’s like to be just a little bit closer to the edge. To know the consequences of his own decisions.
I slow down, just enough to give him a chance. Not because I want him to win, but because I’m done with the chase.
I want to see if he’s going to follow me straight into hell.
And then, as if we’re both caught in some sick, twisted game of fate, I make my move. I drop the throttle, not enough to get away, but enough to let him know he’s not in control. Not anymore.
He pulls beside me. For a second, I feel like we’re two wild animals in a death-match, the bikes growling beneath us, the storm above us, and the mountain roads dropping away into the abyss.
The cliffside opens up to the scenic overlook, and I can see the winding road ahead fading into the fog.
I barely avoid the rocks lining the edge of the road, my foot scraping against the gravel, and everything goes still. The only thing I can hear is the pounding of the rain, the thunder rolling across the sky, and the pulse of my heartbeat in my ears.
Pharo’s already pulled his bike to a stop at the edge. He doesn’t glance back, but I can see the silhouette of his body against the darkening sky. He’s waiting, like he’s daring me to come closer. So sure that I’ll come to him.
My tires scream as I brake hard to a stop just a few feet behind him, gravel scattering under my wheels.
He turns to look at me then, his face illuminated by the flashing storm above. His gaze is unreadable, dark, and intense. The rain clings to his skin, making his hair slick against his forehead, but he doesn’t move—just stands there, watching me.
I dismount, the roar of the engine dying down as I step off the bike, my legs unsteady beneath me. I’m soaked through, the wind biting into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire still burning in my chest.
He takes a step toward me, his eyes flicking between me and the road behind us. We’re both silent, the unspoken but familiar strain between us, the chaos of everything that’s led us here.
I take a slow step toward him, matching his gaze with equal intensity, not backing down.
“Done running?” he finally asks, voice low and gritty, the storm still howling around us.
“No,” I reply, my voice thick with defiance. “Not even close.”
“You crazy fucking bastard! You could have died. You almost killed us both.”
“Not yet, I haven’t.” I throw another punch, but Pharo blocks my fist, grabbing my hand in a vice-like grip and squeezing the bones to dust. “Let go of me,” I hiss, jerking my arm away, but Pharo tightens his hold, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Not until you stop running away,” he snaps, his voice low but insistent, the intensity in his eyes matching the grip he has on me. “You don’t get to walk away from this without talking about it. Not again.”
I feel the heat rising in my chest, the frustration boiling over, my hands itching to push him away. My chest heaves, and I’m trying to keep my composure, but it's slipping fast. “You really think I owe you an explanation?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I curse myself for it.
“I can’t keep doing this, Pharo. I can’t keep pretending.”
“Pretending?” he shouts. “That shit was real, Jaxon. For both of us. Neither of us was pretending.”
“Pretending I don’t care,” I explain. The confession costs me a huge chunk of self-respect, but I don’t care anymore. I just want this nightmare to end.
Pharo's face softens, just a fraction, but it feels huge. The walls I’ve been holding up against him—the anger, the hurt, the betrayal—are slipping. I don’t know if I want them to or not.
