Page 7 of Coming In Hot
Not waiting for him to show me where it is, I shoulder past him and stomp down the hall, turning into the first bathroom I see. I swing the door on the medicine cabinet open, only to find it empty. A spare toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a tube of toothpaste, probably for guests.
Guests?Who the fuck does he have over?
Continuing down the hall, I find his bedroom and enter the attached bathroom. Sure enough, his medicine cabinet is stocked full of supplies. Gauze pads and bandages, iodine, alcohol, and lidocaine. I grab the suture kit and lidocaine. Pharo catches up with me, still clutching his side as he leans against the door frame. His massive size fills the entire doorway.
“Do you want to do this sitting down or standing up?” Eyeing the massive king-size bed behind him, I add, “Or we can do this lying down.”
He eyes the needle between my fingers skeptically. “You really think I’m going to let you near me with sharp objects?”
Smart man. Well, not really, but smarter than I gave him credit for. “We both know I’m better at this than you are. You can’t stitch for shit. I’ve seen your handiwork on some of my teammates.” The reminder of the guys we used to serve with, both alive and gone, is a bitter pill to swallow.
Why the fuck am I here?
“Why the fuck are you here?” Pharo asks, echoing my thoughts out loud.
“I was… I wanted to…” The question catches me off guard. There’s no good answer. I’m here because I was snooping, because I don’t believe a word he says, and because I would risk anything to expose him for the lying piece of shit he is.
And because I’m a nosy motherfucker, and Pharo is this mysterious, unsolvable Rubik's cube that I’m determined to figure out.
But, of course, I can’t say any of that.
“Do you want me to fix you up or not?” I snap, glaring.
Pharo chuffs and reluctantly slides his ass onto the counter. He’s so tall that he doesn’t even have to hop up. Spreading his thighs, he makes a place for me to stand between them, and my breath catches.
I don’t want to stand this close to him, between his legs, just inches from his chest and face. I don’t want to touch him or heal him, or show him even the smallest kindness, but I also can’t turn around and walk away, knowing he needs help. Damn my conscience!
His musky body wash invades my nose. God forbid he buy a common brand from the pharmacy down the street, like the rest of us normal people. No, Pharo has to buy some designer shit, probably made by the same company that sells his fancy cologne.
Christ, he smells incredible. Fuck him.
Either his body is throwing off heat like a furnace, or it’s hot as hell in this bathroom. I'm beginning to sweat, and if he were anyone else, I would even consider taking my shirt off. But he’s not anyone else. He’s Pharo Kendrix, and I hate him. And my shirt is staying on.
I douse his wound with more lidocaine than needed and smile with satisfaction when he hisses.
“How did you get stabbed?”
“Who said I was stabbed?” There's an unmistakable challenge in his golden eyes.
“Obviously, you were. It’s not hard to believe other people hate you as much, if not more, than I do.”
He chuckles, and the easy laughter makes me want to strangle him.
“Deployment is dangerous work. There are all kinds of unexpected hazards.”
My anger rises to the surface all too quickly. “Look, we both know you’re not in the reserves. You can sell that bullshit lie to someone else, someone who’s either gullible and dumb, or doesn’t care enough to fact check you, but I’m not buying it.”
He stares hard into my eyes as I focus on threading the needle. “Which one are you?” he asks with a catch in his husky voice, “the former or the latter?”
“Neither. I’m not stupid, and theonlyreason I’m here is to fact-check you.”
I press my thumb and index finger on either side of his wound and pinch the ragged sides together before stabbing his flesh with my needle. “This might hurt,” I warn a little too late.
His muscles tense beneath my fingers, creating a ripple of toned abs. “Careful, Jax,” Pharo warns. “It almost sounds like you care.”
The thought is so absurd I can’t help but snort. “You fucking wish. I just don’t need another death on my conscience to deal with. In fact, if you want to get yourself killed, that’s fine with me. I’ve been trying to write you off for years.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Writing me off?”
