Page 8 of Coming In Hot
I pierce his skin harder than necessary, and he flinches.
“I told you, I’m here to prove that you’re a fucking liar.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” His breath ghosts my cheek, and I have to fight back the urge to shudder.
“The fuck am I lying about?”
“You’re here, aren’t you? Stitching me up. Tending to my wounds.” He says it with a smartass smile on his face. If only I could stitch his lips closed like this cut. “You think I don’t know that it’s you who takes my garbage cans from the curb and checks my mail?”
Fuck. “How would you know that?” I snap.
“I’ve never met my neighbors. Why would they care? This place is rigged up with the best security. I see you every time you stop by.”
Embarrassment colors my cheeks. I’ve been here at least six times, and he’s seen me every time. “I served with you in Iraq. The Internet was spotty and limited. Interesting how easily you can access your home security system from… where did you say you were stationed?”
“I didn’t,” he grins. “Looks like the only one of us busted in a lie is you.”
Seething with anger, I finish closing his wound and knot the thread. He must be fresh from the shower because the scab on his cheek has softened, and it’s seeping. I smear salve on it, feeling hyperaware of his eyes on me. I’m standing way too close. Breathing him in, touching him, it’s affecting my judgment. It feels like he can see right through me, like I have no defenses to guard against his prying eyes.
I have to get out of here.
“You’re good to go.” I duck out of the bathroom, leaving the med kit and trash for him to take care of.
Pharo follows close behind.
As I pass through the living room, my eyes land on the silver-framed photo on the console table. A five-by-seven photograph of our team taken in Iraq. Seven men leaning against a Humvee with the sun shining down on our dirty faces. Dressed in fatigues with rifles in our hands, we’re all smiles.
Because we were together.
Because we were all still alive.
Because we were brothers.
I grab it off the console and shake it in his face. “What the fuck is this?!”
Casually, he peers at the photo. “You should know, that’s you standing next to me.”
“Why do you have this? Displayed like you’re proud of it or some shit!”
I’m shouting, anger frothing from my mouth like bile. How fucking dare he!
Pharo takes the frame from me and carefully sets it back on the table. “I have every right to have that picture, same as you do.”
“You have no right! You lost that right when Jordan died. It’s your fault he’s gone.”
Pharo’s face tightens. “It’s not my fault. It was never my fault. I’m sick and tired of you placing blame on me where it doesn’t belong. You know what your problem is? You care too much. You need to care less.”
“Motherfucker! You don’t care at all!” I cock my arm back and let my fist fly, but Pharo stops it mid-swing, denying me the satisfaction of connecting with his stupid face.
His powerful grip crushes my fist, making my knuckles scream for mercy.
“That’s fine. You can hit me. You can hate me. You can wish for my death, but even if I’m gone, you’re still going to be angry and miserable. My death won’t absolve your grief.”Fuck him and his sage fucking wisdom.“You’re always going to be a miserable fucker until you learn to let go. Do you know why you hate me?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I snarl, not wanting to hear what comes next.
“Because I’m not miserable like you,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm.
“No, I hate you because you killed my best friend.”
