Page 9 of Coming In Hot
“I didn’t kill him, Jax,” Pharo sighs tiredly. “It was fate, or the universe, or karma, or his own fucking blind stupidity, but it wasn’t me.”
The tone of his voice is calm, like he’s stating a simple fact, instead of his skewed version of our past.
“I guess we’ll agree to disagree.” My eyes rake contemptuously down his body one last time, landing on his newly stitched scar. Stepping closer to him, I raise my hand to his chest and lay my palm over his hard pec. He flexes the muscle beneath his warm, smooth skin, making me want to squeeze it. Instead, I twist his nipple between my thumb and forefinger until he doubles over in pain. “The next time someone tries to kill you, I hope they aim a little higher, in the place where your heart used to be.”
I stormed out the front door, wishing he wasn’t right behind me, blocking it with his body, so I could slam it shut. Pharo somehow finds a way to sneak in the last parting shot that robs me of the satisfaction of leaving.
He stands straight and tall, rubbing his abused nipple. “Hey, the next time you stop by,” he calls out, “don’t forget to water the plants in the flower bed. They’re looking a little dry.”
Stupid son of a bitch.
CHAPTER4
PHARO
The woundon my left side burns like hellfire as I fold my six-foot-four frame into the tiny plastic chair. That Brotherhood fucker got me good before disappearing into the crowd. Burning hot from adrenaline, I didn’t even realize I’d been stabbed until much later.
The rest of the guys file in and complete the circle. The Bitches with Stitches. My lip curls as I laugh to myself. I guess I’m one of them, but I dare anyone to call me a bitch.
Years ago, I started coming to this group because of Jax. But it’s the rest of the guys that I stayed for. Guys like Mandy, with his horrible burns that disfigure half of his face and upper torso, are struggling to repair their self-esteem and confidence. Guys like McCormick and West, who lost a limb but are realizing it doesn’t change who they are or what they’re capable of. Guys like Stiles and Brandt, who are full of compassion and support despite fighting their own demons. And Nash, who’s so haunted by his nightmares he turned to drugs and alcohol to escape. Or Rhett, who is so young and so full of daring and courage. He reminds me of myself at his age.
They welcomed me with open arms, even though I don’t ever share anything about myself, and my attendance is sporadic due to my job. They’ve become my brothers, and although I would never tell them that, I appreciate each one of them. I look forward to coming to these meetings. For an hour twice a week, I can turn off my brain and just listen, just step back and absorb life happening around me without feeling like I need to lead or act.
Jax won’t share if I’m present. I don’t know if he shares when I’m gone, but I get the feeling he’s as closed off as I am. When I learned where he settled after being discharged from the service, right next door to my hometown of Asheville, North Carolina, I followed him out here under the guise of needing services at Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers—or BALLS. But the real reason was that he was in bad shape, and I felt compelled to keep an eye on him. I’m not responsible for his buddy’s death like he blames me for, but for some unexplainable reason, I feel responsible for Jax.
Maybe just to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.
Maybe because I was his Master Sergeant, and I busted my balls to keep him safe for two years while we served overseas.
Maybe it’s in my DNA to protect those who are doing a piss-poor job of doing it for themselves.
But whatever the reason, here we are. He hates my fucking guts. Jax can’t stand to even look at me, and I do my best to ignore his bullshit.
Except for right now, because I can’t stop my eyes from sliding to him every few seconds, wondering if he’s giving me his usual spiteful glare, or if he’s looking at me differently after last night.
After I discovered there was no one trying to break in, I laughed, realizing I’d busted him trying to be sneaky. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen his face pop up on my security camera, waving to the guard as he pretends to haul my cans to the curb or check my mail. Fucking hilarious. He thinks he’s so slick, but Jaxon James is the most obvious sneak I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.
He sucks at it. Almost as bad as he sucks at knitting.
My eyes slide to him. Yeah, he’s staring back all right, but looking more hateful than ever. Which means he’s overthinking last night. Jax surprised the shit out of me, pushing his way inside, and insisting he provide better medical treatment than I can give myself. Why would he care if I were bleeding out? Why did he want to play nurse to a man he can’t stand?
He’ll have even more questions now that he knows I was stabbed. I only piqued his curiosity further. He’ll be all over me like flies on shit. Jax knows I’m lying, and he’s determined to bust me. If I know him, and I do, Jax will stop at nothing to prove his point.
“We’re making plans for our first official vacation as a couple,” Brandt explains, sounding excited. “A ski trip planned for Valentine’s Day.”
“Dude, we’re not really going away. The ski resort is like forty-five minutes from here,” West points out. “And that’s all you’re getting out of us,” he tells the group, stabbing his knitting needle in each man’s direction. “I won’t have any of you Bitches crashing my plans.”
A glance around the circle shows a few slightly disappointed faces. I would go Armageddon-level ballistic if I planned a romantic getaway with my partner, and these guys invited themselves along. Or worse, Jax started his snooping bullshit and followed us. Hell-fucking-no!
Brewer, Nash’s partner, who runs the addiction support group next door, interrupts the meeting. Brewer uses his back to push his way through the door, carrying a casserole dish with both hands. He sets it on the back table beside the coffee and knitting supplies.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Brewer starts. “I don’t know who keeps dropping off food for our meeting,” he says vaguely, but he’s staring at McCormick, “but please stop. And by please, I mean you better fucking quit.”
“What’s wrong with the food?” McCormick asks, clearly giving himself away.
Brewer coughs politely. “Some of the group members have complained that it’s so bad it’s triggering them and making them crave a stiff drink to cover the foul taste.”
The guys snicker, including me. I can’t help it. I’ve never eaten anything McCormick made because it looks so inedible. I can only imagine what it tastes like. But if it’s so bad that it makes the recovering addicts next door want to use again, I thank God I’ve steered clear of it.
