Page 11

CHAPTER 11

JAX

The sun is barely kissing the peaks as I twist the throttle, pulling away from the edge of the world below. The wind whips my face, and I can feel the cool bite of the morning air, crisp and fresh, just how I like it. The hum of the engine beneath me is a steady rhythm, matching the beat of my heart as I lean into the curves of these mountain roads. Each bend feels like an invitation to escape, to shed everything slowing me down.

Around me, the mountains stretch on, timeless and rugged. The trees are thick with green, the pines and oaks rising to meet the sky. I breathe it all in—the pine-scented air, the earth beneath my tires, the sounds of my bike cutting through the silence of the wild. The road twists and turns, narrow and winding, each corner offering a new view of the landscape below.

The ride is almost meditative, my mind settling into the rhythm of the road. What was that shit with Pharo yesterday? Just when I think I’ve dealt with one problem, another surfaces.

The memory comes back to me. "So, that’s still there." The way he said it, like it was a question, but not. More like a statement wrapped in disbelief. As if he couldn't quite grasp how something so broken could still remain, still hold its place in the world.

Yeah, motherfucker, it’s still there. It’s been there all along, waiting for me to remember, to face it. Another part of the wreckage he left behind, another reason to hate him. How could I have been attracted to him? How could I have fallen for someone who tore my life apart so easily? Someone who ripped away the one thing I needed to survive the darkest, most suffocating time of my life—when I was broken, lost, and desperate for any kind of anchor. And he took it. He took Jordan from me, without hesitation, without remorse.

Until now. All these years, my anger has festered like a cancer. Eroding my compassion, my humanity.

I hate him for it. But I hate myself more for still wanting him. For still feeling that pull, even now, even after everything. It’s like a sickness, a weakness I can’t seem to shake. It eats away at me, that twisted combination of desire and rage, the way his memory lingers in my veins, in my breath, in every corner of my mind.

I felt it the night I stitched him up in his bathroom.

I feel it every time he walks into group, every time his eyes land on me, or I hear the deep timber of his voice when he speaks.

That little hitch in my chest is always there, buried beneath the resentment and the pain. My hate for him has so many layers, it’s like a hate lasagna—each one stacked on top of the other, each one toxic like poison. Jordan’s death is the first layer. The deepest, most bitter one, the one that still feels raw even after all this time. I can’t even think about it without my chest tightening, that pain flooding back like it was yesterday.

The second layer is my attraction. The fact that, despite everything, I still fucking want him. How is it possible to hate someone so much and still feel that pull? That twisted, magnetic force that keeps drawing me back to him, even though he’s the one who wrecked my life. I can’t stand myself for it. I can’t stand him for making me feel that way.

The third layer, though, is what gets under my skin the most. It’s his complete indifference to the aftermath of all this—his total lack of responsibility for anything that happened. He just fucking walked away, like nothing mattered. Like, I didn’t matter. Like Jordan didn’t matter. And now he’s acting like he can fix all of it with a few empty apologies, with some bullshit conversation that will make it all go away. “Let’s hug it out, let bygones be bygones, bury the hatchet,” he might as well say. It’s insulting. It’s infuriating.

I’d like to bury the fucking hatchet, all right. Right in his back. Let him feel the consequence of everything he’s done, the years of pain, the years of bitterness that he thinks can just disappear with some weak apology. If only it were that easy.

The road opens up ahead, and I twist the throttle again, pushing forward, but my resentment stays with me, lingering on my mind, echoing off the granite mountains. “So, that’s still there.”

Yeah. It’s still there. Just like everything else.

I lean into another curve, the tires gripping the road just right, and I let out a breath. Eventually, I end up at the Smokes and Spokes, a little dive bar on the edge of the county line. The American Legion Riders end up there every Sunday. The smell of stale beer never fully leaves. It's the sort of place where you can sit in the corner, disappear into the haze of smoke and low hum of country music, and no one will bother you.

Except when it’s packed with ALR. They’re a different breed—hard as nails, with the kind of camaraderie you can’t fake, the kind of bond forged through miles of open road and years of shared experiences. Some are current or retired law enforcement. Others work construction and trade jobs, or run their own businesses. All are former service members. It’s the one requirement for membership.

I do a quick scan of the room, my eyes drifting over the familiar faces, but I don’t see the two I’m searching for—Stiles and McCormick. I’d know if they were here. They stick out like sore thumbs. I settle back in my seat, nursing the drink the bartender just slid in front of me. That’s my limit when I’m riding, just one drink. I hit my vape, the soft cloud of coconut and mandarin swirling in the air chases the lingering taste of sour hops on my tongue. Sliding my phone from my backet pocket, I pull up the Bitches’ group chat.

Yo, Stiles, McCormick, where you at? Obviously not at Smokes & Spokes.

Stiles responds immediately.

Stiles:

There’s a Pimp My Bike marathon on. We’re on the couch.

Thinking of those two cuddled together, most likely in their underwear, or maybe not even that much, makes me crave another drink to wipe my head clean.

There’s no point hanging around if they’re not here. I slide a ten-dollar bill across the bartop, and the bartender gives me a nod as I stand, and I walk out without turning back.

My boots crunch on the gravel as I head toward my bike. I throw my leg over the seat and for a moment, I just sit there, hands on the grips, eyes on the empty stretch of road ahead. The world feels a little too still, like something’s waiting to break the silence.

I rev the engine once, just to hear it roar to life, and then I twist the throttle, rolling out of the lot, the mountains around me swallowing up the sound of the engine, and the sound of everything in my head.

* * *

Joey's message flashes across my screen.

Joey:

Have you read anything interesting lately?

He’s referring to the files he sent the other day. I tilt my chair back and glance at the folder on my desktop screen marked King Tut . The name’s fitting—a nod to Pharo’s heritage, sure, but also a perfect match for his inflated ego. The man honestly thinks he rules over everything and everyone. Maybe because someone once had the dumb intuition to make him Master Sergeant, or maybe he’s just conceited as hell. Heck, it could be a little of both.

I take a slow breath, tapping my fingers against the armrest, debating my response. Do I tell him everything? Do I give him anything at all?

Nothing I can act on just yet. But it's all there. Just waiting for the right moment.

This started out as a way to bust Pharo for lying, to pull back the curtain and expose the man for the fraud he is. It was supposed to be about the truth. Simple. Clean.

But now? It’s about his safety.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted. What was once a mission to destroy the superhero facade he’s been hiding behind is now tangled in something darker, something more dangerous. If I take this any further, if I expose everything I know, I’m not just digging into his lies—I’m putting him in a place where no one can protect him.

I glance at the folder again, and I know this isn’t just about vengeance anymore. It’s about knowing when to step back and when to pull the trigger. And right now, I’m standing at that line.

It was once his job to keep me safe. As my commanding officer, Pharo was supposed to watch out for me, prioritize my safety above all else. Even if he ultimately failed Jordan—and God knows that’s a failure I can never forgive him for—he didn’t fail me. He made sure I came back from every mission with my skin intact, my bones unbroken. Alive, with all my limbs still where they should be. And that’s more than I can say for some of my friends.

But now, it's my turn to do the same for him.

Not that he asked for it. Pharo doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t know how to ask for help. Like I said, he’s conceited—clad in arrogance and wrapped up in a false sense of power. King Tut .

I could turn my back. I could wash my hands of this mess, let him figure it out himself. But I can’t. Not now. Not after everything. Someone has to make sure Pharo comes home with all his limbs intact. Even if he never asked for it. Even if he doesn’t know how to want it. Someone has to watch out for him. And right now, that someone is me.

I’ll keep watching, keep waiting, because when it’s all said and done, if anyone’s going to kill, maim, and torture that dumb motherfucker, it’s gonna be me. It’s my right. I’ve fucking earned it.

I’m about to toss a frozen dinner in the microwave—cheap, quick, nothing worth savoring—when there’s a knock at the door. I pause, wondering who could be stopping by? It’s late, and I’ve already had a wellness check-in from Riggs once this week.

The very last person I expected to see is Pharo, casually leaning against the frame, but with that look in his eyes—the one that says he regrets even having to be here.

That makes two of us.

I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice. “What?” My tone is short, as is my patience.

Pharo doesn’t budge, just keeps his eyes on me with that same unreadable expression. “We need to talk.”

“Twice in one week?” I scoff, crossing my arms, irritation bubbling under my skin. “What’d I do to deserve such torture?”

He gives a sharp exhale, but doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh either. Just stands there, like he’s trying to decide if I’m even worth explaining things to. For a second, I almost wonder if he’s just going to turn around and leave, like it’s some kind of joke. But then he steps inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

“I’m leaving town,” he says, his voice low.

I think about the file sitting on my desktop—the one detailing the dangers of his job, the risks he’s constantly running, the enemies he’s made along the way. It’s all in there, pages and pages of intel, of warnings, of everything that could go wrong. Bile pools in my stomach, souring it like a corrosive acid.

I walk away and leave him standing there. If he has more to say, he’ll come inside and say it, or he can take off. I don’t need a heads-up on his whereabouts. The microwave beeps, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room. I pull the cardboard tray out, steam rising from the plastic, and grab a fork.

He follows me into the kitchen, his face pinching as he breathes in the scent of my burnt salisbury steak.

“This isn’t much better than an MRE,” he complains, his voice dripping with that same condescending tone he always uses, like he’s too good for anything that doesn’t come with a side of luxury.

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I stab the steak with my fork, the plastic of the tray cracking under the pressure. The food’s dry and overcooked, but it’s the least of my concerns right now.

“You're welcome to leave,” I say, my voice flat as I take another bite, deliberately ignoring him. “You don’t have to stay and suffer through this.”

Pharo doesn't leave, though. He lingers in the doorway, watching me with that unreadable expression on his face. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t care.

Finally, he speaks. “I came to ask you for a favor.”

The look I shoot him is enough to remind him he has no business asking me for anything. I don’t owe him shit. We’re not friends. Hell, I’m not sure what we are anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t a relationship built on favors.

Pharo raises his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to soften the blow. “I know, I know,” he placates, “but this is important.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to keep digging himself deeper. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a frustrated sigh. A few

loose strands fall from his bun, the golden highlights framing his rugged face. For a second, I almost forget I’m supposed to be pissed at him. Almost.

“I need you to look after my mom while I’m gone,” he says, his voice dropping a little. “This might shock you, but there’s nobody I trust more.”

Shock me? Hell, I’m stupefied. Dumbfounded. My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, and I stare at him like he just asked me to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

“You’re asking me to look after your mom?” It comes out slower than I intend, like I’m trying to process what’s actually happening here. “The same mom you’ve never mentioned once before in… I don’t know, years? That mom?”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah. That mom.”

I set the fork down, my eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of what he’s asking. There’s a part of me that’s almost pissed off—no, scratch that, I am pissed off. After everything he’s put me through, he’s standing here, asking me to take care of his mom like I’m some trusted friend or partner, even.

“You’ve got some nerve, Pharo,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than to him. “You show up here, after all this time, after everything , and you want me to babysit your mom? What the hell do you think I am?”

He leans in, voice lower now, and for the first time, I see that flicker of real vulnerability in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to,” he says, the edge in his voice softer. “Just... keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s okay. I can’t do it right now, but I know you can.”

The part of me that still holds onto whatever shred of loyalty I have left to him hesitates, but the other part—the part that’s been burned by him too many times—wants to laugh in his face.

I exhale slowly, leaning back against the counter, my mind running through a dozen different responses. “Why me?” I ask finally, my voice low. “Why the hell would you trust me with something like this?”

Pharo stares at me, eyes serious. “Because I know you’ll do it. You may hate me, and I may have fucked up in every way possible, but you’re the only one I know who’d keep her safe without asking for anything in return. And I don’t have anyone else.”

He trusts me? After I’ve tailed him, snooped through his shit, trespassed, and cursed him six ways from Sunday at least twice a day for years? That’s… nuts.

I stare at him, the absurdity of it all sinking in. The nerve of him, asking me, of all people, for a favor. And the crazy part? He’s expecting me to say yes.

He must be lonelier than I am if he’s willing to rely on me for something this important. I don’t even know how to process that. Pharo doesn’t trust anyone—not really. But here he is, asking me to watch over his mom like it’s some kind of simple, routine thing.

I shake my head slowly, trying to make sense of it all, but I’m coming up short. “You really think I’m the right person for this?” I ask, though the question feels pointless. It’s not like he’s going to back down now.

Pharo doesn’t look away. His expression is serious, like he’s already made his mind up, and he’s willing to bet on me—for whatever reason. “I don’t have anyone else, alright? I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

The silence between us stretches out, thick and uncomfortable. There’s so much unspoken history hanging in the air. I want to refuse. I want to tell him to take his favor and shove it. But when I gaze at him, something in his eyes makes me hesitate. It’s not pity or desperation—it’s trust. And that’s what makes it so damn complicated.

I’ve spent years resenting him, but that trust... it hits differently. It feels like a responsibility I can’t ignore.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I say finally, my voice sharp. “I’m doing it for her.”

Pharo dips his head, a flicker of something—relief?—crossing his face. “That’s all I need.”

That expression on his face, though… I know that look. I recognize it from the service, from staring into my buddies’ eyes. The quiet kind of desperation, the one that doesn’t need to be spoken but says everything. He doesn’t know when he’s coming back.

I feel my stomach tighten, an uncomfortable knot forming. It’s the same look we’d give each other right before a mission—when the odds weren’t in our favor, when we didn’t know if we’d make it back in one piece.

And now it’s him, not me, facing the unknown.

I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, my gaze drifting away from him.

“How long are you planning on being gone?” I ask, trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

Pharo hesitates, his gaze flickering away. “I don’t know. A while. My team needs me, and after Arlo’s injury, they’re a man down. I can’t just walk away.”

I can hear the responsibility he feels for his team. But there’s a part of me that’s still struggling with his request. It’s not easy to process, but I’m not going to back down now.

I can’t walk away from this, not with him staring at me like that—like he’s trusting me, like he has no one else.

“Also,” he adds, “she thinks I’m a security guard, so…”

The idea of Pharo dressed in a rent-a-cop suit, carrying a baton and a walkie-talkie instead of a rifle and a knife is so ludicrous I almost laugh out loud. I breathe out the air in my lungs, pushing away any lingering doubt. My resolve hardens. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on her. But you owe me a favor as well.”

Pharo doesn’t hesitate, his eyes locking onto mine with the intensity I remember all too well. “Of course. Anything. Just name it.”

There’s one thing that’s been gnawing at me, something I need to hear. I’m not sure why I’m asking it, but it feels like it’s the only way I can take control of the situation.

“You have to promise to come back in one piece,” I say, voice low. “Alive and well.”

He blinks, and for a second, I think he’s going to laugh or brush it off like it’s no big deal. But then his expression changes. He straightens up, eyes serious, maybe even a little softer than they’ve ever been with me.

“I promise,” he says, no hesitation, no joking, just a simple vow. “I’ll come back. You have my word.”

I incline my head, a mixture of frustration and relief swirling in my chest. Maybe it’s a stupid thing to ask. Maybe it’s too much. But it’s the only way I can trust him, the only way I can even think about helping him.

And with that, the deal is sealed. The promise settles over me like a noose around my neck. But I’m not walking away from this. Not when he’s given me a promise that feels like it’s as fragile as everything else between us.

“Hey,” he adds, snagging a dehydrated green bean from my tray. “Maybe when I get back, you can finally buy me that dinner.”

The tart sauce sticks to the back of my tongue, choking me as I cough, struggling to breathe. “Not a fucking chance,” I manage to spit out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Pharo laughs, but it’s light, a little strained, like he's trying to keep things casual. I know he’s probably expecting me to crack a joke, or at least smile, but I can’t muster it.

I shoot him a look—one part annoyance, one part I don’t know. “You’re lucky I’m doing this for you at all, let alone the fact that you’re still talking about dinner after all this shit.”

Pharo shrugs, his lips quirking up slightly, but he knows better than to push it. “Yeah, well, I’m still holding out hope.”

I turn away, grabbing the tray and heading to the trash. The thought of ever buying him a meal, after everything, feels like a betrayal of something I can't quite describe. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still pissed.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter, tossing the tray into the bin. “And don’t forget your promise to come back in one piece. Otherwise, you won’t even get a green bean from me.”

His expression softens just a bit, and he nods, acknowledging the significance of his promise.

“Deal,” he says again, the word carrying more meaning now than it did before.

Pharo leans in close. His thumb brushes across my lip, wiping away the sauce from the corner of my mouth, which I must’ve missed. The touch is slow, deliberate, a reminder of the history between us I can’t forget. He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he sucks the sauce from his thumb, his golden eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. The heat in those eyes is unmistakable, a promise that feels too close for comfort, too dangerous to entertain.

For a second, time feels like it stops. There’s no sound except for the thudding of my heart in my chest. He’s so damn close, the warmth of his breath brushing against my skin. I want to push him away, but I can’t. My body’s betraying me in ways I can’t explain.

He steps back, leaving me standing there in the kitchen, frozen. He doesn’t say another word.

He doesn’t need to.

I’m left staring after him, caught between the man I used to know, the one who had a place in my life I can’t fully erase, and the one I’m still trying to figure out—the one who’s asking for more than I know how to give.

And that’s the part I’m most afraid of.