Page 18

CHAPTER 18

JAX

I keep glancing at the door like it’s the only thing in the room, hoping that any second now, Pharo will walk through it and break the tension that’s been building all day. The minutes tick by, slow and torturous, each second stretching longer than the last. My leg bounces anxiously, the constant motion almost a subconscious attempt to ground myself.

I curse under my breath and rub my palms over my jeans, hoping it'll settle the buzz in my system. Every damn thing feels loaded now. Every time he looks at me, I feel like he’s asking me to either sink or swim. And I’ve been treading water for far too long.

He wants to be friends.

He wants to fuck.

He wants me to know him and his mother better.

He wants… He wants more than I can give.

The door creaks open, and my heart skips a beat.

Pharo pauses in the doorway, taking in the room with that smirk of his, the one that always leaves me half-impressed, half-annoyed. His eyes scan the space, but I’m not sure if he’s looking at anyone else. All I know is that I’m caught in his orbit, and I hate how much I don’t mind it.

I swallow, forcing my hands to stay calm in my lap, and try to look anywhere but at him. Of course, that’s impossible. The pull is too strong.

Is he going to sit in his usual seat between Mandy and Rhett?

Or is he going to steal the seat beside me?

That would be too obvious. The Bitches know how much we can’t stand each other. What reason would Pharo have for choosing to sit closer to me? He might as well tell everyone we’ve been spending time together.

Sure enough, Pharo hesitates for a moment before doing the absolute last thing I expect. He starts walking straight toward me. My stomach drops as I try not to react, not to let the surprise show on my face.

What the hell is he doing?

He slides into the seat next to me, casual as hell, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment, I feel the ground shift under my feet. It’s like he’s planted himself there to make some kind of statement. The usual playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something else—something more serious, maybe even a little challenging.

“They just let anyone in here, huh?” He smiles at his joke, but I’m not smiling.

I freeze. Why would he do this? I can’t let him get away with making it appear like we’re... what, comfortable with each other?

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to break the tension, but my brain’s moving too slow. My pulse is racing, and I can’t stop my gaze from flickering over to him. The inches between us might as well have been a chasm a minute ago, but now—now it feels like a damn line in the sand.

He's too close.

This is all too much.

The Bitches are watching. They’re waiting for me to react. And I can already feel their eyes, like I’m starring in a movie they paid to see.

“Are we doing this?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but it’s not working. My voice cracks slightly, and I hate it.

Pharo just smirks, one eyebrow arching as he meets my gaze. “Doing what, exactly?”

I can feel my skin flush, but I won’t back down. Not now. Not with him sitting there like this, challenging everything we’ve built up—or destroyed—over the years.

“Don’t play games,” I mutter, trying to shove down the sudden tide of emotion.

He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, and the whole room goes quiet. Of course. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You know how this goes, Jax,” he murmurs, the teasing tone back in his voice, but underneath, there's a rawness that makes me pause. “We’re always playing games.”

It’s official. Things have shifted. We’re not just two people who can’t stand each other anymore.

And I have no idea what that means yet.

Riggs takes his seat and brings the introduction to a halt as he stares pointedly at us. “If the seating arrangement is a problem, you can take this opportunity to find a new seat.”

Pharo grins smugly. I’m so fucking annoyed to be the center of attention. “Thanks, Riggs, but I’m a big boy.”

I quickly turn away, my gaze darting around the room, trying to find something—anything—that isn’t him sitting way too close to me. The Bitches are still watching. They always are. My friends, my crew. They probably feel the tension. They’ve got to be wondering why Pharo, of all people, is sitting beside me. They’re waiting for me to make a move. To say something.

But I don’t know what to say.

He shifts in his seat, his thigh brushing against mine, and I swear my breath hitches. It’s not on purpose. Or at least, I tell myself it isn’t. He’s just that fucking close, and I can’t escape it.

Focus. I can't let him do this to me. He’s not going to make me feel something by sitting next to me. It’s just a seat. Just a fucking chair.

But the problem is, it’s not just a seat.

It’s Pharo.

I glance at him, and this time, it’s him who’s looking away, acting like he’s not aware of how his mere presence messes with my head. The way his hand is draped casually over the back of the chair like he belongs there—it makes my pulse spike.

Why the hell does he have to be so confident? So infuriatingly sure of himself, as if he knows exactly how much this fucks with me.

“Act natural. Take out your yarn and needles. Knit one of those hats you love,” he says after a beat, his voice soft, almost like he’s watching me, studying me.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. Leaning down, I grab my supplies from the bag at my feet. The charcoal grey yarn is in the beginning stages of what will be a new beanie.

He leans in a little closer, his face serious now, the playfulness gone. “Maybe I’m just tired of the games, too, Jax. Or maybe… maybe I’m tired of pretending we don’t want this. Don’t want each other .”

Motherfucker. He might as well shout it through a megaphone. Pharo doesn’t seem particularly worried about anyone overhearing or getting the wrong impression.

I shift in my chair, trying to regain some composure. “You’re out of your mind.”

His smirk widens, but there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Am I? Or maybe you're just afraid of what happens when you stop pretending.”

That hits harder than I want it to. Because he’s right. I’ve been pretending. I’ve been hiding behind the walls, the games, the bickering. But the truth is—deep down, I’m scared of what happens when I stop.

When I stop pretending, when I stop keeping him at arm's length.

“Just so you know,” I say sharply, “I’m not making this beanie for you.”

He dips his head close, his breath ghosting the shell of my ear. My heart skips a beat. “Don’t need it. I already have one of yours.”

He does? He must have stolen it, because I know for a fact I’ve never given him one. Why in the hell would I?

The bigger question is, why would he want one?

I’m dying to know the answer, but now isn’t the time to ask.

Riggs shoots us one last warning glare. “Suit yourselves, but remember, there’s no fighting in group. It’s my only rule.” He stares at each member of the circle, eyeing them carefully. “Who doesn’t have a lot going on this summer and wants to volunteer for a good cause?”

The room quiets for a second, the challenge hanging in the air as Riggs’s gaze lands on each of us, waiting for someone to bite. His eyes narrow when no one immediately speaks up. We all know that tone of his—he’s not asking out of kindness. He’s looking for someone to take the bait.

“Anyone?” he presses, his voice still sharp but with a hint of forced patience.

I feel a twinge of annoyance stir in my chest because I know exactly what he's doing. Riggs doesn’t ask unless he’s got something in mind—some mission, some task he wants done. He knows damn well how we all operate, and he’s testing to see who’ll crack first.

The silence stretches out awkwardly. It’s one of those rare moments when no one has anything to say. Normally, the guys are quick with a quip, but not today.

Riggs clears his throat.

Brandt kicks West.

Nash tips his chair back and points to Rhett behind his back.

“Well, I’d love to,” Stiles lies, “but I have a job.”

“Same,” West adds. “Brandt and I have boot camp and physical therapy.”

“I have therapy, too,” Rhett parrots, piggybacking on West’s lame excuse. “And I have to work.”

Nash’s chin bobs. “I have therapy, meetings, and… and… I’m sure I’ll have some work.” He rights his chair, and then tacks on, “I also have a cat and plant to care for. It’s a full-time job.”

Mandy stays quiet because he’s incapable of telling lies. He’s thinking them, though, because his cheeks flush bright red.

McCormick is next. “I’m almost positive I’m booked all summer. But I’ll get back to you, Riggs,” he says respectfully.

Pharo’s out because he’ll most likely be deployed. So that leaves me. I don’t have to tell lies, I just flat out don’t want to do it—whatever it is.

“This is fucking dumb,” I bitch. “We’re just going round and round in circles with our dicks in our hands. It’s literally the definition of stupidity.”

“It’s not stupidity,” Pharo snarks, “it’s the definition of a circle jerk.”

“Why are we sitting here arguing about dumb shit?” West asks, glancing around the group.

“Please,” Rhett snorts, swallowing his laughter. “I once wasted forty-five minutes arguing about the proper way to blow out the hem on my ABUs.”

Riggs rubs his temples like he’s warding off a headache. “That’s it. Consider yourselves voluntold. Problem solved.”

“Who?” I ask a little defensively? “Who’s being voluntold?”

Riggs fixes his steely gaze on me. “You, for starters. And every one of you who doesn’t punch a clock. Basically, everyone but Pharo and Stiles.”

Pharo grins.

Stiles blows out a relieved breath.

Everyone else whines and pouts.

“You still haven’t told us what we’re signing up for,” West points out.

“I’m so glad you asked,” Riggs says, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. He leans forward, resting his hands on his knees as he scans around the group, making sure every pair of eyes is on him. “You’re all going to volunteer as camp counselors this summer here at BALLS. They need all hands on deck.”

West furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed. “So we’re gonna babysit a bunch of kids for the summer?”

“Not babysit,” Riggs corrects, his tone too serious. “We’re going to mentor them. Guide them. Entertain them.” He pauses, clearly relishing the dramatic effect. “You’ll be helping with activities, tutoring, and just being a positive influence in their lives. Some of these kids don’t have much going for them, and we’re gonna give them something to look forward to.”

Nash’s expression is saying a whole lotta fuck this shit . “And what? We’re supposed to do all that for free? You know, I’ve got better things to do than play hero for a bunch of random kids.”

Nash shifts uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, clearly trying to protect himself. I can tell it's not about the kids, but about what volunteering might stir up inside him—emotions he’s not ready to face. Nash is easily triggered, and uncontrolled environments scare the shit out of him.

Mandy’s voice breaks the tension that’s building between Nash and Riggs. “I don’t mix well with kids,” he adds softly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off an old memory.

The silence that follows is thick, and everyone’s eyes flicker toward Mandy. His scars are hard to ignore, and we all know what they represent. It’s not just the physical ones, either; it’s the mental scars that make him vulnerable. He’s shared before that kids, especially when they’re scared of him, are one of his biggest triggers.

I peer over at Mandy, seeing the hurt behind his tough exterior. “You’re not gonna scare any kids, man,” I say, I say gently, hoping he believes it. “These kids? They’ll be more focused on what we can teach them than on how you look. Hell, if anything, you’ve got a story to tell, a real one. They could learn something from you.”

Mandy’s jaw tightens, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. It’s the closest I’ll get to seeing him soften, and I’m not going to push him too hard on this. But, goddamn, I know this is something he’s going to have to work through. If he decides to go through with this.

Riggs, ever the relentless bastard, pushes on, unfazed by the discomfort in the room. “That’s the whole point, Mandy,” he says, trying to rally us. “They need to see real people. Not some faceless adult who only shows up to lecture them. You guys have lived through shit, and if anyone can connect with those kids, it’s you.” Mandy doesn’t seem convinced. “If it becomes a problem, we can find you something to do behind the scenes.”

I catch Nash’s eyes and see that he’s still wrestling with the idea, his posture stiff and defensive. He’s not the type to open up easily, and he’s afraid of getting hurt—afraid of appearing vulnerable in front of people, especially kids. He doesn’t want to face whatever might come up if he’s forced into a situation that’s beyond his control.

“I don’t know, man,” Nash mutters, shaking his head. “I just don’t deal well with… things that remind me of my own shit.”

I get it. I get it more than I want to admit. That’s part of why I’m even considering this bullshit project. It’s not about the kids, either. It’s about me not wanting to be the one who hides from life anymore, like Nash is trying to do. But that’s a different story.

Riggs doesn’t back down. “You’ll be fine, Nash. All you have to do is show up, and it’ll be a hell of a lot easier than sitting at home stewing in your head. Brewer has already cleared you,” he adds, referring to the resident head doc and Nash’s partner.

“You realize we’re BALLS counselors?” McCormick asks, breaking the awkwardness with a ball joke. “Anyone having any issues they need to discuss? Jock itch? Chafing? Ingrown hairs? Unexplained blisters?”

“Why don’t you come over here and counsel my balls, Mac?” West jokes.

McCormick laughs, tossing up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just trying to make this more comfortable, alright?” He winks. “I’ve got a whole arsenal of remedies, guys. Seriously. If anyone needs any... specialized attention, you know where to find me.”

Riggs groans, rubbing his temples. “We're not doing this again, McCormick.”

“Come on, Riggs,” McCormick presses, clearly enjoying himself. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had that issue before. Don’t make me ask Rhett.”

West snorts, tossing a grin McCormick’s way. “I’m not gonna lie, man, there have been times I thought I was gonna have to call the fire department. Beard burn!”

Nash snickers reluctantly, his shoulders still tense, but at least the mood’s lightening up. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Enough with the ball talk. Let's just... get back to the part where we all agree to sign up for this thing and try not to look like a bunch of pansies.”

I snicker under my breath, glancing around the circle. Even Riggs cracks a smile, though he’s trying to keep the focus on the task at hand.

Mandy seems hesitant but bobs his chin. “Fine, whatever. If it helps kids, I’m in.”

Nash throws up his hands. “Alright, I guess if we're doing this, we’re doing it for the kids and not... ball issues.”

McCormick slaps him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

Riggs glances around, his earlier seriousness returning, but with a hint of pride in his voice. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Alright, let’s share, and no more ball jokes.”

The guys start chatting again, the mood shifting into a more comfortable, familiar rhythm. And for once, I feel like I’m actually in a place where maybe... just maybe... I can stop running from the things that make me uncomfortable, like Mandy and Nash.

I’m not alone in this. It’s something we all struggle with to different degrees, and if we stick together, we’ll get through it just fine.

Eventually.

But those kids at summer camp? I can’t guarantee they’ll be fine whatsoever. Not with the Bitches as their counselors.