Page 28

CHAPTER 28

JAX

The stretch of highway behind us is still humming in my blood when we pull off at a rest stop just shy of nowhere. Asphalt heat, leather seats, and the unmistakable musk of road sweat—smells like brotherhood.

McCormick swings off his bike and groans like a man twice his age. “I swear, I was taller this morning.”

“You were never tall,” Stiles says, cracking his neck as he paces in a tight circle. “You just had better posture before your spine gave up.”

“Eat shit,” McCormick shoots back, flipping him off. “You can’t remember to change your underwear, but you remember how tall I used to be?”

I tune them out, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders until they pop. The sun’s starting to dip, and the idea of a cold drink is suddenly top priority.

After a rest and then a few more miles, we end up at Smokes and Spokes, just like every Sunday. Neon signs flicker like they’re giving up the ghost, and the parking lot’s more pothole than pavement. The smell of stale beer smacks me in the face as soon as I step foot through the door.

We slide into a booth, order drinks, and start arguing over who won the last poker night (it was me, and everyone knows it except the sore losers in denial).

And then?—

The bell above the door jingles, and Pharo walks in like he owns the damn joint.

Which is weird. Because he’s not one of us. He’s not affiliated with the ALR. He’s not supposed to be here.

My gut does this weird, traitorous flip.

Dressed in black jeans and a shirt the same color—the boots, the ponytail—he looks seriously out of place. Then again, he always does. Pharo just carries himself differently. A God among mortals. His movements—quiet confidence, easy swagger, and a smirk hinting at inside knowledge—are his trademark.

And trailing behind him is Joey!

She spots me and lights up like a damn sunrise. “Hey, Jaxy!”

“Hey,” I say, wary. The fuck is she doing here? With him?

Pharo grins, claps my shoulder like we’re best buds, and plops into the seat across from me like he’s invited. Joey slides in beside him, practically vibrating with excitement. She’s wearing that groupie-stalker grin I saw the other night when she met Pharo, the night she couldn’t take her eyes off him long enough to even spare me a glance. Just like she’s doing right now. She giggles, and I swear she’s blushing.

I recognize that laugh. It’s the

I-like-you-but-I’m-trying-not-to-make-it-weird kind.

Spoiler: it’s weird.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” McCormick says, eyebrows shooting up.

Pharo doesn’t even blink. “Heard you girls were in the area. Figured I’d say hi.”

Joey giggles again, tucking her short hair behind her ear like she’s in a shampoo commercial. Seriously?

Does she not realize he’s gay?

I hate gigglers. How did I ever mistake her for a sharp-witted genius hacker? A male hacker.

Stiles, ever the instigator, nudges McCormick and stage-whispers, “Ten bucks says Jax’s blood pressure just spiked.”

“Make it twenty,” McCormick says. “Look at his jaw. That’s a clench.”

I ignore them. Barely.

Joey leans toward Pharo, eyes sparkling. “Pharo helped me fix my car the other day. He’s so handy.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, voice flat. “Did he teach you how to rotate the air in your tires, too?”

McCormick coughs into his drink. Stiles loses it completely.

Joey blinks, missing the sarcasm by a mile. “No, but that sounds useful—can you do that?”

Pharo just grins like a smug bastard and flags our server.

“So,” Joey says brightly, leaning across the table to place her hand on my arm. “Pharo was just telling me about this time he outran a storm on the backroads not far from here. It sounded terrifying.”

“Mostly just wet,” Pharo mutters. His gaze is on where her hand is touching me. Huh.

“But heroic,” she insists, eyes wide. “You’re so brave.”

I don’t roll my eyes, but I feel the ghost of an eye roll tickling my brain.

“Is that right? He sounds like a real road warrior,” I say, trying to sound as impressed as she does. “Did Pharo also tell you about the motel and the?—”

That smug fucker kicks me under the table with his boot.

Our server drops off two glasses, and Joey reaches for one. “So, are you guys staying long? Maybe we could all hang out tomorrow. Go for a ride? I’m sure Pharo wouldn’t mind showing me a few more back roads.”

I don’t look at Pharo, because if I do, I’ll probably say something dumb. Or worse— honest .

“Yeah,” I say drily. “He’s good at leading people in circles.”

That gets Pharo’s attention. He turns to me, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Just you, JJ. You’re special like that.”

Joey blinks between us, then grins sweetly. Too sweetly. “You two always bicker like this? It’s kind of cute.”

McCormick chokes on his drink. Stiles mutters, “Dead. I’m dead.”

Joey beams like she’s none the wiser—or maybe she’s exactly as wise as she seems and she’s playing us both like a fiddle.

I lean back, cross my arms, and stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers.

Today was supposed to be easy. Beer, bullshit, bed.

But Pharo’s sitting three inches too close, Joey’s playing matchmaker or saboteur or both, and I’m sitting here wondering if it’s possible to die of tension alone.

And I still haven’t gotten my damn fried pickles.

Why’s he got to ambush me in front of the ALR? Like I need a beef with these assholes over preferring to suck dick. Most of them are cool, but there are always a few that like to show their true colors.

“I’m going to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” Pharo says, standing with all the casual confidence of a guy who knows people watch him when he moves.

But it’s the look he throws my way—sharp, expectant, almost smug—that really gets me. Like I’m supposed to drop everything and trail after him like some lovesick puppy.

I raise my beer and take a long sip instead.

Not your bitch, Pharo.

He disappears toward the back of the bar, and I keep my eyes firmly on the condensation running down my glass. Joey’s still chattering beside me about some hike she wants to do, but I’m not listening. My brain’s already a block away, following him.

Thirty seconds.

Forty-five.

Almost a full minute passes before I sigh dramatically, get to my feet, and mutter, “Guess I should piss, too.”

McCormick snorts. “Sure, buddy.”

“Hydration’s important,” Stiles deadpans. “Don’t strain yourself.”

I flip them both off without looking and head toward the back hall where the flickering neon ‘Restrooms’ sign buzzes like it’s deciding whether to die or not.

The hallway’s dim and smells like bleach and bad decisions—kinda like the one I’m about to make. I push open the heavy door to the men's room—and there he is. Leaning against the sink, arms crossed, like he’s been expecting me this whole time.

“You always take that long to follow directions, or just when they come from me?” he asks, one brow raised.

I let the door swing shut behind me. “Didn’t realize you were still giving orders, Master Sergeant.” I give him a salute as I glare.

He tilts his head, a crooked smirk curling on his lips. “You sure as hell followed them.”

“Coincidence.”

“Uh-huh.”

The air between us tightens, the way it always does when it’s just the two of us.

“You jealous?” he asks, real quiet.

Of Joey ?

Of you , for not noticing sooner?

“No,” I lie, because I’m a goddamn expert at that.

He steps forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne under the road dust. His voice drops, low and lethal. “Liar.”

I’m cornered—not by the cinderblock walls or the flickering fluorescent light, but by him. By the way he stares at me, like he already knows what I’m going to say, and worse, like he knows I won’t say it.

Pharo takes another step closer, and I swear I stop breathing. His eyes are sharp, like he’s waiting for me to quit pretending I don’t want this—don’t want him .

“I’m…” I start, but my voice catches halfway through. Goddamn it.

His lips twitch. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Smug bastard.

I roll my eyes, but it’s weak at best. “You’re real confident for someone who ambushes me in a bathroom.”

Pharo laughs softly, and it’s the kind of sound that digs under my skin and stays there. “You call it an ambush. I call it giving you an out from pretending like you’re not pissed off and dying to say something about it.”

I clench my jaw. “Why are you here?”

It comes out sharper than I mean it to, like I’m pissed off he’s breathing the same air as me—which, to be fair, I kind of am. But mostly I’m pissed because I want him here. Because the second he walked into the bar, the whole damn room shifted. Like it always does when Pharo’s around.

He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Same reason you are. Cold beer, bad music, some grease-soaked fries I’ll probably regret later.”

I narrow my eyes. “Try again.”

His gaze sharpens. “You really want the truth?”

“No, I want the weather report,” I snap. “Of course I want the truth.”

Closing that last bit of space between us. Now we’re practically toe to toe, and my pulse is going off like a goddamn fire alarm.

“I’m here because I knew you’d be,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “I’m here because it beats being home alone. Without you . I’m here because I don’t like you having hobbies outside of me. You didn’t invite me to join you. You didn’t offer me a consolation prize, like stopping by for a quick blow job or a post-ride beer.” Pharo studies my mouth like he’s never seen it before. “Not even a quick text saying ‘Don’t wait up.’”

“Were you? Waiting up for me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

I shift my weight, arms crossed now like they’ll somehow protect me from the way he’s gazing at me—like he sees straight through the leather and sarcasm and bullshit to the part of me that only ever wants him .

“I didn’t think you’d wanna be here,” I mutter. “I didn’t ask you because I figured you’d say no,” I say finally, quietly. “This has never been your thing, these people, organized rides, this was beneath you or some shit.”

“Jesus, Jax,” Pharo breathes, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You think that low of me?”

“I think I’ve got four years’ worth of reasons to be careful.”

That shuts him up—for a beat.

Then he steps in closer, voice softer now, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he says it too loud. “I’m not trying to collect on your mistakes. I just want in. You, me, the stupid ride, even this disgusting dive bar that I bet is owned by the guy who owns the motel we stayed at. I spotted a dead animal on the wall out there, nailed to the wood-paneled wall. I want to be where you are.”

My throat feels tight.

“So this is you… what? Being all in?”

Pharo’s head moves up and down, the simplest of gestures. “This is me, standing in a bar bathroom like an idiot, telling you I miss you even when you’re five feet away. That all in enough for you?”

It is . Of course it is.

But instead of saying anything smart or helpful or remotely emotionally mature, I say, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

His smile eases the tightness in my chest, just enough for my lungs to remember how to work.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Pharo’s head dips toward mine, and my breath catches. But at the last second, I twist away, breaking the moment before it begins.

“Does Joey really think she stands a chance with you?” I ask, my voice low, more bitter than I mean for it to be.

Pharo blinks, then straightens slowly, his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide if he’s amused or offended. “Seriously?” he asks. “ That’s what we’re doing now?”

I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it cool while my insides are doing cartwheels. “She follows you around like a lost puppy. Practically drools when you look her way.”

“And you think I encouraged that?” His brows arch, disbelief written all over his face.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. My silence is loud enough.

A breathy, almost incredulous laugh escapes Pharo, shaking his head like the moment’s too much. “Jax. She’s sweet. And yeah, I noticed. But if you really think I’d show up here with her, knowing you’d be here, because I wanted her?—”

“Then what were you doing?” I cut in, my chest tight with something halfway between insecurity and defensiveness. “Because it sure as hell felt like you were trying to get a rise out of me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not right away.

“I was,” he admits, eyes locked on mine. “But not for the reason you think. I wanted to see if you’d finally stop pretending you don’t give a shit.”

I stare at him, jaw tight.

“Mission accomplished,” I mutter.

Pharo steps closer again, slower this time, more careful.

“For the record,” he says, voice dropping as he leans in, “if I’m going to kiss someone in a bar bathroom, it’s not going to be Joey.”

This time, when he dips his head, I don’t pull away.

His mouth brushes mine—lightly at first, just a test, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t. Can’t. The second his lips meet mine, something in me snaps loose.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in harder, like I’m trying to make up for every minute we wasted not doing this.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s years of wanting and months of pretending and one long-ass motorcycle ride’s worth of simmering frustration, all crashing together in a kiss that’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Pharo makes a sound—low in his throat, surprised, maybe. Then his hands are on my hips, grounding me, holding me there like he thinks I might bolt.

And I might. Eventually. But not right now.

Right now, I press him back against the sink and kiss him like I’ve got something to prove. Because I do. I’m not sure what it is yet—something about regret and second chances and how maybe I am his, just a little—but it’s there, unsaid but loud in the way I bite his bottom lip and feel his breath hitch.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

Pharo’s lips are red. Swollen. Smug.

“You always kiss like you’re starting a fight?” he says, breathless.

“Only with people who deserve it.”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “So… always, then.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t let go of his shirt. I don’t want to.

And I definitely don’t want to go back out there and pretend like none of this happened.

But I know I’m going to have to. At least for now.

He reads the hesitation in my eyes—of course, he does—and just nods.

“Later,” he says quietly, arranging his dick to a less obvious position. “We’ll finish this.”

“Yeah,” I agree, stepping back, trying not to appear too wrecked. “Later.”

Then I open the door, walk out like I wasn’t just making out with him in a bar bathroom, and head straight for Joey—who’s watching me with one brow raised and a knowing little smile on her lips.

Shit.

“Bathroom buddy system?” she asks sweetly, eyes flicking to Pharo as he steps out behind me, looking approximately eighty-five percent ravished and not at all sorry about it.

“Yep,” I deadpan, sliding back onto my stool. “We held hands and braided each other’s hair. Very bonding.”

McCormick chokes on his beer. Stiles whistles low, really dramatic. “Damn, Jax, if you’re gonna sneak off for a quickie, at least take the club vest off first. It’s a little sacred, bro.”

I glare at both of them, but they’re grinning like assholes. Pharo, meanwhile, just reaches for his beer and takes a long, lazy sip like he didn’t just have my tongue down his throat in a dingy bathroom.

Joey hums, all fake-innocent. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days—hydration breaks.”

I give her a side-eye. “You want me to draw you a diagram? Color-coded?”

She grins, pleased with herself. “Nah. I’ve got a vivid imagination. Though I was hoping you’d come back less grumpy.”

McCormick snorts. “Why? You don’t like angsty Jax?”

Joey rolls her eyes, still smiling. “No, I’m just a fan of that totally unhinged idea where people enjoy each other’s company without turning it into a soap opera. You know, friendship?”

That shuts me up. For a second, anyway.

“I’m serious, Jax. I don’t wanna get in the way of whatever this is.” She nods subtly toward Pharo without looking at him. “But I like you. As a friend. You’re one of the only people who doesn’t treat me like I’m a kid or a project.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Joey?—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, holding up a hand. “I flirt when I don’t know how to say hey, please like me platonically, and maybe let me crash your weird little club sometime. It’s dumb, I know. I just suck at asking for things straight.”

I glance at Pharo, who’s watching her now with something like quiet respect. Then I look back at Joey and exhale slowly.

“You don’t have to flirt your way into the group,” I say. “You want in? You’re in. No weird hazing required.” I suspect Joey’s lack of social skills has something to do with her being on the spectrum. Why I didn’t realize that sooner, I have no clue.

“Well,” Stiles says, raising a finger, “there is a trial by tequila, but that’s tradition. And you have to get the all clear from my unicorn, Josh, our mascot.”

“Don’t forget the initiation karaoke,” McCormick adds. “We still got that video of you belting out ‘Shallows,’ Jax.”

“Delete it or die,” I say, deadpan.

Joey beams. “Cool. I’ll bring the glitter and questionable life choices.”

Pharo raises his glass. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, it feels easy again. Messy, yeah—but the kind of messy I can live with.

Or at least drink through.