Page 3

CHAPTER 3

JAX

It’s a habit I can’t shake.

Every day, without fail, I find myself taking that extra exit, turning onto the street that leads to Pharo’s townhouse. It’s not exactly on my route home—technically, it’s a little out of the way, one exit past mine and six blocks west—but it’s close enough. Close enough that I can’t help myself, close enough that the curiosity always gnaws at the back of my mind.

I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m not really looking for his truck. But as I round that last corner, my eyes are already scanning, seeking the familiar black truck parked out front, the one that marks his presence like a scar on my mind.

Some days it’s there, sitting like an unwanted reminder of everything that’s happened. Other days, it’s gone, but I never stop checking. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Maybe it’s the hope that one day, I'll catch him in the act of something, or maybe I just need to see the truck to feel some kind of closure, even if I know it'll never come.

It’s a strange obsession, but one I can’t let go of. It’s like rereading a story I’m no longer sure I want to finish, but I can’t help myself. I pass by it, day after day, like some sort of silent ritual, and the knot in my stomach tightens each time.

My heart kicks into overdrive as I spot it—the unmistakable black pickup sitting just beyond the wrought-iron gate. The shock hits me like a lightning bolt, sending a wave of electricity through my chest.

He’s home. Finally.

I know I shouldn’t, that it’s stupid and reckless, but the curiosity is overwhelming. I have to get closer. Just a peek, that’s all. No harm in that, right?

I steer my bike into the subdivision; the streets are lined with identical homes that feel almost too perfect, too pristine. My fingers tremble just slightly as I punch in the code—the one I had to dig for online because Pharo would never give it to me, nor would I ask him for it. The gate’s mechanism whirs to life with a click, and the heavy metal bars swing open, granting me access to the private little fortress Pharo tries so hard to keep secure.

Once, the security guard busted me on his little golf cart, asking what I was doing idling in Pharo’s driveway, checking his mailbox. I lied and said I was Mr. Kendrix’s friend and that he’d tasked me with looking after the place while he was gone. Now, whenever I see him, I roll the empty garbage cans out to the curb and wave like the lying schmuck that I am.

I push down the rising tide of anxiety, telling myself it’s just a quick detour. A glimpse. That’s all. The subdivision stretches before me, quiet and still, as if the houses themselves are holding their breath.

The sun set two hours ago, but I don’t see any lights inside. It’s not that late, so I doubt he’s in bed already.

Suspicious .

I park my bike across the street from his driveway and creep through his yard. If I can just peer through the window, I might see?—

A shadow moves through the living room. There’s not enough light to make out his face, but I suspect from the large, hulking form that it’s him.

The fuck is he doing sneaking around in the dark?

Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me that I'm also sneaking around in the dark. At least Pharo has a legitimate reason to be here.

Actually, I have a completely legit reason to be here. If no one else is going to ask the tough questions, then I guess it’s up to me to investigate his suspect comings and goings.

His front door is framed by glass on both sides, and I press my face against the pane to get a better look. Without warning, the door bursts open, and I hear the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked in my face. My heart plummets down into my stomach, and my breath seizes in my lungs.

“Jax?” he asks, sounding as surprised as I feel. “The fuck are you doing out here?”

He clicks on the outside light above the door. I caught him mid-something. He’s dressed in soft, black pajama bottoms, barefoot and shirtless, with his shoulder-length hair tied up in a messy bun. Day-old beard growth and a fresh jagged scar covers his chiseled cheek.

My brain struggles to come up with a lie, a reason that I could be lurking outside his door past eight o’clock at night when I realize he’s clutching his ribs. When he moves his hand, I see an angry red gash marring his golden skin.

“You’re hurt.” I forget about the lie and the snooping as my training kicks in. Instinct and concern make me shoulder my way inside before I can think better of it. Maybe it’s my sense of duty as a soldier, or because he was once someone I regarded as my brother. Maybe it’s because if I keep him alive, I can torture him longer.

“I was just about to bandage it when… what are you doing here, Jax?”

I ignore his question, leaving it hanging in the air, and focus instead on the task at hand. The lamp on the console table is within reach, and I flick the switch. A soft, warm glow fills the room, casting long shadows against the walls and bathing Pharo's bare torso in light. It's then that I get a better look at the gash—deep, jagged, the kind of cut that doesn't heal well on its own.

I can see the blood, already beginning to congeal, but it’s the severity of the wound that stops me. His skin is a map of old scars, a history written in flesh, but this one is fresh. Too fresh to ignore.

Pharo’s the kind of guy who doesn’t believe in going to the ER unless it’s absolutely necessary. Nothing short of a bullet wound will get him to a doctor. Everything else is treated in the field, in his bathroom, or with whatever supplies he can scrounge up on the go. Self-care, to him, is a luxury. And right now, it's looking like that’s going to cost him.

His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, but the way he winces as he moves tells me this isn’t a minor cut. It’s bad. Really bad. And if he’s not careful, it could get infected—or worse, it could open back up at the wrong moment.

“You’re going to need stitches. Where’s your med kit?”

“In the bathroom.”

Not waiting for him to show me where it is, I shoulder past him and stomp down the hall, turning into the first bathroom I see. I swing the door on the medicine cabinet open, only to find it empty. A spare toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a tube of toothpaste, probably for guests.

Guests? Who the fuck does he have over?

Continuing down the hall, I find his bedroom and enter the attached bathroom. Sure enough, his medicine cabinet is stocked full of supplies. Gauze pads and bandages, iodine, alcohol, and lidocaine. I grab the suture kit and lidocaine. Pharo catches up with me, still clutching his side as he leans against the door frame. His massive size fills the entire doorway.

“Do you want to do this sitting down or standing up?” Eyeing the massive king-size bed behind him, I add, “Or we can do this lying down.”

He eyes the needle between my fingers skeptically. “You really think I’m going to let you near me with sharp objects?”

Smart man. Well, not really, but smarter than I gave him credit for. “We both know I’m better at this than you are. You can’t stitch for shit. I’ve seen your handiwork on some of my teammates.” The reminder of the guys we used to serve with, both alive and gone, is a bitter pill to swallow.

Why the fuck am I here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” Pharo asks, echoing my thoughts out loud.

“I was… I wanted to…” The question catches me off guard. There’s no good answer. I’m here because I was snooping, because I don’t believe a word he says, and because I would risk anything to expose him for the lying piece of shit he is.

And because I’m a nosy motherfucker, and Pharo is this mysterious, unsolvable Rubik's cube that I’m determined to figure out.

But, of course, I can’t say any of that.

“Do you want me to fix you up or not?” I snap, glaring.

Pharo chuffs and reluctantly slides his ass onto the counter. He’s so tall that he doesn’t even have to hop up. Spreading his thighs, he makes a place for me to stand between them, and my breath catches.

I don’t want to stand this close to him, between his legs, just inches from his chest and face. I don’t want to touch him or heal him, or show him even the smallest kindness, but I also can’t turn around and walk away, knowing he needs help. Damn my conscience!

His musky body wash invades my nose. God forbid he buy a common brand from the pharmacy down the street, like the rest of us normal people. No, Pharo has to buy some designer shit, probably made by the same company that sells his fancy cologne.

Christ, he smells incredible. Fuck him.

Either his body is throwing off heat like a furnace, or it’s hot as hell in this bathroom. I'm beginning to sweat, and if he were anyone else, I would even consider taking my shirt off. But he’s not anyone else. He’s Pharo Kendrix, and I hate him. And my shirt is staying on.

I douse his wound with more lidocaine than needed and smile with satisfaction when he hisses.

“How did you get stabbed?”

“Who said I was stabbed?” There's an unmistakable challenge in his golden eyes.

“Obviously, you were. It’s not hard to believe other people hate you as much, if not more, than I do.”

He chuckles, and the easy laughter makes me want to strangle him.

“Deployment is dangerous work. There are all kinds of unexpected hazards.”

My anger rises to the surface all too quickly. “Look, we both know you’re not in the reserves. You can sell that bullshit lie to someone else, someone who’s either gullible and dumb, or doesn’t care enough to fact check you, but I’m not buying it.”

He stares hard into my eyes as I focus on threading the needle. “Which one are you?” he asks with a catch in his husky voice, “the former or the latter?”

“Neither. I’m not stupid, and the only reason I’m here is to fact-check you.”

I press my thumb and index finger on either side of his wound and pinch the ragged sides together before stabbing his flesh with my needle. “This might hurt,” I warn a little too late.

His muscles tense beneath my fingers, creating a ripple of toned abs. “Careful, Jax,” Pharo warns. “It almost sounds like you care.”

The thought is so absurd I can’t help but snort. “You fucking wish. I just don’t need another death on my conscience to deal with. In fact, if you want to get yourself killed, that’s fine with me. I’ve been trying to write you off for years.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? Writing me off?”

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.”

“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.