Page 4

CHAPTER 4

PHARO

The wound on 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.

“That’s bullshit,” McCormick cries. “Those recipes are from my brand new cookbook, 1001 Ways to Cook a Hotdog. There’s some good shit in there. Right?” he asks Stiles, who’s sitting beside him.

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve eaten it and I’m still kickin’.”

A ringing endorsement, if I’ve ever heard one.

The guys laugh harder until Riggs quiets them. “All right, everyone, shush. McCormick, thank you for your contribution. Maybe save it for home next time.”

McCormick grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ungrateful bunch of Bitches. I brought that food for you guys, and you pawned it off on the people next door. Last time I cooked anything for you.”

“Promise?” West snarks.

The entire group dissolves into laughter again before Riggs brings the meeting to a close.

“Hey, Pharo,” Rhett calls, “you coming out to lunch with us?”

“Nah, I’m busy. But thanks for asking.”

I’m always busy , even when I’m not. I would love to take him up on his offer, just once, and go enjoy lunch with my friends, but it inevitably leads to questions about where I am and what I do when I’m not here. Also, it aggravates Jax to no end. A plus, but also counterproductive to my motives. I joined this group to keep an eye on him, to help him make peace with the past. I’m not trying to make his life more difficult.

Jax stacks his chair in the corner, and as he passes by me, he reaches out and grabs my side, in the exact spot he stitched last night in my bathroom. My gut twists with a stabbing sensation. The pain makes bile rise in the back of my throat. He digs his fingertips into the wound, and a wicked smile teases his lips.

“Maybe next time,” he patronizes, knowing full well I’ll always say no.

* * *

God dammit.

I glimpse Jax’s Indian Scout four car lengths behind me. His helmet disguises his face, but I could make out his bike with a blindfold on.

He bailed on lunch so he could follow me. Of all the damn days, he had to choose this one.

I speed up, hoping to lose him in traffic, and take the exit off I-40 toward Asheville. The sprawling single-story building comes into view ahead, and I pull into the parking lot.

No sign of Jax, but he’ll be back. He’s like a nasty rash–persistent, irritating, and always coming back when you least expect it. He's not the type to stay away for long, and no matter what I tell myself, I can’t help but anticipate his return. It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face again. When he does, it’ll be the same routine—push, pull, a game of cat and mouse that’s never quite over.

The woman at the reception desk greets me with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kendrix.”

“Hey, Allison.” I sign my name in the guest log. “Listen, if a man in a black leather jacket and dark hair comes in asking for me, please let him know that if he has any questions, he can ask me directly.”

“Is he on the approved visitors list?”

“No. Mine is the only name on that list.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Kendrix. I’ll do exactly as you ask.”

“Thanks, Allison.” She's a sweet girl, always ready with a smile when she sees me. “Uh, I like your earrings.” It’s a lame compliment, but how the hell else am I supposed to be nice without coming across as a flirt?

“Thanks,” she gushes, blushing prettily.

Jeez. Time to go.

I find her in the dayroom, her wheelchair parked in front of the TV, the soft hum of daytime shows filling the space. “Hey, Mami,” I greet her, my voice a little softer than usual.

She turns her head, and when her eyes—eyes the same golden hue as mine—rest on my face, her expression shifts immediately. Her lips spread into a smile, wide and radiant.

“Ramesses,” she beams. Her voice filled with that warm affection only a mother can give. “Son of the sun.”

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth as she says it. It’s always the same, that nickname. “Son of the sun.” Her belief in it is as unwavering as her love for me. She’s always told me that my coloring—my golden skin, the same shade as my hair and my eyes—was a sign of divine favor, a blessing from the gods, a mark of royalty passed down from the ancient pharaohs. Hence my name.

In Egyptian culture, gold and the sun are sacred, more powerful than any other symbols. Gold represents wealth, divinity, and immortality, while the sun is the source of all life, the giver of life itself. She says that I carry both those elements within me—that I was meant for greatness.

If only I had that kind of power. The kind that could push back the darkness, the kind that could rewrite history, or bring people back from the dead.

If I were truly blessed, I would have the power to make Jax stop following me like a damn dime store detective.

Her once dark hair, now peppered with gray, rests in a thick braid over her left shoulder. “You look beautiful today,” I say honestly. Even at seventy-five, my mother is still a beautiful woman.

She shooed me away. “You always say that.”

I take her frail hand in mine. “That’s because you always look beautiful.”

“Enough about me. Tell me about yourself. How is life as a security guard?”

I told my mother the truth, that I work for a security firm. I just left out the part about flying helicopters and dangerous missions. She believes I’m a rent-a-cop guarding a mall somewhere or traveling to different office buildings, safeguarding the lobbies.

“Boring.”

“Well, for someone who travels so much, I find it hard to believe your life is so boring.”

Ignoring her questions, I try to redirect the conversation to safer topics. “Did you play bingo yesterday?”

“Are you asking because you want my prize money?”

All fifty cents? “So you did win! Shame on you, hustling these ladies at bingo.”

“That one.” She points to a woman rolling herself into the room. “She’s a nasty piece. Stole my best shoes.”

Years ago, just before deploying to Iraq, I checked my mother into this facility because she showed signs of dementia, and it’s only getting worse. Her verbal filters are nonexistent. She says some outrageous stuff. Sometimes it’s entertaining as hell. Sometimes, it’s just heartbreaking.

“Mami, that woman didn’t steal your shoes.”

“What do you know?” she snaps, “Do you live here?”

“No, ma’am.” It’s best to indulge her, so she doesn’t get worked up. My mother angers easily when she becomes confused.

A nurse wearing pink scrubs hands my mother a paper cup with pills in it. My mother dumps them out in her hand and sorts them, inspecting each one carefully. “You can’t be too sure what they’re giving you,” she explains. “Always check.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I repeat.

“Linda, tell my son about how Miriam stole my best shoes.”

The nurse nods. “She did. Pilfered your mother’s favorite pair of slippers right out of her closet. It’s a shame what she did to them. We weren’t able to save them.”

The fuck did she do to them? I’ve learned it’s best not to ask when it comes to the residents here. My mother shoots me a superior look.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t believe you. I’ll bring you a new pair of slippers next time I visit.”

I make her a cup of tea from the wet bar in the corner, and we pass the time trading stories and catching up on the time I’ve been away. Just before dinnertime, I kiss her cheek and bid her farewell.

On my way out the door, I stop and ask Allison, “Did anyone stop by?”

“No, Mr. Kendrix. I haven’t seen anyone like you described.”

“Thank you, Allison.”

Jax didn’t need to come inside. He saw all he needed to from the parking lot. Jax is a capable hacker. All he needed was the name of the facility to find the reason I was here.