Page 6

CHAPTER 6

PHARO

The engine rumbles softly as it idles beneath me, its painted-black fuel tank gleaming under the fading light of the setting sun. I turn the key in the ignition, and she backfires with a sharp cough before sputtering to a stop. The loud crack reminds me of gunfire and conflict. I was lost in my head, dreaming of a future where the only danger is a miscalibrated carburetor—until the sound brought me back to the present. For a moment, I feel the familiar tension creep back in, like a cold breath on the back of my neck, but I shake it off. Not today. Not here. This lot, this rusted chain-link fence, they don’t know the life I’ve led. All they know is I’m here, and someday, I’ll be back for good.

My gaze moves across the empty lot, surrounded by the wild growth of weeds that have taken over the cracked asphalt. The air is turning more humid now that spring has sprung. A greenish-yellow haze of pollen dust swirls lazily in the wind, coating everything in toxic-sludge-colored spores.

My eyes are fixed on the treeline behind the fence, but my thoughts are miles away, far from this desolate lot outside the city limits. In my head, I don’t see weeds and broken concrete. I see the walls of my dream—walls of brick, glass, and tools—where motorcycles gleam in the soft glow of the overhead lights, each one a carefully restored masterpiece.

A motorcycle shop. My motorcycle shop.

Kendrix Motors.

Kendrix Restorations.

… Something like that.

The image of the shop is vivid in my mind now. The salvaged-brick walls lined with old bikes in various states of repair, some stripped to their frames, others already gleaming with fresh paint. A steady stream of customers who appreciate the artistry of restoring old machines. I’ll spend my days in the workshop, hands deep in grease, listening to the whir of the air compressor, my focus entirely on bringing the past back to life.

I think about it every day, every minute of the endless hours spent in the cockpit of the helicopter, running missions over foreign lands where danger is always just a heartbeat away. The dream is out there, waiting for me. All I need is to survive long enough to reach it.

For now, it’s the paycheck that keeps me going. The risk, the adrenaline, the endless nights of isolation—they’re all paying for this future. The dream that sits quietly in the back of my mind like a seed, slowly taking root, fed by each drop of blood, sweat, and fear I’ve poured into this life I’ve chosen.

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s a life that will buy me the freedom to build something beautiful, something that’s truly mine. Owning a garage isn’t that big of a dream, but it’s big enough for me. I’m living a larger-than-life existence now, and when I finally walk away from that, I want small. I want comfortable. I want this .

Maybe I’ll hire Stiles to give me a hand. That man can fix anything.

It’s worth it. The wind tugs at the sleeves of my jacket. The danger, the uncertainty, the sleepless nights—it’s all worth it.

I can easily picture it—the smell of oil and metal in the air. New leather and fresh paint. The satisfaction of seeing something broken and worn transformed into something powerful again. Like me.

I dream of the day I can call it quits, step out of the cockpit for the last time, and know that every sacrifice I’ve made has led me here.

The sound of a distant helicopter bursts the bubble of my dream, and the moment slips away like desert sand through my fingers. For now, reality calls. But I have a purpose, a dream, and every day I fight for it brings me closer.

I rev the engine, the noise cutting through the silence like a promise. Someday soon, I’ll trade the skies for the garage, and I’ll build something that lasts.

When I return home, I head straight for the spare bedroom I use as an office. I grab the deed to my lot from the file cabinet and slap it on my desk as a visual reminder of everything I’m busting my ass for. Hell, maybe I'll frame it. The drawer sticks as I push it closed. An envelope is caught in the way, and I grab it up, pausing with dread as I read the name scribbled across the front.

Jordan

My stomach tightens before I even open it.

Inside, there’s a collection of things: photos, photocopies of letters, bits of memorabilia, a small glass vial of desert sand. The first photo that falls out is of Jordan, his grin wide, his face covered in dirt and grease, just like the rest of us back then. I swallow hard. It’s like Jax wants me to feel it—feel the consequence of what happened, what I couldn’t stop. There’s a letter too, the same kind Jax has sent me over the years, a reminder of the promises I couldn’t keep, the promises that got Jordan killed.

“You could have saved him, Pharo,” the letter reads, in Jax’s neat, clipped handwriting. “You should have been the leader he needed. He trusted you.”

The guilt gnaws at me, an old wound reopening. Every year, it’s the same thing. He doesn’t even need to say it outright anymore. Just the way he sends these—photos, letters, keepsakes from the past—it's like he's keeping a tally, reminding me of the debt I’ll never pay off. That moment in the desert when everything went wrong, when Jordan—Jax’s best friend—didn’t come home.

I flip through more photos, each one more chilling than the last. It’s the same with every package, each one a heavy boulder chained around my neck. But this time, I can’t keep running from it. I never have been able to. Jax wants me to feel responsible, wants me to carry it with me like an anchor, and every year I do. I should be better than this by now. But some things never get easier.

My gaze flicks over the calendar laid out across my desk. Two weeks until the anniversary of his death. I’ll be getting another letter in the mail soon to add to my collection. I wish I could throw them away and move on, but I wouldn’t dare. If it’s still tormenting Jax, the least I can do is suffer the same fate. I don’t want him to shoulder such a heavy burden alone.

I lay the letters down, my fingers brushing over the print. I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s been years. But the guilt is overwhelming and persistent, settled like Iraqi dust in the corners of my mind. I can almost hear Jax’s voice again, like a ghost in the room, taunting me with the truth I’ve never been able to outrun.

That Jordan’s death was my fault, just like Jax accused.

Technically, it’s not. According to the inquest, it wasn’t. But my conscience and my guilt want to believe Jax. I was his Sergeant. I was in charge.

I am to blame.

But that’s all it is now—ghosts. And I’m tired of them. Tired of carrying the responsibility of what happened out there. One day, I tell myself, clenching my fists around the letters. One day, this will all be in the past. For both me and Jax.

I shove the papers back into the envelope, trying to push the memories away. I don’t need them tonight. I’ve got enough on my shoulders as it is. Replacing the envelope back in the drawer, I touch the deed again, my fingers sliding over my signature. The dream I’ve been holding onto, the reason I keep pushing through each damn day of this dangerous life. No more running.

No more ghosts. Just me, my shop, and whatever I can build from the wreckage.

* * *

The phone rings just as I’m pouring a drink, the amber liquid catching the light and swirling in my glass. I glance at the screen, and my heart drops when I see the name— Greystone Security HQ .

I pick it up with a steady hand, but inside, something tightens, something raw.

“Hello?”

“Pharo.” The voice on the other end is clipped, urgent. “It’s Orson. Arlo’s been hurt. Bad.”

I freeze, the glass in my hand suddenly too heavy. “What happened?” I manage to rasp, my throat tight.

“We don’t have all the details yet, but it’s serious. You need to get back here, now. He’s asking for you. There’s a flight with your name on it tomorrow morning.”

Arlo. Team leader, mentor, the man who got me through some of the hardest hits during the last four years. The man who trusted me to have his back, and I let him down.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, phone pressed to my ear, but when Orson hangs up, I feel like I’ve aged ten years. I move to the liquor cabinet without thinking, pouring myself another shot. It burns down my throat, a familiar sting that does nothing to dull the ache in my chest.

I wasn’t there.

Just like I wasn’t there for Jordan.

I’ve lived my whole life on the edge, pretending the danger doesn’t get to me, pretending it doesn’t matter. But in this moment, it does. I failed. I couldn’t protect Arlo. I couldn’t protect Jordan. How many more lives are going to end prematurely because of me?

The alcohol helps numb the sting, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts from circling. I take another drink, then another, until I feel the familiar fog settling in. My thoughts are a blur, but one thing keeps cutting through the noise: I should have been there.

The phone call came too late. I should have been on the mission. I should’ve been the one to pull Arlo out of that mess. Just like I should’ve pulled Jordan out, kept him safe. I failed both of them.

I grab my jacket and the rest of the bottle, the glass cold in my hand as I stumble out the door, the sharp sting of the alcohol numbing the edges of my thoughts. The crisp night air does little to clear my head, but I keep walking, one foot in front of the other. The pavement’s uneven beneath my boots, but I don’t care. My mind’s elsewhere—racing, spinning, the guilt clawing at me with every step.

I know better than to drive or touch my bike, so I walk. And I walk. And I walk.

The streets are empty, the world around me swallowed by darkness. Only the distant hum of the city, a few stray headlights cutting through the gloom, remind me that life keeps moving while I’m stuck in this loop of regret. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but the strain in my chest doesn’t lighten. It never does.

I keep replaying Arlo’s voice in my head, asking me at least a dozen times when I’m going to come on board full-time and stop playing around with part-time hours, straddling two vastly different worlds.

“You have no family, no kids or spouse, so what’s stopping you?” he’d ask.

What’s stopping me? There are too many and not enough answers to that extremely complicated yet simple question.

My mother.

Jax.

Jordan.

Wanting a life outside of service.

The garage dream.

And on and on…

Jordan’s laughing face flashes through my mind, followed by Arlo’s serious one. One by one, faces from my past, my team, Gehenna, Jax… How many of them will I lose? How many of their deaths will be my fault?

I don't stop walking, don’t bother to watch where I’m going. My hands are cold, but I keep gripping the bottle, the last ounce of comfort I have, even if it’s fleeting. The alcohol burns when I take another long swig, but it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough.

To my surprise, I end up outside Jax’s building, the one I’ve driven by a hundred times but have never been inside. I sway slightly, leaning against the doorframe to keep my balance. The alcohol is clouding my mind, but I need to be here, need to do something to drown out the guilt eating me from the inside.

“Open up,” I shout, my voice slurred and thick with frustration. My knock goes unanswered as I pound the door with a closed fist. “Open the fuck up,” I snap, my voice rising.

Jax’s voice filters through the closed door, smooth but firm. “Fuck off.”

Always so damn defiant. I clench my jaw, anger flaring beneath the fog of booze. He’s not the one I’m angry with, but yelling at myself is pointless. “I said open the door or I’ll smoke you!”

That’s enough to get a reaction. The door creaks open, just enough for Jax to slide into the frame, blocking my way with his arm braced against it. His eyes are sharp, a glimmer of amusement there beneath the tired frustration. “You can’t smoke my ass, you’re not my Sergeant anymore,” he challenges, the smirk barely hanging on his face.

I glare at him, my chest tight. I’m not here for a damn power struggle. But I don’t back down. Not this time. “You think I give a shit?” I mutter, sounding bitter. “I’m not here to play games. Just open the door.”

He stands there, unmoving, studying me with that irritatingly calm expression, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth the effort. Finally, he sighs and steps back, just enough to let me pass.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Come in, but don’t break anything.”

I don’t wait for another word. I push past him into the apartment and scope the place out. The place feels too quiet. Too empty. I collapse onto the tiny-ass couch, feeling everything crash down on me all at once. I don’t say anything at first. Just let the silence settle between us, thick and heavy. Jax doesn’t sit, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, arms crossed, watching me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve.

Judging me for the bottle in my hand.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, he asks, “The fuck are you doing here?”

I wish I had a clue. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” I answer instead. There’s nothing but computers and tech equipment. Why am I surprised by that?

I peer up at Jax, the fog in my head not quite lifting, but the haze of it a little more bearable now that I’m not alone. The room feels too small, too suffocating, like I’m drowning in the silence between us. I can’t escape the guilt twisting in my chest.

“I didn’t protect him, Jax,” I say, my voice low, almost broken. “Arlo—he got hurt, and I wasn’t there. Same as Jordan.” My fists clench at my sides, anger stirring beneath the layers of guilt. I want to punch something, anything, to make it go away.

Jax doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem surprised. He just stands there, his gaze sharp and cold, like he’s waiting for me to get to the point. His shoulders don’t dip in sympathy, his eyes don’t soften with understanding. No, Jax is all hard lines and sharp edges.

“You couldn’t save him, Pharo,” he says, his voice low but full of venom. “Just like you couldn’t save Jordan. I don’t know who Arlo is, and I don’t care. The only thing that matters to me is that you stop endangering people’s lives.”

That hits me like a sucker punch, a brutal reminder of what I couldn’t do. But it’s not just what he said. It’s the tone, the way he’s glaring at me, like I’m the one who let it all go to shit. His beliefs settle in my chest, pushing me down even more.

“You can’t carry it all, Pharo,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like advice. It feels like an accusation, like he's blaming me for everything that went wrong. “You can’t protect everyone. No matter how much you want to.”

I rub my face, but it doesn’t help. The guilt won’t leave. “I wasn’t there,” I mutter. “I was supposed to be there.”

Jax doesn’t even step back, doesn’t let up. Instead, he moves forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of his anger. He sits on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes never leaving mine, that cold, hostile gaze boring into me like he’s judging every mistake I’ve made. His faux-hawk stands on end like he’s been running his hands through it.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice low and sharp. “You weren’t there. You weren’t there when it counted, just like you weren’t for Jordan.” He leans in, his eyes narrowing with something close to disgust. “You’ve been running away from your responsibilities, Pharo. Chasing some stupid dream while the rest of us are stuck dealing with the fallout.”

I feel the anger spike. I want to scream at him, tell him he doesn’t understand, but I can’t. He’s right, in a way.

“I wasn’t even there,” I snap, my voice rising again, but I’m not yelling at him. I’m yelling at myself. “You don’t get it. I failed them. I failed both of them. I should’ve been the one to keep them safe, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jax doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t show a shred of sympathy. His dark eyes narrow, but it’s not pity I see in them. It’s contempt, like he’s disgusted by the weakness in me. “You’re not a god, Pharo,” he says, spitting venom. “You can’t be everywhere. You can’t fix everything. And sometimes—” he pauses, his gaze turning cold, like he’s relishing in the pain he’s inflicting on me, “—sometimes, it’s just not in the cards.”

I turn away, swallowing the lump in my throat, the anger still bubbling up, but there’s no way to get rid of it now. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?” I ask, my voice hoarse, the pain almost unbearable.

Jax doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, but it feels like he’s waiting for me to come to terms with everything he’s just thrown in my face. The silence hangs heavy between us. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks again, his voice softer but still full of judgment.

“You start by accepting that you can’t fix it,” he says, his tone almost condescending now. “Even though you think you’re invincible. You’re playing with real lives, real people.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. It doesn’t make the guilt or the anger go away.

I sit there, the silence suffocating me, my thoughts spiraling, crashing against each other like waves. Maybe, for once, I don’t have to shoulder this alone. But Jax’s words are like stones in my chest, and I’m not sure if I can forgive myself, let alone if he ever will.

Maybe I’m already broken. Maybe it’s too late to fix anything.

“And then?”

His eyes burn with that familiar intensity, the kind that always made me feel like I was a few steps behind, like I was playing a game where I didn’t even know the rules. “And then you get even.”

The realization hits me like a slap in the face. That’s what he’s been doing all these years to me—getting even. It’s what he’s been waiting for, isn’t it? The whole damn time.

“Revenge?” The implication tastes bitter on my tongue. It doesn’t sound like something I want to hear, not from Jax. But there it is, hanging in the air.

“Revenge is a nasty word,” he scoffs, shaking his head with that annoying, smug half-smile that always makes me want to throw something. “I prefer to call it returning the favor.”

Returning the favor.

I’m not sure what I feel anymore—anger, confusion, a deep, gnawing sense of loss. I can’t keep up, can’t process what he’s saying or his reasons. I’m too damn tired. “Revenge against who?”

I almost don’t want to know, but I need to hear it. Maybe if I hear it, it’ll make sense of all this bullshit.

Jax pauses, like he’s savoring the moment, watching me squirm. He knows what he’s doing. He always knows.

“That depends,” he says, his voice soft, almost too soft, like he’s speaking to a child. “Who’s to blame?”

Under his intense stare, I find myself unable to look away. “Me?” I don’t even know why I say it. I don’t know what he wants me to say or what the right answer is. My mind is thick, sluggish. The words feel foreign in my mouth. But somehow, it feels like the answer he’s been waiting for.

“Exactly.”

He smiles, but it’s all teeth and malice. No humor. No warmth. It’s the kind of smile you give your enemy just before you put them in the ground.

The air feels cold. He’s glowering at me like he’s delivering a death blow, like I’m the one who failed—not just once, but over and over. I never realized how much Jax had been holding onto until now.

“You think you can just walk away from this, Pharo?” His voice lowers, a dangerous edge creeping in. “You think you can ignore it all, let it slide? That’s not how this works. You can’t run from the mess you made.”

Jax’s accusation cuts through me like a knife, but it’s not just what he’s saying. It’s the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the one responsible for everything. For Jordan. For Arlo. For whatever damage we’ve done to each other over the years.

But I’m still not sure what to do with all this. I still don’t understand why he’s so hell-bent on making me feel this way. Why the hell he’s playing this twisted game.

“You think you have the right to judge me?” I finally snapped, the anger coming faster than I expected. “You think you’re the one who gets to point fingers?”

Jax’s smile doesn’t fade. He’s enjoying this. “Someone has to, Pharo. Someone has to make you face it.”

And just like that, it clicks. That’s what all of this has been about. Him trying to make me face myself . He’s been waiting for this, for me to crack open and admit that I’m the one to blame. But is it really me? Or is this just the game Jax plays?

I’m too tired to figure it out right now. Too lost in the mess of it all. But the silence between us says everything I need to hear. Jax is already one step ahead, and I’m just trying to catch up.

I have to get up. I have to get out of here—get away from Jax, from this goddamn apartment, from all the noise in my head. My chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe, and I can’t think straight when he’s staring at me like that, like I’m the one who broke everything.

I push myself off the couch, my legs unsteady, the room spinning just enough to make me feel like I might fall if I don’t keep moving. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t stay here. Not with Jax’s cold eyes on me, not with his words echoing in my skull, twisting around like a knot I can’t untangle.

I trip over his boots near the door, cursing under my breath as I catch myself against the wall. “Do you ever pick up around here?” I spit, my eyes scanning the mess—the dishes piled high in the sink, his helmet tossed carelessly on the kitchen counter like he doesn’t give a damn about anything.

“This isn’t a room inspection, Sergeant,” Jax snaps, his voice sharp, full of that familiar bitterness. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, glaring at me like he’s daring me to say something else. “We’re not in the barracks anymore. If this place isn’t the palace you’re used to, you can get the fuck out.”

I stand there for a moment, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My anger’s bubbling up again, but I can feel it—everything Jax does is meant to push me. He’s trying to get under my skin, trying to make me crack. And for once, I don’t want to let him. Instead, I just let out a sharp exhale, turning away from the mess. I turn toward the door again, trying to ignore the looming threat of his presence. “I didn’t come here for a fight, Jax.”

My voice is thick, laced with frustration, but I don’t know who I’m really angry at. Him? Me? The whole damn situation?

“Then why did you come?” Jax’s voice is steady, too steady. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes bore into me, like he’s daring me to crack, daring me to say something that will make it all come spilling out. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not tonight. Not with him.

I stand there for a beat, the silence stretching out like a blanket of fog. His stare is like a physical presence, locking me in his sights, suffocating the air between us. But I don’t let him break me. I can’t.

I don’t know why I ended up here tonight. Maybe it’s because, for all the shit he’s given me over the years, for all the ways he’s made me feel less than, maybe I thought, just maybe , if anyone understands the pain of guilt, it would be Jax. He’s carried his own demons, hasn’t he?

“Because apparently, all I do is make mistakes. This is just one more.”

My statement lingers, bitter and raw, but I don’t stick around long enough to see if it lands. I don’t want to see the expression on his face, don’t want to know if I’ve finally cracked something in him. Instead, I grab the door handle and wrench it open, stepping out into the cool night air, away from the suffocating tension, away from Jax, away from the mess I can’t seem to escape.

The cold hits me like a shock, and for a moment, I feel like I can breathe again. But the pressure’s still there, pressing down on me. The guilt. The failure. And no matter how far I walk, I don’t think I’ll ever outrun it.