Page 9

CHAPTER 9

JAX

“When you said we needed to talk, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Pharo complains, shifting his weight to try and squeeze in beside me on the small leather couch. Brewer’s sofa was intended to seat one person comfortably, possibly two, if needed. But not two the size of us. Pharo is the size of a full-grown gorilla, and I’m not exactly small myself.

His broad shoulders press into mine, and I can feel the tension radiating off him. The air between us crackles with things unspoken, like we're both bracing for impact. He tries to adjust, but the couch squeaks in protest, giving up any pretense of comfort.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” I mutter, shifting slightly so I’m not completely squashed against the armrest.

Pharo grunts, obviously annoyed, but doesn’t say anything more. The silence stretches on, thick and awkward, until he breaks it with a deep exhale. “So, what’s this all about? You said we needed to talk... and I can’t imagine it’s about your undying affection for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picks up at the sound of his voice. “We need to talk about you. And what the hell is going on with you.”

He meets my eyes for a brief moment, and I see something flicker there—something raw and a little too honest, before he turns away again. “Yeah? Well, I don’t exactly feel like talking, Jax. But go ahead. Ask your questions.”

I open my mouth, but nothing escapes—my throat tightens, holding everything back. I know what I want to say, but I can’t force it out. There’s so much more than just him . It’s about me, too—about the shit I’ve been carrying, the things I’ve buried under layers of sarcasm and denial.

Instead, I go with the obvious. “Why haven’t you been answering my messages, Pharo? What the hell is going on?”

Brewer steps into the office, taking the seat across from us. “Thank you for being patient while I took a phone call. Let’s get started. Jax, we met last week, and I suggested we all sit down together. There’s a lot that needs to be communicated between the two of you, and I understand you’re struggling with that.”

Way to understate it, Brewer.

Pharo’s gaze flicks to Brewer, then back to me, and I can feel the tension in the air like a live wire ready to snap. This isn’t what I had in mind when I agreed to this meeting. I wanted answers, not some half-hearted therapy session. But Brewer doesn’t seem to care about my discomfort, nor does he seem to notice how Pharo’s fists are clenching in his lap.

“I don’t need to talk,” Pharo mutters, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice. “I don’t need to share anything with him, Brewer. This isn’t some team debriefing. This is personal. And you know damn well I don’t do personal.”

Brewer leans forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “Pharo, this isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about both of you, and you’re both letting your personal shit get in the way of doing what needs to be done.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. I’m pissed. I’m always pissed when Pharo pulls this shit, shutting down, pretending like none of this matters. But the truth is, it does matter. And I’m not walking away from this without answers.

Pharo’s eyes flash, and for a second, I think he might lash out. But then his shoulders sag, just a little. He peers down at his hands like he’s trying to figure out what to do with them, then drags a hand over his face, exhausted.

“I’m not fine, Jax,” he says quietly, the first honest words he’s spoken in what feels like forever. “But you don’t get it. You won’t.”

Brewer stays silent, watching the two of us like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he’s only been half informed of. I can feel Pharo’s vulnerability creeping into the space between us. And for the first time, I realize I might actually have no idea what he’s been going through. Maybe I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot how much he’s been carrying.

“Let me start by saying how sorry I am for dragging you into my bullshit the other night,” Pharo says, his voice rough, like he’s just swallowed a handful of gravel.

I blink, taken aback. The last thing I expected was an apology, especially from him. Apologizing is something Pharo doesn’t do. He doesn’t need to apologize in his mind, not for the shit he’s done, not for the shit he’s been through. But here he is, sitting beside me like he's willing to show a crack in the armor.

I don’t respond right away. I just watch him, waiting for the rest of it to come, wondering if there’s more coming that I didn’t expect.

“I’ve been dealing with a lot of shit I don’t know how to talk about,” Pharo continues, his eyes focused on the floor. “And I fucked up. I was drunk, I was angry, and I pushed my way into your space. You didn’t deserve that. Not after everything. And... I guess I’m just tired of pretending I’ve got it all under control.”

My breath catches in my throat. This isn’t the Pharo I’m used to. This isn’t the guy who shuts everyone out, keeps the walls up like a fortress. This guy... is human. Maybe even a little broken, like the rest of us. And it hits me harder than I expect.

“Pharo…” I start, but he cuts me off before I can finish.

“No, Jax,” he says, shaking his head, his voice heavy with regret. “You’re right. I’m responsible for Jordan’s death, to a degree. Ultimately, he took his own life, but I was in charge. He trusted me to pull the brakes when his bullshit went too far, and I looked the other way.”

The guilt in his voice, seeping through every word—it’s impossible to miss. He’s not just blaming himself; he’s acknowledging the burden he carries, the responsibility he never let go of. And I get it. I know exactly what he means. How you can be responsible for so much, even if you weren’t the one to pull the trigger.

Pharo raises his head, his eyes bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept in days. “I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t there when it counted.”

I don’t know if we’re talking about Jordan or Arlo, whoever that is.

“You’re talking about both of them, aren’t you?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Pharo doesn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to the floor like the thoughts are too heavy for him to speak. But I know. I can feel it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches as if even acknowledging it would be too much to bear.

“I tried,” he mutters, his voice raw. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve?—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off before the spiral gets any deeper. “You have no business running missions and taking responsibility for others after the shit with Jordan!”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing, but I don’t back down. My voice sharpens, fueled by the frustration I’ve been carrying around since finding out about Greystone.

“I don’t give a damn if you think you’re ready to jump back in, Pharo. You’re not,” I say, each word landing heavier than the last. “You failed Jordan. And now you’re walking around like you’re some kind of hero in this broken story— but you’re not . You want redemption? You think stepping into a mission is going to fix what you did?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t let him.

“I’m not done,” I snap.

Brewer holds up a hand to stop me. “Jax, I’m gonna have to ask you to take a deep breath. There’s a gaggle of Bitches with their ears to the door, and if you don’t keep your voice down, they’re going to hear every word, despite the white noise machine masking the sound.”

Fucking nosy ass Bitches. I have no doubt he’s right.

Brewer continues, his tone level but firm. “Pharo expressed his part in Jordan’s death. What was your part that you’re carrying?”

I freeze. “My what?”

It’s like a slap to the face—sudden, unexpected. My mind stumbles, grappling for something that will make sense of the question, but it doesn’t come.

Pharo’s smirk slides into something colder, more calculated, like he’s watching a train wreck unfold. “What? You think you get to play the martyr here? You think you’re innocent in this?” He leans forward just enough to make his point. “You knew who he was. An utter jackass. A reckless fool. You watched him spiral as the pressure got to him, and you didn’t say anything.”

My blood runs cold. I want to snap, to tell him to shut the hell up, but something in his eyes—something dark, like he knows exactly how deep my guilt runs—holds me in place.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Brewer watches us both closely, his fingers steepled in front of him as he waits for me to speak. The room feels too small, the walls closing in as Pharo’s words echo in my skull.

“Jordan milked a fucking grenade for shits and giggles, and you laughed. He swallowed diesel to see if he’d get sick, and you brushed it off as a harmless prank. He mutilated a field mouse, and you excused his behavior as stress. Hell, I’m just as guilty. The difference is that I can admit that. You can’t,” he accuses, poking his finger at me.

I want to punch him. I want to scream at him that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But the truth is— he does . Jordan’s behavior didn’t sit right with me, not for one second. But the alternative was to report him, and that would mean I’d be stuck in Iraq without him. He was my rock. But… I wasn’t his. He needed me to step in and save him, and I didn’t.

I clench my fists, the anger bubbling up again, but it’s not just aimed at Pharo anymore. It’s at me, at the way I failed him. The guilt claws at me, sharp and relentless.

“You think I didn’t know what was happening with him?” I growl, my voice low and raw. “I saw it. I saw the cracks in him. But he was the guy who kept me sane over there. The guy who had my back when shit hit the fan. He wasn’t just a soldier to me. He was my damn brother. And I couldn’t afford to lose him.”

Pharo’s eyes narrow, and there’s no smugness left in his face, just the same old frustration that we both share. “But you did lose him, Jax. You lost him because you couldn’t see the real problem. He wasn’t just some soldier, and he wasn’t just your rock. He was a human being. And you failed him when he needed you the most.”

The truth blindsides me like a frigid wave, and for a second, I think I’m going to lose it. As time ticks on, the pressure of everything mounts, and I avert my gaze. The guilt, the regret, the anger—it’s all there, twisting inside me.

“We both did,” he adds quietly.

“I know,” I mutter, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

“Nobody else followed Jordan into that minefield. Why didn’t you follow him, Jax?”

“Because I didn’t want to die,” I mutter, the truth tasting bitter as it leaves my mouth.

“Well, Jordan did.” The silence that follows feels suffocating, thick with accusation. “He fucking danced around like he was performing on a stage. You heard me shout at him, giving him an unmistakable order to stand down.”

I’d heard. His command rings through my darkest nightmares.

“Remember when he broke his foot and was benched from our first mission?”

I shake my head, recalling how someone accidentally pushed him and he stumbled into the path of a jeep rolling by loaded with munitions.

“It wasn’t an accident, Jax. Jordan purposely stuck his foot out. He deliberately put himself in harm’s way to get sidelined.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

It hits me like a freight train, slamming into my chest, leaving me breathless. I stare at Pharo, disbelief spreading across my face. “You’re telling me he wanted to get hurt?”

Pharo’s topaz gaze is steady, unwavering. “Yeah. He did. He wasn’t trying to get out of the mission, Jax. He was trying to get away from it. He wanted to be benched. He wanted to be sidelined so he didn’t have to go.”

I feel my chest tighten, a knot forming in my stomach. I’ve always known Jordan as the guy who didn’t hesitate to dive headfirst into danger. He was reckless, sure, but he never seemed afraid of anything—at least, that’s what I thought.

“But why?” I croak, the question coming out of me before I even realize I’m asking. “Why would he do that?”

Pharo shifts in his seat, his eyes dropping for just a moment before meeting mine again. “Because he couldn’t handle it anymore. The pressure. The responsibility. The risk, the constant fear that one of us wouldn’t come back. That he wouldn’t come back. He needed out, but he couldn’t figure out how to say it. So he did the only thing he could—he hurt himself.”

I feel the ground beneath me shift, like the world I thought I understood is crumbling away. Jordan—the guy who never backed down, the guy who jumped into danger without hesitation—was afraid? Afraid enough to sabotage his own body just to get out of it?

I run a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself. “You’re telling me we missed that? I was right there with him, and I didn’t see it?”

Pharo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “None of you did, Jax. He was hiding it from us. But I saw it. I saw the way he flinched every time new orders came in. How he started pulling away, isolating himself. He was terrified of what we were becoming, terrified of being that guy who doesn’t come back. He wasn’t built for it anymore.”

The silence between us feels suffocating. Pharo’s voice drips with regret. My mind spins, trying to make sense of it. Jordan— our Jordan—wasn’t the invincible soldier I thought he was. He was just as fragile as the rest of us. Maybe even more so.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “How did we not see it?”

“Because we were too busy thinking we were invincible, too,” Pharo replies. “We couldn’t see it because we didn’t want to. We didn’t want to admit that we were all cracking under the pressure.”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat growing. The truth stings. We failed him. We missed the signs. We ignored the cracks in the armor because we were too busy wearing our own.

“God,” I whisper, the guilt swallowing me whole. “I could’ve done something. I should’ve done something.”

Pharo leans forward, his voice steady. “No, Jax. You couldn’t have. You can’t save everyone. Sometimes, you’re not even enough to save yourself.”

That hits harder than anything else he’s said. I drop my eyes, unable to meet his eyes anymore. He’s right. We can’t fix everything. But I’ll never stop wishing I had done something.

Brewer coughs to clear his throat, breaking the heavy silence that’s settled between us. His gaze shifts between Pharo and me, and for the first time, I notice a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, his voice calm but firm, “we’ve talked about the past, about the shit we missed. I recommend you both keep talking, keep listening, and definitely keep coming back to see me.”

I stare at him, still processing everything that’s been said. It feels like the ground has shifted beneath my feet, and I don’t know how to stand anymore. How do you move forward from something like this? How do you live with the fact that you were too blind to see the cracks in your brother's armor?

Brewer leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, the importance of this conversation blanketing us. “Jax, Pharo, we all have our demons. We all have things we could’ve done differently. But the truth is, none of us has the luxury of turning back the clock. We have to figure out how to handle our past so we can live with the present.”

Pharo nods slightly, but his expression is unreadable. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am: What next?

“Pharo,” Brewer continues, his voice soft but unwavering, “as the leader, I can’t imagine the burden this is on you, but I need to clarify this isn’t your fault. This guilt is paralyzing and incapacitating if you let it weigh you down. And Jax,” he turns his gaze to me, “I’m proud of you for opening up. There’s no judgment here. Just understanding. How do we get the two of you on a path of healing that’s acceptable for both of you? You both have a chance to rebuild, to move past this... if you let yourselves.”

I clench my jaw, his advice rattling around in my skull. I don’t know how to let go. How do you forgive yourself when you failed someone you loved?

How do you move on when the past is a constant reminder of your shortcomings?

“Rebuilding, huh?” I mutter, the sarcasm creeping into my voice despite myself. “Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not easy,” Brewer admits, his gaze softening. “But it’s necessary. For both of you.”

The impact settles in, deeper than any of the physical burdens I’ve carried. There’s no way to fix the past, but maybe... just maybe, we can still have a future. If we’re willing to try.

I glance at Pharo, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel the anger simmering beneath the surface. There’s something different in his eyes, too—something close to resignation, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a hint of hope there as well.

It’s a start.