Page 83 of Coming In Hot

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.Toosweetly. “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’sexactlyas 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 whoknowspeople 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.”