Page 1 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)
“Come on, man, cut me some slack. I’m asking for you to do me a solid.”
Law hated the plea and desperation in his voice, but he held eye contact.
“It’s a Honda Super, and she’s hardly two years old. All I want is eight thousand. She’s worth—”
“I know. Twenty-five. You already told me.” The bratty-looking kid rolled his eyes, then walked around to the other side of the bike. “Why are you selling it?”
None of your business.
“I’m moving overseas, and I can’t take everything. My Harley made the cut. The Super didn’t,” Law lied.
He’d sold the Harley last year to pay off three of his credit cards. Now he had nine paid and only two more to go.
“I’ll give you five thousand,” the guy countered.
Law shifted to the other foot to keep from cocking his fist back and punching the brat in his face. The number he’d just thrown out was an insult.
Law bit his bottom lip, staring down at his baby girl. He wanted to run his palm over the soft leather seat as she sat gleaming under the bright sunshine. She was all black on black, sleek, and outlined in sharp edges. A reflection of how he saw himself.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. We talked about the price before you got here. Eight thousand. Come on, man, you’ve been staring at it for fifteen minutes.”
“This thing could be hot for all I know. You live on this shitty street, and you’re sporting a shiner on that left eye.”
The kid pulled out a pack of Camels and leaned against his silver GT-R to light up while Law stood there sweating under the hot Atlanta sun.
“I have the title right here. You know it’s legit. I’m not taking less than eight, dude.”
Law clenched his teeth, gripping the DMV document and bill of sale so tightly he was probably ruining them.
He hated that he had to do this, but desperate times and all.
Law had been on top before, and he’d been knocked down plenty, so he knew how to pull himself back up. But pricks like the one in front of him made his blood boil.
Law stared the man down, who wasn’t even respecting him enough to look him in the eye as they negotiated.
Damn, he loathed rich bastards.
Law had money too—well, he used to—but he’d never acted like a pretentious asshole.
The guy held his arm up and motioned for a slim man waiting in a Ford pickup with a bike trailer attached to pull around front to load it up.
Law released a slow breath and played it cool because he didn’t want Richie Rich to see his relief. He desperately needed this money.
“Seven is my final offer. Take it, or I can head over to a used lot. This is a birthday gift for my stepbrother, so it’s nothing. I’m not spending eight grand on him.”
The guy Law was haggling with couldn’t’ve been any older than twenty-five, but of course, he carried himself as though he’d lived a lifetime and had all the power in the world.
He wore shredded denim jeans that stopped just above his expensive boots, and his jacket was leather and white, of all colors.
His sunglasses cost more than Law’s rent, and he knew that because he’d hocked his own pair just like them six months ago.
Law turned away and ran his hand through his hair that he hadn’t bothered to comb this morning. Instead of yanking himself bald, he shoved his hand into his pants pockets and took out an ink pen.
If he didn’t get two grand to Brosino by the end of the week, he was going to end up another loan shark statistic.
Law stared at the buyer with all the contempt he could muster before he finally relented and stuck his hand out. He hurried and scribbled the new amount on the bill of sale and initialed it.
At least he’d eat something besides ramen and hot dogs tonight.
“Just take it.”
Law thrust the papers into the bastard’s hand and snatched the envelope. He fingered the crisp bills while his bike was being walked up the trailer ramp by a man who was probably the kid’s personal assistant.
Lawson stared regretfully after his bike, knowing he was running out of assets.
“Money talks,” the kid mumbled condescendingly.
“Yeah, whatever. Here’s the lid.” Law handed over the custom-made, black helmet with the plumes of white smoke streaked along the sides—since vapors and smoke were Law’s pyrotechnic specialty.
Sighing, he leaned against the side of his SUV as he scoped out the interior of the fancy silver sports car purring next to his run-down Explorer. The ivory leather seats were gorgeous and without a speck of dust on them.
“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” The kid shot Law a cheesy you-wish-you-had-it-like-me grin and walked around to the driver’s side door.
Law shrugged as if he wasn’t impressed.
He stared down at his latest special effects prop he’d removed from his pocket. He rolled it around in his palm, heating and activating the outer layer while arguing with himself not to overreact and get into more trouble.
Fuck, he wanted to throw the ball right in the man’s face and watch it explode.
Once the bomb was released from his hand, the thin-coated plastic would dissolve instantly and fill the space with harmless vapors, creating a dense layer of white smoke. But Law had altered the formula to turn the smoke from white to black.
He was using the new gadget to audition for a commercial they were shooting at Blackhole Studios, and he was putting in his bid to provide the special effects.
It was a long drop from Paramount in Los Angeles.
If it wasn’t for his own ego and stupidity, he’d still be the hottest pyro/demolitions technician in Hollywood and in very high demand.
But after being banned from the industry last year, he’d sold as many of his possessions as he could to pay off most of his debts.
When one fell in this business, they fell hard.
The kid leaned over and laughed out of the passenger window. “Nice doing business with ya.”
Suckerrrr , Law attached to the end of that sentence.
When the prick turned to check his sideview mirror, and before Law could think better of it, he flung the vapor bomb into the back seat of the GT.
The kid powered up his window and jerked away from the curb.
Law watched as the trailer got farther up the street with his second-most prized possession on top of it and Mr. Moneybags coasting behind it.
Law stood watching.
Is it gonna work?
He was sure the vape-balls were ready to demo, but now, he was concerned about how much magnesium he’d added.
Maybe I didn’t—
Law froze as the silver car screeched to a halt, tires skidding before it slammed against the curb. Pedestrians scattered as the driver’s door burst open and thick black smoke billowed out in a dense mushroom cloud towards the sky.
Damn, that’s sexy.
The guy fell out of the car and rolled across the asphalt as if he were on fire.
His white jacket was covered with black carbon particles no amount of dry-cleaning would get out.
“Holy shit,” Law cursed, pulling his ball cap back on and rushing into his apartment building.
As he worked throughout the day, he laughed each time he thought of that guy’s screams and the panicked look on his face.
Richie Rich just knew his car, his ass, and his ugly leather coat were on fire. But it was all just a pyrotechnic illusion Law was well known for.
Man, he’s gonna pay at least two thousand to detail that GT. Law laughed even louder. Should’ve paid me the eight thousand.
He sat at his workstation preparing for his audition tomorrow, tweaking the moles of hexane, the borax, and adding some flakes of iron for more spark to his white vapor.
The commercial was spotlighting the annual Atlanta Jazz Concert coming at the end of winter, which could have him sitting pretty for a few weeks if he landed it.
Law was so overqualified for a measly local commercial, but he was praying every five seconds that he’d get it.
Law took a break after a couple of hours and stood to stretch his back.
He glanced out of the window of his one-bedroom apartment in the Harmony Plaza complex on the south side of the city, scoffing at the name.
There was no harmony, and there was no fucking plaza. Only broke-ass people like him scrounging to get by.
Law shook his head.
He was back home with his tail tucked between his legs.
Back to where it all began.
Good ole Atlanta.