Page 12 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)
Wesley (Wes) Drake
The basement reeked of cordite, oil, and molded concrete.
Maybe I’ll get lung disease and die, and I’ll finally be free of Law.
Wes sat on a metal stool beneath a single hanging light bulb that swung every time the washing machine’s spin cycle started.
His mom’s townhome hadn’t changed in decades, still dusty, cluttered, littered with various chemicals and gadgets, and still his sanctuary.
The solder-scarred table was covered with coiled copper wire, beakers of acetone, vials of potassium, and permanganate—the makings of what he hoped would be something the task force could use.
He released a slow exhale as he stared at the components.
It was supposed to be a diversionary firework for a heist scene that he and Law scribbled down on a bar napkin one drunken night.
A perfect funnel of smoke, vibration, flashes of fire, and blue light, made to disorient but not harm. Sleek black casing, titanium shell, reinforced core.
His fingers itched to make it useful, tactical…deadly if needed. It wouldn’t be the average SWAT flashbang with a dull pop and white light. It’d be heart-stopping.
It was all he could think of that might be helpful to a police squad that looked as if they’d never even heard of nonlethal tactics.
What the hell am I doing?
He’d asked himself this a hundred times since he’d gotten in his car at the station. That had been two weeks ago, and his heart was still hammering. Not from the danger emanating from that heavy gun-toting bastard, but from Law.
Fuckin’ asshole.
Wes knew he’d never be rid of him. Law was like the smell of sulfur that never washed out of his coveralls.
With all the havoc that came with Law, Wes still ached for him, his entire body humming with want.
Law’s mouth, that voice, his goddamn swagger that never faded, no matter the shit they were in.
Wes twisted the housing open and peeked inside. He added a bit more potassium so the microflare would erupt at twenty-seven hundred degrees, hot enough to burn, blind—maybe permanently. It was a God-sent message to a meth dealer poisoning the community.
Painful, violent…and sexy.
Just like…
Wes dropped the flare unit into the chamber, grinning as it hissed against the casing. It was perfect, no smoke or vapor, just light and heat with enough pressure that it would hit the chest like a punch from a heavyweight champion.
Law would swear it needed his touch.
He was all smoke and mirage. Vapor screens and slow-creeping chemicals that slithered into vents and under doors seals, assaulting lungs.
Wes was sure Law would cook up something good that God’s team could benefit from.
He thought of how Law’s mind functioned. It was beautiful in the most addictive way.
He’d always dominated the entire workspace. But Wes secretly loved the way he issued orders and argued in a deep, grated voice, leaning too damn close when they were building, as if he knew his presence could make Wes’s calculations form faster.
Annoying ass mother…
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
Law watched the vapor coil from the test chamber like a phantom spirit. It swirled and twisted in thick white-gray tendrils, rising like a slow explosion in reverse. Silent and under his control.
The opposite of his Wesley.
Law adjusted the airflow valve then leaned away from the sweet odor of burning benzene.
The pressure held and the vapor maintained its funnel shape, creating a mesmerizing distraction.
Hollywood had turned it down, calling its agents too unpredictable and hazardous.
Idiots .
Now he’d tweaked it into something made for war.
With the trace amounts of chlorine gas added, this fog could swallow a corridor, creep beneath doors, and wrap itself around a person’s lungs. Suffocate them just enough to bring them to their knees.
If God wanted chemical warfare, raids with special effects… If he wanted shock and awe on the faces of drug lords…fine, he and Wes could do it.
Law popped the latch on the rig, refilled the vapor chamber with a smidge more of aldehyde. It’d cause far more eye sting than a flash bang, and the camphor derivative would cause confusion and imbalance.
I hope those measurements are right.
Law shrugged. He had no clue how to test it. He guessed the bad guys would have to be his test subjects.
Damn, he missed his high-tech, customized laboratory he’d designed for his LA penthouse.
Wes used to come over to use it, even when he wasn’t there, and when Law got home, he’d smell him everywhere.
He had all the space he needed for oxidizing alcohols, synthesizing particles, and every kind of measuring device made.
He’d brought a lot of supplies back home with him, but most of his bigger items were in storage in Brentwood.
Law reclined, kicking one boot up on the edge of the table, the other tapping restlessly on the stained linoleum as he stared at his invention.
Wes had been quiet since he’d stormed away from the abandoned lot.
Which meant he was stewing, and probably building something way too hot but somehow still controlled.
That was Wes. Wild, gasoline flowing through his veins, and a mouth that never stopped bitching unless it was wrapped around Law’s cock.
He grunted and rubbed the back of his neck, jaw clenched.
Wes knew just how to drive him insane. Especially when he was mad.
The way he’d reacted at the precinct, the way he’d snapped at him, turned him on. Those green eyes shining like emeralds beneath that epic scowl, chest heaving, shoulders tensed as if he could’ve leapt across that interrogation table and tackled him.
Law would’ve let him.
Would’ve let Wes dig his strong fingers into his hair, yank his head to the side, and bite his neck as if it was punishment before he slammed him into the closest hard surface and kissed him until his anger eased.
Wes’s body, his temper, his love for him, burned hotter than the fire he manipulated.
Law scratched at his stubble, refocusing on the vapor chamber that was pure magic.
He’d finish the prototype tonight and showcase it to God and his team tomorrow.
He’d always been an overachiever, a showoff. On his first day as a consultant for the Atlanta PD, he was going to do just that, and he had no doubt Wes would as well.
And maybe—if fate wasn’t a bastard—he’d get Wes riled up again.
Law chuckled.
No matter how many times Wes stormed off with curses on his lips…he always came back.