Page 13 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Wesley (Wes) Drake

Wes glared at the blinking cursor on his phone.

It didn’t surprise him Law was still awake. He was always restless before a demonstration.

They were too alike, clear down to the bone.

Late nights were their havens. No agents, no fussy directors or annoying phone calls, just them and half-finished devices warm from over-testing.

Law You still mad at me?

Wes stared at the annoying text for several minutes before he couldn’t resist responding.

Wes Yes. Like strangle you with my bare fuckin’ hands mad.

Law Hmmm, not much into erotic asphyxiation, but first time for everything.

Wes You’re a dick. This shit we’re in isn’t a joke. Stop acting like everything is cool because it’s not.

Law It’s always my fault, I know. But you love my trouble…don’t you??? Hating me is your foreplay .

Wes growled and sat up straighter in the twin-sized bed in his childhood room.

Wes Why do you always do this? Why do you downplay your bullshit, piss me off, and then think bending me over will make me okay with it?

Law Because it usually does.

Wes could see Law’s sly grin and dismissive shrug when he typed that response.

Wes Go to hell. I’m going to sleep.

The sun was too damn bright.

Wes put on his sunglasses as he stepped out of his truck. He stared up at the tall precinct building, willing himself to pull his shit together. But the more he watched officers filing in and out, the more his mind screamed don’t go in there .

He wasn’t a kick-down-doors, dodge-bullets, tackle-criminals kind of guy. He wasn’t frail, but he wasn’t packed with muscle either.

His weekly diet consisted of corndogs, hot wings, jalapeno poppers, fries, crab dip, and Dr Pepper. Oh, and the occasional bottle of cream soda.

How the fuck was he supposed to keep up with a man who called himself God?

Wes lowered his head and closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on .

This is crazy. I should just haul ass back to California and try to beg anyone to let me bunk on their couch until I find a gig.

Wes would take anything. He’d do commercials, carnivals, magic shows. Hell, he’d even do rich-kid birthday parties until he made it back onto a blockbuster set.

“Stop overthinking.”

Wes flinched. He hadn’t heard Law come up behind him.

He was leaning against the bed of his truck, staring and smelling like Irish Spring. He wore a white T-shirt, soot-stained jeans, biker boots, and a worn leather jacket—the one he called lucky—and had a duffel bag in his right hand.

They’d need more than fucking luck.

Wes’s pulse kicked up like it always did, but he ignored the order, grabbed his backpack and walked toward the glass door entrance.

Law held the door open for him, giving him a sexy wink when he walked through it.

Wes’s jaw flexed as he held in his curses.

They made their way through the building, weaving in between desks and filing cabinets until they got to the floor to ceiling window with Narcotics Task Force etched into the glass that barricaded the entrance to Satan’s underworld from the rest of the station.

Wes blinked at the men who stood around as if they were waiting on the main attraction to arrive—them.

To say they were frightening and intimidating was an understatement. God’s men looked more like gang members than police officers. He wouldn’t’ve believed they were sworn to protect and serve if they didn’t have shiny badges suspended from chains around their necks or clipped to their belts.

Multiple televisions were mounted on the walls, displaying local and world news, except for one broadcasting The Price is Right .

Industrial lockers lined one wall adjacent to the basketball hoop and ping-pong table. Couches and mismatched chairs were positioned around a large table as if they also had book club meetings.

The largest area of the department was comprised of a massive surveillance station manned by one guy. Wes assumed the other desks belonged to each detective.

It was as if the mayor had handed God the keys to the city and unlimited budget and told him to have fun.

Law reached around him and gripped the handle, his mouth close to his ear.

“Don’t be mad, okay?”

Wes ignored him and walked into the office.

“Morning, guys.” Sergeant Sydney—Syn—was first to greet them. “You get enough time to think about God’s proposition…and I guess come to terms with it.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Wes glared at Law.

Syn appeared to be a bit older than the other guys with the face of a man who’d seen a lot and lived hard.

He scoffed, then reached out to shake their hands.

“I’m gonna go ahead and introduce you to the team. They’re all detectives and have already researched you, so now they know all about you guys.”

Wes rolled his eyes. Great .

Syn gestured behind him at two men dressed in tight denim pants and short-sleeve shirts, as if they were going to a batting range when the day was over.

“That’s First Officer Ronowski—we call him Ro—he’s our interrogator and sharpshooter in the field, and that’s Michaels, also our sharpshooter and surveillance coordinator.”

Ronowski stared at them with gorgeous blue eyes. He had a clean-shaven jaw and lips that had no business being that full.

“S’up.” He nodded.

Syn moved to another set of desks.

“These are two of our street enforcers—Ruxsberg and Green. Their jobs are fucking up and pissing God off.”

The guys and Law laughed, but Wes didn’t.

The pair had their hips propped on their cluttered desks, brushing shoulders. Both looked as if they’d just come from a bar fight…and won.

Green had a buzz cut and a wicked scar over his left eyebrow, and the other wore a cool-ass, vintage Aerosmith T-shirt, black jeans, and black combat boots.

“Then you got Steele. He looks unapproachable, but he’s a good guy.”

Steele barely nodded, glaring as if he and Law’s presence offended him. He was dark and mysterious like the shadow that’d lurked under Wes’s bed as a kid and had now grown to life.

Standing next to him was his stark opposite. A man in a sweater vest, crisp white shirt, plaid bow tie, khakis, and black-rimmed glasses. The twin chrome handguns holstered beneath his arms he wore like an out-of-place fashion accessory.

He waved and smiled, all bright-white teeth. “I’m Tech…I’m a huge fan. I’ve seen all the movies you guys worked on.”

Syn waved his hand in a wide arc. “These are God’s enforcers. So, get to know them. They’re who you’ll be working closest with.”

“Of fuckin’ course,” Wes grumbled.

Law chuckled under his breath.

Last, Syn pointed toward an insane workstation buried under dozens of monitors, tablets, keyboards, and gadgets.

It seemed as if the hooded man controlling it all hadn’t left the seat in days, if the empty cartons of Chinese food, discarded yogurt containers, and crushed cans of Monster energy drinks were any indication.

“Freeman—Free—is our eyes and ears. There’s literally nothing he can’t do from a computer.” Syn gave them a hard glare. “And don’t touch anything over there if you don’t want your credit score lowered to less than a hundred.”

Free lifted one hand without turning around.

“This is Captain Hart,” Syn said. “He runs the SWAT team that leads our entries. You’ll get acquainted with him soon. He’ll be training you with the enforcers.”

The mountain of a man—bald, ten inches of beard, built like a battering ram—stood wide-legged behind Free, massaging his shoulders.

Very touchy-feely crew.

“And just outside the office”—Syn pointed to a row of desks occupied by three women and two men—“is our admin team.”

They were all staring inside, waving before they turned and went back to work.

Law waved back, but before he could speak, Wes lost his shit.

“This is the worst idea ever.” Wes yanked Law by his collar.

“It can’t be the worst.” Law chuckled.

“This isn’t funny, you reckless bastard. Look at that fuckin’ guy.” Wes’s voice got louder as he pointed at Steele. “Who the hell looks like that? And the geeky guy, come on! No one wears a bow tie and has guns like that! He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Wes heard the guys laughing at his meltdown, but he didn’t give a damn. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home and not owe anyone a fuckin’ thing.

“Wes.” Law sighed.

“No! Do you really think we have the stomach to do this kinda shit?” Wes pulled them nose-to-nose, ignoring how Law’s eyes dropped to his mouth. “Your stunt went too damn far this time. You got us indebted to a real-life suicide squad.”

“Okay, okay, I know this seems bad, but come on, Wes, if you really think about it, we’ve gotten ourselves into far worse.

What about the Malibu F16 incident, or the time I destroyed the set in Prague?

” Law snapped his fingers, eyes widening.

“What about the fire in Vegas that got us banned and you almost had to marry that casino manager’s daughter so he didn’t sue us? ”

Wes stared as if Law were certifiable.

Law gave him that hot leer when he was thinking their arguing was about to kick into a different gear.

“And the time I punched that Oscar winner over the shrimp fountain at the wrap party for calling your work ‘mediocre.’” Law licked his lips. “You didn’t mind the trouble we got into with the Academy that night. If I recall, you—”

“Shut up, Law!”

“Enough! Both of you shut the fuck up!” God’s voice brought the yelling and laughing to a halt. “I can hear you dumbasses all the way across the bullpen.”

The officers on the other side of the glass had stopped what they were doing and was staring in their direction, most of them shaking their heads or hiding their grins.

All they needed were reclining seats and buckets of popcorn.

Law’s smile vanished as Wes hurried and unclenched his fist from around Law’s collar.

The quick-witted blond lieutenant—if Wes remembered correctly was called Day—followed God.

“My husband sure knows how to pick ’em, huh, guys?”

Wes’s mouth dropped open as he looked God up and down. “ He’s you husband.”

Day nodded. “Yep. I’m too big of a stud to be fucked by a puppy.”

God rolled his eyes while the rest of the team groaned as if they were used to those kinds of remarks from their boss.

“Fuckin’ hell, Leo. Can we please not get an inappropriate comment complaint for just one damn day?”

“I’ll do my best,” Day deadpanned.

What the hell kind of police department is this?