Page 20 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Wesley (Wes) Drake

Wes wasn’t sure what he’d expected when Ruxs and Green invited him and Law out for “a few beers” at a pub near the precinct, but this sure as shit wasn’t it.

The packed bar smelled like beer, smoke, and frying grease. It was buzzing with too-loud conversations, pool balls clanking, and classic rock blaring from overhead speakers.

Almost a dozen flat screens were mounted on the walls, each showing a different sport.

The team had four tables pulled together, each littered with garlic parmesan wings, fried pickles, sliders, and countless empty beer bottles.

Ruxs and Green were working on their second pitcher of dark ale and demolishing a plate of chili cheese fries.

Ro had his feet kicked up on an empty chair, nursing a half-full glass of whiskey. Free sipped on something bright blue, with fruit, through a neon straw. Tech was beside him, reclining against Steele’s chest, dressed to the nines in a fitted vest and plum bow tie.

Law was practically howling with laughter at Ro’s story while Wes tried not to puke up his jalapeno poppers from the nerves still swarming in his gut from today’s raid prep.

“So there we are, Artist and his men had us trapped like rats,” Ro said, gesturing with his glass. “I’m hit in the shoulder, Syn is out of ammo, Day’s hollering for God to save us, and I’m ninety-eight percent sure the run-down house we’re hiding in is about to collapse on us at any minute.”

Law leaned in, looking completely enamored. “And then what?”

Ro grinned and slammed the glass down. “Then, we hear this goddamn roar coming down the road. I thought it was a damn freight train.”

Green cracked a wide smile and Ruxs was already laughing.

“These reckless motherfuckers come barreling around the corner like a bat outta hell—not in our SUVs, with lights and sirens—they’re in a fuckin’ city garbage truck!

” Ro raised a hand. “Swear on my mother’s pot roast, Green rammed it into all six of Artist’s Escalades, demolishing them like they were fuckin’ LEGOs. Took ’em all out.”

Law almost spat his beer across the table. “A garbage truck ? How’d you get it?”

“Stole it out of the city’s repair lot. It had most of the steering wheel and smelled like a corpse was in the passenger seat, but she roared like a demon.”

“Green jumped out of the driver seat—truck’s still rolling—and climbed on top of it, Ruxs was in the back bucket, both of ’em firing their M4s, brass shells flying everywhere,” Ro added. “Law, I swear it’s a fuckin movie that needs to be pitched to Hollywood.”

Wes tried to laugh along, but now his stomach was convulsing.

“Definitely,” Law agreed.

“You okay, man?” Free leaned over and bumped Wes’s shoulder.

Wes smiled tight. “Yeah. Just…um, impressed.”

Impressed I haven’t shit myself yet.

Across the room, God, Day, Syn, and Hart were playing darts, holding beers, chilling as if they had the easiest jobs in the world.

Hart threw a near bullseye without breaking eye contact with Syn.

The bar’s door swung open and every head turned.

Wes stared hard. Law stopped mid-laugh and did a double-take.

The man who walked in was tall, model-on-a-runway tall. He wore a long, weathered charcoal-gray coat over a plain white T-shirt that clung to his frame like it was painted on. Oil-stained jeans, black biker boots, and thick, wavy, rich brown tresses falling to the middle of his back.

“Who…in the hell…?” Wes murmured.

Ruxs chuckled into his glass.

The Adonis sauntered over and kissed Free and Tech on the lips before he winked at the rest of the table, then locked eyes with Syn and walked straight into his arms.

Syn pulled him close, not giving a damn who was watching.

Law nudged Wes. “Why does he look so familiar?”

Before either of them could guess aloud, Ruxs grinned, “you might recognize him from your phones while you were jerking off.”

Wes choked on his drink.

“Don’t stare too hard,” Tech said. “Or hug him too long.”

“Or touch his hair,” Ro added. “And if you value your life, never mention his videos, or Syn’ll knock your ass into next week.”

“That’s fuckin’ Furious Styles,” Wes croaked. “Syn’s boyfriend is the Furious, the same Furi who was on Illustra’s porn site.”

Free nodded. “Yep. But now he owns the most successful bike shop in the city.”

Law let out a wheezing breath. “Holy shit. You guys are too damn much.”

The night carried on with bottomless nachos, game challenges, and rounds of liquor-laced stories.

Law behaved as if he was in his element, even sharing some of their own wild stories—like Wes escaping a fireball by jumping three stories into a pool. And the time when he was concussed after falling off a stage after Wes started the ignition thirty seconds early.

That story was complete bullshit, but Wes wasn’t in the mood to joke around. None of this shit was funny to him.

By the time midnight neared, most of the team was beginning to call it a night.

Finally.

God was almost out the door when he yelled over his shoulder, “ballistics training, six sharp. Show up hungover, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Day and Hart followed him.

Syn and Furi left arm-in-arm. Ro, Michaels, and Free offered sloppy fist bumps on their way out. Steele nodded, his cigar still smoldering as he vanished into the dark with Tech in his shadow.

Wes went straight for the restroom, his pulse hammering like a warning alarm.

After several minutes of deep breaths, he splashed cold water on his face and stared into the mirror as if he was expecting his smarter self to give him a way out of this mess.

This wasn’t his crowd. These were elite officers who had near-death war stories that ended in laughter and toasted with Tequila. They were comfortable with blood, bullets, and anarchy.

He wasn’t.

Wes stepped out into the dim hallway, and Law was there, leaning against the wall.

“What?”

Law cocked his head to the side. “You okay?”

Wes tried to brush past him, but Law blocked his path.

“You were pretty quiet tonight,” he said.

“I was just lost in thought.”

“Thinking of what?”

“That we’re pretending,” Wes said flatly. “Pretending we belong in that group. Like we can do any of the shit they do.”

Law exhaled. “How ’bout we just let them do what they do? And we do what we do.”

“You make it sound so goddamn easy.”

Law backed him gently against the wall.

“No, it won’t be easy.”

Wes looked up, surprised by the honesty. No cocky retort. No smug grin.

“But I kinda trust these guys.”

Wes’s breath hitched as Law pressed in closer.

“We can do this,” Law whispered, voice low and raw. “But if things go south, I swear…I won’t leave you again.”

Law cupped his jaw and brought their mouths together in a kiss with no push behind it. Soft, quiet, and patient. The kind of kiss that said stay and reiterated I’m here.

He sighed into Law’s mouth, clinging to his shoulders as if testing their stability.

When they pulled apart, Wes pressed his nose into Law’s dark beard, taking comfort in the warmth and it’s scent of smoke and the same Ralph Lauren cologne he’d worn since college.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “You’re gonna owe me so damn big.”

Law grinned. “I’ll give you any-fuckin’-thing you want. Anytime you want it.”