Page 3 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Law started packing his equipment an hour before he was supposed to arrive. He couldn’t risk being late and appearing unprofessional.

There used to be a time when he could arrive on a set forty-five minutes late and no one would blink an eye.

That was until he’d burned America’s starlet—then he was no longer a hot commodity but a reckless liability no one wanted around.

Law tiptoed quietly down the stairs of his three-story apartment building, trying to get out undetected by his landlord, but of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

“I hope you got the rent money you said you’d drop off last night,” Mr. Taylor said. He knocked his cane on the creaking wood floor as he ambled toward him.

Law wanted to curse, but that would be pointless. No one cared about his financial situation, only their own.

He’d had every intention of catching up on his back rent yesterday, but that was before he got hustled for his bike. He didn’t have as much money as he thought he would.

Instead of trying to argue and possibly make himself late, Law took the folded envelope out of his back pocket and handed over twelve hundred dollars to the property manager.

Mr. Taylor took his time counting the money before he tucked the bills in the side pocket of his overalls and walked past him without even muttering a thanks.

Law got in his Explorer, and after the third attempt, the engine sputtered and turned over. He slumped forward in his seat and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel with a hard thump .

How the hell did I get back here?

He thought about a time when he hadn’t had to deal with property managers, job auditions, and where his next meal was coming from. He thought about a time when he’d been truly happy.

Memories of heated feuds with Wesley Drake dominated his mind. Spirited, heavyweight, drag-out bouts that went twelve full rounds and ended in spectacular fireworks.

Law smiled as he thought back even further. Back to when he and Wes were kids and sneaking out at night to set trash cans on fire.

He was happy back then, in his own unique way. Wes knew that he needed to fight with him. Law fed off Wes’s fiery energy and was able to fuse it with his own to create a pyro effect powerful enough to shake an entire city block.

And I’m gonna do it again.

Law sat up and squared his goddamn shoulders, now wasn’t the time for reflection. He stomped on the brake and put his SUV in reverse.

He turned onto the small lot of Blackhall Studios and informed the security attendant he was there for an audition. He was instructed to make a right at the second building and park at the rear of the studio with the other vehicles.

Law’s nerves kicked into overdrive when he saw how many people were waiting outside, making him hesitate to get out.

He didn’t look bad.

He was dressed in his best jeans—which meant no holes, only a little fraying at the bottom—and a black T-shirt. He’d styled his hair, if brushing it was considered styling, and dusted most of the dirt off his black Timberland boots.

“Fuck,” Law mumbled, hovering his hand over the door handle.

If he wasn’t in fear of being without housing in a few months, he’d turn his SUV around and wait for the next job in LA to open up.

But he didn’t have that luxury. There was no way he could refuse any potential income.

However, facing these people—who would no doubt recognize him immediately—while he was still down on his luck would be the lowest point of his day, and he’d had some real shitters these past few weeks.

Instead of walking up to them, Law decided to wait alone in his car until they opened the bay doors.

Law was flipping back and forth between rock music stations when a classic Chevy pickup eased into the space beside his.

He didn’t waste time checking out the gunmetal-gray metallic paint job and the gleaming whitewall tires.

He guessed the truck was a late-sixties model, and this person had it cherried out real nice.

Law glanced up to see who was driving when his eyes locked on none other than Wesley-fucking-Drake.

Son of a bitch.

Law wished he would’ve noticed the driver before he eye-fucked the hell out of his truck.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell is he doing here?

Law quickly turned away, clenching his jaw to the point of pain instead of beating the hell out of his dashboard and making a scene.

Can my life get any worse?

Tension built and settled between his shoulders. The persistent headache he’d had all week pulsed against the back of his skull.

There was only one logical reason for Wesley to be there. They were both auditioning for the same job.

Oh, this is not good.

The two of them competing against each other again wouldn’t be pretty. Not with how Law was feeling, not with how much unresolved shit they had between them.

He and Wes usually needed to duke it out first—in the bedroom—before they could even hear each other.

Imagining pinning Wes down and forcing him to listen to reason made his dick throb.