Page 47 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Ramon Vasquez

Vasquez sat on the edge of the motel bed, head bowed, listening to the shrill, rhythmic creak of a headboard slamming into the wall next door. At least someone was having a better Saturday night than him.

In the parking lot, two people screamed at each other in a language he didn’t recognize, voices overlapping so violently that a physical altercation was imminent.

He tried to ignore it all.

His ribs ached every time he breathed. His lip was split and swollen, and the taste of old blood lingered like a rusty penny on his tongue.

One eye was still puffy underneath and too tender to touch.

He wasn’t some lightweight who’d never taken a beating, but he hadn’t lifted a finger to fight back.

He’d deserved the ass-whupping

It was as if he’d let Ruxs and Green beat him as a kind of penance.

He held Joshi’s business card between two fingers, flipping it back and forth under the bedside lamp.

The white cardstock gleamed like a brilliant star in his dark world.

Kiran Joshi

That was all it said.

No way to contact him unless he gave it. No title for what his job was or the damage he could do to Vasquez’s career…his entire life.

Vasquez stared at the name for almost an hour before picking up the phone on the nightstand and dialing the ten digits on the back.

The line clicked twice before ringing.

“Kiran.”

Vasquez swallowed. “Hey. Uh, it’s…Ramon.”

A pause.

“What’s this number? Where are you?”

He sighed. “At a motel.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

“Why a motel?” Joshi asked.

Vasquez scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, wincing at the bruise there. “Long, shitty story.”

Joshi was quiet again, and Vasquez rushed on, “I just called to say thanks. For helping me last week. For giving a damn.”

“What are you doing right now?”

Vasquez stared at the muted TV, where two men were pretending to be big game hunters.

“Sitting here. Watching nothing.”

Joshi’s voice was softer. “I’m not doing much either. Trying a new recipe. Come over. Eat with me. I hate eating alone.”

“I don’t—” Vasquez hesitated. “I look like shit, Kiran.”

“I don’t care.”

Vasquez’s chest tightened. He was so fucking tired. So close to giving up.

Earlier that afternoon, he’d been called to the nursing home to calm his father after he’d bitten a nurse hard enough to draw blood.

And now Mercer’s burner phone kept lighting up on his nightstand. New texts piling up, the dollar figure growing bigger every time.

Fifty fucking grand.

Enough to disappear with his father to somewhere warm, sunny, and very far away.

Vasquez rubbed his forehead—the only area on his face that didn’t hurt.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Vasquez stood in front of the cracked mirror above the sink, running a finger gently along his lip, testing the tenderness. Then checked his outfit one last time.

He had on his best pair of dark jeans, hugging his thighs and ass, a simple white tee, and his camel blazer that he’d heard complemented his skin tone.

He grabbed his keys and left the room without looking back, dodging the couple still fighting in the parking lot.

Vasquez followed the GPS directions until the city streets got quieter and cleaner. Nobody was loitering with paper-bagged bottles. No hookers. No gunshots echoing in the distance.

He eased his battered jalopy into Joshi’s driveway beside a sleek black Mercedes.

The house lights were on, warm and inviting through the blinds.

Joshi opened the door before he reached the porch.

“Hey.”

They stared at each other for a beat before Joshi stepped forward and pulled him into a gentle hug.

Vasquez closed his eyes, inhaling the clean soap-and-spice scent. The solid press of Joshi’s chest against his own did things to him he didn’t want to get addicted to. Things that made him feel wanted…and worth saving.

He pulled back, and Joshi searched his face, brushing his fingertips across his cheek.

“Your lip’s still bad.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

Joshi pressed his lips into a tight line before he ground out, “You should’ve pressed charges against those crazy fuckers.”

“You can’t press charges against karma.”

Joshi let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t deserve it.”

Vasquez shrugged. “I never know when to keep my damn mouth shut. Or mind my own business.”

Joshi took his hand. “Come inside.”

Joshi’s place smelled incredible, like garlic, tomato, and baked bread.

The living room furniture and decorations were minimal but comfortable, with an oversized gray sofa and a huge Persian rug.

There was no TV blaring in the background, but two shelves were overcrowded with books.

Joshi gestured toward the kitchen. “Beer? Wine? Water?”

“Beer,” he answered.

Joshi grabbed one from the fridge—expensive and imported—popped the cap, and handed it to him.

Vasquez sat on a stool at the breakfast bar—though his nerves were all over the place—and took a long drink, eyes drifting around.

“This place is…nice. Really nice.”

“Thanks.” Joshi leaned against the counter beside him. “How are you feeling? For real.”

Vasquez tried a cocky grin that pulled on his split lip. “It’s just scratches. I barely felt it.”

Joshi caressed the side of his face again. “You forget I was there.”

Vasquez shifted, embarrassed, knowing he looked like hell.

“So what’s for dinner? Smells good.”

Joshi brightened. “Baked ziti. Garlic bread. Salad. Nothing fancy.”

Vasquez’s stomach growled.

For fuck’s sake .

Why did he always turn into a starving street mutt around Joshi?

He dropped his gaze to the floor, cheeks burning.

It wasn’t just the food. It was everything. Joshi made him realize how empty he was inside, in more ways than one.

Joshi laughed.

“Can I help?” he offered.

Joshi shook his head. “Nah. Just waiting on the bread.”

They went to the rug and sat on big throw pillows, plates balanced on their thighs and a bottle of beer beside each of them.

Joshi asked how his week had been, and he hurried and deflected to something else.

“So what does an auditor from the commissioner’s office do exactly?”

Joshi finished chewing. “Mostly, I’m sent in to sniff out funny shit. Everything from missing money, incomplete reports, off-book spending, and unsanctioned operations. In a nutshell, departments hate to see me walk in the door.”

“Who are you auditing in the precinct?”

Joshi didn’t hesitate. “The narcotics task force.”

Vasquez snorted. “Whatever rumors you heard about God and Day, I can guarantee, they’re all true. It’s like constant Reno 911 episodes in there every day.”

“Well, they’re under extreme scrutiny now,” he said. “The complaints, the excessive budget, prohibited weapons, psych evaluations that never get filed.” Joshi caressed Vasquez’s bruised jaw. “Disregarded first-degree assaults.”

“Well, I didn’t press charges.”

“Regardless. Let’s not even start on how half that task force is practically sleeping together. The first officer—Ronowski—is living with the commissioner’s son. Like what the hell?”

Vasquez pfftd. “Good luck with your audit. Nothing ever happens to them.”

Joshi raised an eyebrow. “Well, I had a long meeting with their team and the captain. My reports are almost done. No matter how much God is loved by the city’s officials, he can’t override the decisions of the disciplinary board.”

Vasquez didn’t say anything.

“God’s about to serve a warrant Monday, and he’d better show and prove. No casualties, and the expenses on this bust better be justified. Because it’s either that or the task force goes under a full IA investigation. Could take months. Might be the end of them for good.”

Vasquez’s pulse spiked.

Joshi had just told him exactly when God was taking Mercer down.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out, playing it cool.

“There’s no love lost from me. I hate my job. Hate Atlanta, if I’m honest.”

Joshi studied him. “So why stay? Leave here. Start new in a different jurisdiction.”

Vasquez huffed. “My dad. I can’t leave him. I’m all he has, even if he barely recognizes me most days.”

Joshi set his empty plate down and inched closer. “I respect that. It’s important in my culture to take care of your parents. You’re a good man, Ramon.”

Vasquez scoffed. “You think that because you don’t know me.”

“It’s not about knowing you…it’s about knowing me.” Joshi rubbed his hand over Vasquez’s shoulder and down his back. “I’m a good judge of character… I’ve made a pretty decent living at sniffing out people’s bullshit.”

When his plate was scraped clean and the last sip of beer was gone, he stood and brushed the crumbs off his jeans.

“I better go. I’m taking my dad to breakfast tomorrow. He’s not good with time, so he’ll probably be up at five in the morning.”

Joshi walked him to the door.

They lingered there, caught in a moment so thick with heat he could barely breathe.

Joshi cupped his jaw, and instead of kissing his sore mouth, Joshi pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, his jaw, then the column of his throat.

Each one lingering longer than the last.

Vasquez shut his eyes and leaned into it, trembling.

The warmth of Joshi’s lips created a burning he felt in his bones.

He wanted to sink into Joshi so badly. Into another man’s strong hands. Into the idea that he wasn’t so evil and toxic that he couldn’t be touched. That he could still be loved, even after all the shit he’d done.

He lifted his hand, hesitant at first, then braver, before sliding his fingers into the hair at the back of Joshi’s neck. It was soft, thick, and perfect.

He gripped Joshi’s shoulder, feeling solid muscle beneath his cotton shirt.

Joshi radiated a calm strength that made him feel small and huge. Like he could submit or conquer his demons. It was up to him.

Joshi grazed his lips along his pulse, slow and deliberate, and Vasquez swallowed hard as his cock tried to burst through his zipper.

He exhaled a shaky breath and slid his thumb along the curve of Joshi’s jaw, his fingers tingling against the thick stubble.

“Kiran…” Vasquez said in a pained whisper. “You feel so… Fuck. I, um, I have to tell you something.”

Joshi pulled back and placed his fingertips over his mouth, silencing him. His voice was low and sexy as silk.

“I wanna see you again…soon.”

“Yeah,” Vasquez rasped. “I…want that too.”

“Good.” Joshi kissed the bruise below his eye. “Call me, okay. I’ll answer.”

Vasquez nodded because the lump in his throat was too big to speak past.

He stumbled out into the chilly night. He was a man balancing on a knife-edge of salvation and sin.

When he got back to the motel, he sat on the side of the bed, staring at the cheap carpet.

He picked up the burner phone.

Mercer’s latest message glared back at him.

Need the date, man. $50k. Don’t be stupid.

Vasquez stared at it, thumb hovering.

Then typed…

I know when God will serve his warrant.

And hit send.

Some debts had to be paid in blood.