Page 59 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)
Wesley (Wes) Drake
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
Three months later…
Titan Gate Studios had become their second home, since it was where they could be found twelve to fifteen hours out of the day.
The industrial compound on the west side of Los Angeles was more like a playground for creative maniacs.
There were miles of scaffolding, motion capture rigs, crates of explosives, drums of pyrotechnic gels, cranes, track arms, hundreds of feet of coiled cables, liquid CO? tanks, vapor scent additives, and the ever-present scent of chemicals and scorched rubber.
It was a place where blockbuster magic was made—and where the country’s most in-demand special effects duo was once again at each other’s throats.
Wes and Law stood on opposite sides of their oversized workstation in Stage 12—a converted airplane hangar turned special effects lab.
The entire space pulsed with bass from the soundtrack mockups, while they and their twenty-five-man crew of special effects members prepped for what was anticipated to be the most explosive finale ever filmed for an action movie.
And Wes and Law were behind it all?
And as usual, arguing…loudly.
“I’m telling you for the tenth goddamn time,” Wes barked, slamming his hand on the metal table for the skyscraper explosion. “If you overpack the north column, it’s gonna tip the whole frame backward into the camera crew. We need a controlled drop. Controlled .”
Wes leaned over a blueprint the size of a yoga mat.
He jabbed a grease-streaked finger at the third phase of the effect rig.
“You can’t drop a full tank into a quarry pit that’s already rigged with phosphorus mines, Law. It’ll turn into Hiroshima, and not in the sexy way.”
Across from him, Law narrowed his eyes until they were nothing but slits.
“It’s a space war movie, Wes. The entire planet gets obliterated. This isn’t supposed to be realistic. It’s supposed to be glorious. The audience wants fireballs that melt retinas…not your controlled little flickers and sparks.”
“Fine. Then you must’ve liked that one of your eyebrows was almost singed off last month?” Wes countered, voice calm but with that dangerous glint in his eye.
“That was your fault for making the blast radius five feet bigger than we agreed!” Law’s voice pitched. “I’ve still got a bald patch from that!”
“I’m telling you,” Wes said through clenched teeth, “when that glass wall is set to come down, it’s gonna shatter like we need—you make it sound like it’s gonna sag like a bad boob job. And anyway, don’t act like you don’t love to stare at a bad boob job, Law!
“Love is a strong word,” he gritted, tapping a metal tool on his titanium cap. “I like to look at it. The same way I like to look at rabid raccoons that jump up on my deck.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What the hell are either of you talking about?” their stunt coordinator muttered, walking by. “We’ve gone from blast radius to boobs and raccoons.”
People were staring and laughing at them, but Law had never cared about an audience.
“You’re full of shit,” Law growled, stalking around the workstation. “And you’re scared. Scared of going big.”
“I’m not scared, Law. I’m smart . There’s a difference.”
Technicians nearby exchanged glances and subtly began packing up their things. They’d seen this dance before and knew it wasn’t going to stay PG for long.
“You’re impossible,” Wes snapped, turning to adjust one of the detonator charge settings on the touchscreen.
“Oh, right, you’re so smart. Was it smart when you went against my suggestion and insisted on cold -igniting the vapor rig, giving the creative designer third-degree cryogenic burns?”
Wes threw up a hand. “That man leaned into the blast!”
“You triggered it during a rehearsal!”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Yeah, well, sorry won’t make his leg hair grow back.”
Their noses were almost touching, breaths mingling.
“You always think you’re right,” Wes gritted. He turned to walk away, but he only made it one step before Law grabbed him by the belt and spun him back into the steel table, making some of the tools clatter and fall to the floor.
“Law,” Wes warned.
“I am right,” Law countered, his voice low and dangerous. “You want me to prove it?”
“If you think you can.” Wes licked his lips.
“Clear out,” Law muttered to the staff without breaking their eye contact.
The doors had barely closed before Law slammed his mouth over his.
Wes groaned against his lips, muttering,“You always fight dirty.”
Law’s voice was a sinful growl. “You’re damn right I do.”
Law dropped to his knees as if he’d been born there.
“Don’t you—”
Too late.
Law tugged Wes’s fly down and mouthed him through his briefs.
He gripped Wes’s thighs like a steel vise, holding him still as he pulled the waistband down and took him into his mouth in one slow, delicious swallow.
Wes’s head snapped back, hand slamming down on the table for support. “Fuck—Law…”
Law licked and sucked with wicked intent, like he was punishing Wes for daring to argue with him. His tongue was relentless, his mouth a furnace, dragging Wes into submission with each wet glide.
Wes rocked forward, losing the battle for control as Law moaned around him.
“You’re insane,” he choked out.
Law pulled back for a breath, eyes gleaming. “Still think I’m wrong?”
“And you’re such a manipulative bastard,” Wes gasped.
Law sucked like he wanted to own his every decision. He scraped his teeth over him before he flattened his tongue and took apart his argument with every drag up his length.
Wes grabbed the edge of the bench for balance, every tendon in his neck straining. “Law—fuck—I’m gonna—”
Law growled low in his throat, doubling down.
Wes came so hard he thought the fucking table might collapse.
Law stood, eyes glinting, mouth wet, licking his lips. “Told you I was right.”
Wes felt drunk, his vision blurred as he tried to remember what he’d been wrong…he meant right about.
“That’s what I thought.” Law grinned, grabbing Wes’s hips and spinning him around. “Now bend your ass over the table while I finish winning this argument.”
Before Law could slick himself good, the door banged open, making them both jerk upright.
HOS—Head of Security—stormed toward them with a few wide-eyed guards hurrying behind him.
“Goddammit!” HOS barked, his voice ricocheting off the metal walls. “I told you to stop doing that shit on studio property!”
“You know better than to interrupt us when we’re hard at work, HOS! We’re trying to narrow down some very minute details,” Law panted as he haphazardly tried to get his pants up. “The studio managers should be thanking us for our commitment to perfection!”
“Shut up, idiot,” Wes mumbled, trying to catch his breath and his dignity. “What’s going on, HOS?”
“There’s been another breach,” he said. “Devyn Frost and his bodyguard were attacked leaving Stage 8.”
Wes and Law both straightened.
“How are they?” Wes asked.
“Stable, but they’re both in the hospital. Security contained it fast, and we’ve shut down access to the press, but we need everyone off the premises for safety.”
They shared a grim look.
Devyn was no lightweight, and his guard was ex-military. If the two of them had been put down, then…
“I’m glad they’re safe,” Wes sighed.
“It shouldn’t’ve happened. It’s the third breach this month.” HOS squeezed the back of his neck. “Not to mention the vandalism, bomb threats, drone flyovers.”
HOS usually looked as if he fit his title, but today, his dark button-up clung to his chest with sweat and the furrow between his brows was so deep it seemed it would never smooth out again.
His neat hair was mussed from running his fingers through and pulling it, and the pulsing vein in his temple gave away just how close he was to losing his shit.
He was sexy as fuck, sure, but he was one more incident away from aging ten years.
“I’ve hired more personnel from the best security agency in town, upgraded our protocols, but…” HOS exhaled sharply. “It’s not enough. I need better, stronger guards. I need elite .”
Law narrowed his eyes. “Define elite.”
HOS shrugged. “Loyal, skilled, well-trained, not just muscles but intelligence too, someone who can think quick on their feet. Most of all, I need discretion.”
Wes smiled slyly. “We might know some people.”
HOS blinked. “Yeah…who?”
“Guys like you, who’ll die before they compromise their morals or lose a fight.”
HOS scoffed. “What kind of men do you know like that?”
Law chuckled. “Let’s just say they’re the kind of men you don’t want to owe a favor—but the ones you want at your back when your doors are breached again.”
Wes unzipped his duffel bag. “I’ll call ’em.”
HOS checked his watch. “It’s after two a.m.”
“Doesn’t matter the time,” Law said.
“They don’t sleep,” Wes added in perfect sync.
The End…for now.
Atlanta’s finest are heading west—and Los Angeles has no idea what’s coming.
The task force is still undergoing a full IA audit, so when Wes and Law let them know about their personal security problem, the team is just bored enough to answer the call.
They’re way out of their jurisdiction, but when has that ever mattered?
God, Day, and their enforcers are about to paint the city of angels in blood and justice.
Get ready for the final reckoning.
Next up: Nothing Special X: The Last Stand