Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
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.