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)
That earned him a short glance, a quick flicker of those green eyes, but no smile.
Law dropped the bag on the side counter and walked over to the cluttered mess sprawled across the larger table.
Schematics, flame dispersal sketches, fuses, and diagrams, all written in Wes’s messy handwriting.
“Divert line of sight, delay breach by five seconds, mimic electrical fire,” Law read.
To anyone else, it would’ve been a foreign language, but to Law, it was Wes’s brilliance.
He dropped his backpack on the floor, unzipped it, and added his own diagrams beside Wes’s. One quick scan and he already saw how they overlapped.
Wes came over, raised a brow, and sat on a stool beside him.
Over the next six hours, things were civil enough.
Law leaned in, brushing their forearms together, and added a note to Wes’s ignition system to allow for his vapor to infuse beneath it.
“Let’s install a dual-compression chamber here, that way we can burst two different vapor blends, first white then black. It’ll create a shock in visibility mid-fog.”
Wes nodded. “Then lace the second phase with a burst-strobe. They’ll choke, get blinded—”
“Then panic,” Law finished. “It’ll be long enough for one of the enforcers to duck in and grab evidence.”
“Yep.”
They worked a while longer, he and Wes glancing up periodically and scoffing at the amateurish CGI effects of the movie still playing on mute.
“This visual team should be embarrassed by this shit.”
Wes looked up. “That thermos blast looked about as powerful as someone microwaving a piece of aluminum foil.”
Law laughed.
“Remember The Devil’s Kiss?” he grinned. “The mausoleum detonation?”
“Timed smoke blast that you paired with my layered charges.” Wes let out a low whistle. “We made the entire fuckin’ set shake.”
“Got us our first Oscar nomination,” he said softly. “But not our last.”
Wes went still.
Law allowed the weight of that memory to settle between them.
Wes tossed the tool in his hand on the table and reared back on his stool.
He glanced at Wes out of the corner of his eye. His face was turned toward the screen, but Law could tell his attention was elsewhere. Someplace far away.
“You really remembered how I liked my wings cooked at the Fry Spot?”
Law’s voice was low. “I remember everything about you, Wes.”
Wes gave him a side eye. “Don’t try to distract me. Get your ass back to work.”
One hour later…
“Okay,” Wes said, “I need you to not touch the temperature dial this time.”
Law was already doing it. “I’m just adjusting—”
“No, stop it!”
“I’m enhancing.” Law turned the knob. “You do safe. I do sexy.”
A loud pop made Wes jump as Law ducked and covered his head.
The beaker shot upward like a space shuttle launch and exploded, spewing blue smoke and raining a sticky residue.
“Real fuckin’ nice,” Wes droned.
Law pulled at his beard in frustration.
“We need an agent that has a soundless release. Something stealthier than the flashbangs. If we use this, God might as well send in a mariachi band before they go in.”
“I know, just reload it,” Law growled.
Two hours later…
“You said it was stable!” Wes yelled from behind a flipped worktable.
“It was stable!” Law barked.
Thin ribbons of smoke curled towards the ceiling from the stack of smoldering cinder blocks in the corner,
Wes rose to his feet, brushing ash off his shirt. “That was too much magnesium!”
“No, you tripled the oxidizer!” Law snapped. “That’s what did it.”
“God, you’re hardheaded as shit.” Wes ripped the energy drink from his hand. “No more Red Bull! It’s making you reckless.”
Four hours later…
The fog dispersal bomb— designed to hide the team when they entered a room but maintain visibility through their infrared lenses—filled the basement with pink smoke that smelled like burnt Jolly Ranchers.
“Why the hell does it smell so sweet?” Wes coughed, fanning the air.
“I must’ve used the wrong glycerol base,” Law choked.
“Why do you have flavored bases?”
“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.”
“What in the actual hell?” Wes sighed. “Where are you?”
“Over here, idiot.”
They collided, their mouths bumping and sliding against each other.
Wes pulled back, panting.
Law’s voice was husky. “We need a new agent.”
They both turned back to the table, the next blueprint already in Law’s hand.
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
5:00 a.m.
By dawn, Law was filthy, exhausted, and even after the constant arguing, he was still grinning.
Wes dropped down on the stool, staring at him, breathing hard.
The finished prototypes were lined on the worktable, gleaming under the basement lights—polished, primed, and ready to show off.
“You’re an asshole,” Wes said.
Law stepped forward. “You’re a control freak.”
He swallowed, eyes dropping to Wes’s mouth.
Wes stretched, his arms high over his head before he climbed onto Law’s lap without a word. He cupped the back of his neck and dipped down for a lazy, open-mouthed kiss.
Wes began a subtle grind, drawing a low groan from Law’s throat as he became intoxicated by the movement.
He pressed his forehead to Wes’s temple, inhaling the chemicals and sweat sticking to his skin, and whispered. “I need you to believe me when I say this.”