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)
Wes huffed in awe.
“This is the kind of regulator I’ve tried to design for years.” Wes spun the narrow device in his palm. “But I’m not the best with formulas. I’ve come close to shaping the flames, but I’m always a bit off and can’t figure out what needs recalculating.”
Free shrugged. “When you’re back in Hollywood, you’ll be able to do far more than just blow shit up… You’ll be capable of designing the fire.”
Wes would be envied by every pyrotech in his field.
Free gave him a knowing grin. “You take over the building and switches, and I’ll work the formulas.”
“Hell yeah.” Wes smiled brighter than he had in weeks as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his sleeves up.
He sat on the stool beside Free, believing he was going to make one hell of a friend.
Ramon Vasquez
The precinct was quieter than usual for the graveyard shift—just the occasional drone of the overhead intercom and sporadic ring of an administrative staff member’s desk phone.
Vasquez lingered in the breakroom longer than he should’ve. He was supposed to be at the front desk by now, but if anyone asked, he’d say he was waiting on fresh coffee.
He sat slouched in a plastic chair, scrolling through yet another dating app. This one seemed a bit more promising—real connections, no algorithms—whatever the fuck that meant.
He’d chosen a different tactic this time. He’d deleted the shirtless gym picture, choosing a close-up of his face, trimmed beard, fresh haircut, and a simple tilt of his lips.
He even changed up his bio.
Simple guy. Works nights. Just looking for someone real and kind.
Sounded better than dishonorable, jilted cop looking for someone who won’t hold all his fuckups against him.
After several days, there were still no pings.
He flicked through profiles anyway, double-tapping just to feel as if he was doing something, before he ended up clicking on the testimonials.
Every smiling couple posing in the photos felt like a punch to the solar plexus. People holding hands, arms looped around shoulders, tagged locations of rooftop bars, happy hour spots, and intimate bonfires during sunsets on the goddamn beach.
Vasquez didn’t even need sex. He just wanted a fucking hand on his back. Someone to lean against, to comfort him after a shitty visit with his dad, to confide in. Someone to convince him he wasn’t a disgrace because men like that didn’t get goodnight kisses.
He logged out of the app and stared through the glass walls at the bullpen.
He was breathing easier that there was no further chatter about God’s foiled warrant or whispers of leaks.
He still didn’t know if Fox had found anything yet. The thought made his stomach turn. He’d thought Fox was long gone, living his cowboy fantasy somewhere with that Wrangler-wearing hunk of his.
But apparently, the bastard was still tied to Hart’s department.
Vasquez rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept since the night of the search. The moment he’d gotten confirmation of the deposit for the information he’d given, a cold shiver of dread had settled in his bones and refused to leave.
The international bank account was under a name that couldn’t be traced back to him, and the money had been washed clean. But for him, it still reeked. It smelled like regret and bad karma.
The door to the breakroom opened behind him and a faint scent of spices and cooked meat filled the air before a voice followed it.
“Evening officer?”
Vasquez didn’t respond.
“Mind if I use the microwave?”
“Be my guest. It’s not mine.”
He kept scrolling, expecting whoever was talking to be gone in a minute. But instead, the microwave beeped, and a man sat across from him with a Tupperware container and a warm smile.
“I’m Kiran Joshi. I think we’ve crossed paths coming and going once or twice, yeah?”
Joshi.
It didn’t ring a bell.
Vasquez looked up briefly and did a double-take.
Shiny, ink-black hair, dark skin with a warm golden undertone, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes. A blue suit and tie, but not stiff. He had a presence, like someone who didn’t need to flex to make his authority known.
Detective. He would’ve guessed something high up, like homicide or special victims.
“Maybe once.” Vasquez shrugged, dropping his gaze back to his phone.
Joshi chuckled softly, unwrapping a piece of soft-looking bread and scooping a bite of thick stew into his mouth.
The scent made Vasquez’s stomach tighten.
“What is that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“Butter chicken. Nothing fancy, but it hits the spot after midnight. It’s my mom’s recipe. I’ve been trying to cook more. It’s either that or frozen burritos and pizza, and I like my arteries. At forty-seven, I’m not getting any younger.”
“Smells good,” Vasquez admitted, setting his phone down. “I forgot what real food smells like.”
“You’re a takeout kinda guy, huh?” Joshi smiled.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Not really. He could just afford the vending machine food. But he’d never admit that.