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)
Something loosened inside Vasquez’s chest, something old and brittle.
He parted his lips, breath hitching.
He wondered for a moment if he was being played?
No...not Kiran. He seemed too mature for messy bullshit.
Joshi ghosted his thumb along the edge of his jaw. Enough to make Vasquez’s pulse skip as if he’d forgotten these kinds of feelings.
He wanted to lean forward. To collapse into the touch. But fear and rustiness kept him rooted in place.
He clenched his fist—unsure what to do with his hands—until his knuckles whitened.
Joshi inched closer until their lips were inches apart.
Intense fear of being exposed and seen for who he really was froze him in place.
Joshi’s voice was low and intimate, wrapped around the edge of a whisper.
“Think about it.”
It was only three little words. But they packed a big punch.
Joshi held his gaze for a beat longer. Then he smiled. Not cocky, not haughty, but soft and a little sad. As if he knew just how deep his touch had reached.
Joshi straightened, then packed his things into his canvas bag and left.
He sat suspended in time with his mouth open, heart thudding until his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
Then it rang.
“Yeah?” he answered in a hoarse voice.
“Are you still on fuckin’ break?” his sergeant barked. “Get your ass to your post, now!”
Click.
Still in shock, he didn’t move for another twenty minutes.
Wesley (Wes) Drake
Wes had every intention of sleeping until noon, maybe three.
His body needed the rest.
His entire body was reduced to sore joints and bones that clicked when he stood too fast. His lower back screamed. And his knees? Forget about it.
He was curled on his side in the middle of his twin bed, tangled in the same thin blanket he’d had since he was sixteen.
His workshop was still cluttered from last night’s trial run of a blast pattern that’d gone very wrong.
It was Sunday. His one day off, and he planned to do absolutely nothing. He was going to sleep in, skip breakfast, and maybe work on Free’s gift to him.
He’d earned this nothingness.
So when his phone buzzed against the nightstand, he groaned into his pillow.
Wes stared at his agent’s name illuminated on the screen.
If he let it ring, maybe he could pretend no one needed anything from him today.
It rang again. He sighed, swiped green, and croaked, “Yeah?”
“Wesley! Wake your ass up, baby. I got news that’s gonna make you wanna kiss me with a whole lotta tongue!”
Wes blinked up at the ceiling. “Only if you’ve negotiated a ten-year Arvel Comics contract for me.”
“No, but close. I got you a job. A real job. Here in LA at Titan Gate.”
He sat up, suddenly wide awake.
Forrest launched into the details.
“You know the sitcom Spy Guys?”
Who didn’t know that show? It was in the top ten highest rated series on primetime television and in its sixth season.
“Of course I do.”
“Well, you’re their new special effects coordinator for season seven, episodes two and three. And if you nail it, it could be a longer contract. That’s if you don’t blow anybody up. I negotiated a pretty extensive budget for you too.”
Wes’s heart kicked in his chest. “Holy shit! Are you serious?”
“I am deadass. I pitched the hell outta you, Wes. I’ve been sending your reel of the SFX explosion from Dark Matter Burn to every studio from San Fransico to San Diego. Redline Studios called this morning. You’re in.”
A smile crept across his face. He couldn’t stop it.
Without a second thought, he asked, “What about Law?”
The silence on the other end wasn’t long—but it was telling.
Forrest cleared his throat. “Hard no. Nobody’s lookin’ to bring a loose cannon on their set, Wes, no matter how good his smoke effects are.”
Wes’s smile dimmed. He stared down at the blanket bunched in his lap.
“Wes,” Forrest said, voice dropping, “this is your shot. Yours. No tag team. Just you doing what you do best.”
The words should’ve lifted him. But instead, his heart felt squeezed by a vise.
Free’s voice echoed through his mind: “It’s about knowing you and when to step away and grow on your own.”
He didn’t respond.
“Wesley,” Forrest gritted. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of turning this down. I’ve been working my ass off for free over here. Free, dude. I’ve pulled every favor I had left.”
Wes rubbed his eyes. “When would I have to leave?”
“Your flight is already booked, boarding starts at three.”
He froze. “Three? Today?”
“Three o’clock. Agency’s covering everything. All you gotta do is show up tomorrow morning at nine,” Forrest said in a grave tone. “Wesley, this is your comeback, man. Don’t blow it.”
Wes stared at the floor.
The clock on his nightstand glared back: 10:14 a.m.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll be there.”
He moved around his room like a ghost, packing slowly.
Clothes. Tools. A few small builds he’d been working on.
When he was finished, he stared at his phone for a long time, thumb hovering over Law’s number.