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)
Just one call to let him know.
But he knew how it would go. Just one tortured whispered, “I love you. Don’t leave me. I can’t breathe without you.” Or one of those damned looks that made Wes forget all logic, survival, or self-care.
No. Why should I stay?
Law had damn near booted him off the task force himself, making him look weak in front of everyone.
He called Free as he zipped his duffel shut.
“Yo,” came the answer, half-distracted, the sound of typing in the background.
“Hey. I um…I wanted to say thanks for everything.”
Wes wanted to say more but his chest ached too bad.
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
There was a long pause before Free asked, “How long will you be gone?”
Wes hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Free’s tone was genuine. “Do you, man. You know how to reach me if you need me.”
“Thanks, bro.”
He hung up and dropped his phone into his bag.
His mother was making her favorite banana and kale smoothie when he walked into the kitchen. She was in her ten-year-old terrycloth robe and slippers that squeaked with every step across the linoleum.
“Hey, Ma.”
She turned, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re up before noon on a Sunday? Are you dating a priest?”
His chuckle lacked humor as he slid an envelope across the table. “It’s rent for the next two months.”
She smiled sadly at it. “Thanks, son.”
“I got a job. In LA. Pyrotechnic work. I leave today.”
Her smile was brighter than the sun as she flung herself into his arms. “Honey, that’s amazing!”
Wes wished he could be that excited. “I’ll call you when I land.”
“You better.”
She kissed his cheek. No tears. No guilt. Only love.
The Lyft ride to the airport was quiet.
He kept his face turned to the window, watching the city stretch by. The buildings, the grit, the ghosts of his childhood.
They passed Lake Lanier, where he and Law had once lit a hundred mini fireworks in sync, just to see if they could fake a Fourth of July finale show.
The gas station he almost blew up after he used a pump to do a test run of his shooting flame mechanism.
He passed it all, feeling numb.
He hesitated at the terminal doors, phone back in his hand.
He wanted to call him and tell him, “Don’t hate me.”
And let him know, “I have to do this for me,” and “Yes, I do love you too.”
Instead, he switched his phone to airplane mode and walked toward his gate, heart aching, and future undecided, but for the first time, he didn’t look back.
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
Law had waited long enough. It’d been a week of silence.
A week of brushed-off touches, rebuffed kisses, and the hollow ache of Wes refusing to allow him to sleep in his arms.
He’d been patient. But it hadn’t earned him anything, but more distance.
So tonight, he’d pulled out his best moves.
He was armed with one of Wes’s favorite meals: barbecue chicken flatbread with extra onions and a six-pack of overpriced imported lager they used to drink after a gig. Wes always said it tasted like bitter gold.
Wes’s truck was at the curb, but his mother’s gray Honda was gone.
Perfect.
He didn’t knock.
He flipped over the fourth flowerpot and pulled out the spare key.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Law went straight for the basement.
He was at the bottom of the steps when a sudden chill hit him.
The life that was Wes’s space was gone.
There was no ten-year-old bomber jacket draped across the back of their couch, no action film playing low in the background, no gears whirring, or heat stifling the air from his lit torches.
Nothing. The room was dead.
He stood there until the bag of food slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thud, the six-pack crashing after it.
His heart dropped with them.
“No,” he muttered, voice already cracking. “No, no, no—”
He rushed to the workbench, searching for something. A note. A message. Anything.
There was nothing.
Law ripped his phone from his pocket and hit the first contact on his home screen.
It didn’t even ring, sending him straight to voicemail.
Again.
And again.
Pick up, pick up, please fuckin’ pick up—
Fifth time. Voicemail.
His hand was shaking as he tried Forest. Maybe he had a local shoot. A commercial gig. A stage thing.
No answer.
His chest heaved, his eyes filling with moisture.
He jabbed at the numbers of the next name he could think of.
Free.
He picked up after one ring. “Yo?”
“Where is he?” Law’s voice broke mid-demand.
“Law?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Free! Where the fuck is Wes?”
A beat of silence.
“I don’t know where he is right now,” Free said calmly.
Law paced the basement like a caged animal, yanking at his hair.
“Don’t do this, Free. You two have been holed up all week in your vault. What were y’all working on? What did he say to you? Did he tell you he was leaving? You knew, didn’t you?”
“I knew he was hurting.”