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)
“I don’t deserve any of this,” he whispered, his heart squeezing. “I don’t deserve you.”
Joshi sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m no one to judge anyone’s life, Ramon. I’ve made my own mistakes that I thought I’d never atone for.” Joshi looked down at his hands, then back at him. “If I hadn’t been given a second chance, I’d still be wallowing in my own self-pity as well.”
Joshi reached forward, curled his fingers around his wrist, and squeezed. “You do deserve it. Maybe not a fuckin’ Nobel Peace Prize, but at least a shot at peace.”
Vasquez drew a breath so deep it hurt and whispered the truth he’d never thought he’d say, “I do want to start over, Kiran.”
Joshi leaned in, eyes steady on his, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss on his cracked lips. It was slow, full of understanding, and forgiveness.
He didn’t know what he deserved. He had sins he’d never wash clean, but for the first time…he didn’t believe he deserved to be punished forever.
With Joshi by his side, he was going to take his last chance at hope.
A sharp knock at the door made them both turn as a man in light-green scrubs poked his head inside. He glanced at the clipboard in his hand, then said happily, “I’m here to take you down to radiology, Mr. Vasquez.”
Vasquez could feel the blood draining from his face.
“Right now?”
Joshi kissed him one last time, then stood.
“It’s all right,” he said, sliding his blazer off and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I got you.”
Vasquez swallowed hard and braced for the agony before Joshi slid his strong hand under his arm to steady him. It hurt like a sonofabitch…but at least he no longer had to endure his hurt alone.
Wesley (Wes) Drake
Lawson (Law) Sheppard
Three months later…
Titan Gate Studios had become their second home, since it was where they could be found twelve to fifteen hours out of the day.
The industrial compound on the west side of Los Angeles was more like a playground for creative maniacs.
There were miles of scaffolding, motion capture rigs, crates of explosives, drums of pyrotechnic gels, cranes, track arms, hundreds of feet of coiled cables, liquid CO₂ tanks, vapor scent additives, and the ever-present scent of chemicals and scorched rubber.
It was a place where blockbuster magic was made—and where the country’s most in-demand special effects duo was once again at each other’s throats.
Wes and Law stood on opposite sides of their oversized workstation in Stage 12—a converted airplane hangar turned special effects lab.
The entire space pulsed with bass from the soundtrack mockups, while they and their twenty-five-man crew of special effects members prepped for what was anticipated to be the most explosive finale ever filmed for an action movie.
And Wes and Law were behind it all?
And as usual, arguing…loudly.
“I’m telling you for the tenth goddamn time,” Wes barked, slamming his hand on the metal table for the skyscraper explosion. “If you overpack the north column, it’s gonna tip the whole frame backward into the camera crew. We need a controlled drop. Controlled.”
Wes leaned over a blueprint the size of a yoga mat.
He jabbed a grease-streaked finger at the third phase of the effect rig.
“You can’t drop a full tank into a quarry pit that’s already rigged with phosphorus mines, Law. It’ll turn into Hiroshima, and not in the sexy way.”
Across from him, Law narrowed his eyes until they were nothing but slits.
“It’s a space war movie, Wes. The entire planet gets obliterated. This isn’t supposed to be realistic. It’s supposed to be glorious. The audience wants fireballs that melt retinas…not your controlled little flickers and sparks.”
“Fine. Then you must’ve liked that one of your eyebrows was almost singed off last month?” Wes countered, voice calm but with that dangerous glint in his eye.
“That was your fault for making the blast radius five feet bigger than we agreed!” Law’s voice pitched. “I’ve still got a bald patch from that!”
“I’m telling you,” Wes said through clenched teeth, “when that glass wall is set to come down, it’s gonna shatter like we need—you make it sound like it’s gonna sag like a bad boob job. And anyway, don’t act like you don’t love to stare at a bad boob job, Law!
“Love is a strong word,” he gritted, tapping a metal tool on his titanium cap. “I like to look at it. The same way I like to look at rabid raccoons that jump up on my deck.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What the hell are either of you talking about?” their stunt coordinator muttered, walking by. “We’ve gone from blast radius to boobs and raccoons.”
People were staring and laughing at them, but Law had never cared about an audience.
“You’re full of shit,” Law growled, stalking around the workstation. “And you’re scared. Scared of going big.”