Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Furi would take Syn’s anger, absorb the disappointment, then smile and tell him to pack his bags.
He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over Syn’s contact, not moving.
Nah, I need to talk to him face-to-face.
A couple of hours later his nerves began to get the better of him.
Maybe I should talk to someone and ask what’s the best way to tell him.
Yeah, he would get some advice first from people he and Syn both trusted, to encourage or coach him.
Ro answered on the third ring, voice smooth and friendly. “Well this is a nice surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Furi almost laughed. Almost. “Can you meet me?”
Ro went quiet.
That was one of the infuriating things about the men, the detectives, in God’s orbit. They could recognize instantly when something was off.
“Where?”
“Our spot.”
“When?”
“As soon as you can.”
“Furious.”
“Please.”
Ro softened his voice. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Furi ended the call before Ro could ask anything else.
Next, he called Michaels. Then Hart. Both heard enough in his voice not to argue as well.
Michaels said, “Give me thirty.”
Hart hung up, sounding as though he was already moving.
Furi changed out of his overalls and washed up in the tiny bathroom until the worst of the grease was gone. He dragged wet hands through his hair and pulled it back into a messy bun.
Wearing black jeans and a fitted charcoal shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror above the sink. “Coward,” he muttered.
Furi locked up his empty shop, straddled his bike, and rode hard enough toward the bar to make the wind punish him.
Their regular spot was a queer-friendly bar nicknamed Blue Central because of how close it was to the courts and police station.
It wasn’t fancy, which was why they all liked it. The beer on tap was always ice cold, the wings were phenomenal, and the bartenders knew when to keep the shots flowing.
Furi got there before the guys.
He ordered a beer—he didn’t particularly want it—and sat at a high-top near the pool tables, his back to the wall out of habit.
The place was half-empty and quieter than normal.
His worry easily drowned out the low bluesy music buzzing under the clack of pool balls and a couple of boisterous construction workers critiquing last night’s baseball highlights playing on the flat screen overhead.
Ro was the first to arrive.
Furi shook his head. Damn.
Detective Ronowski was a poster boy of charm, sexiness, and damn good genetics.
He had on a tight blue button-up shirt, low-riding jeans, and spotless Jordans. But it was those damn electric-blue eyes that the shirt made look even brighter.
His mouth had always been ridiculous. Lips that were sinful, and they teased him mercilessly for it, but Ro took it all in stride, because he knew how sexy he was.
His friend spotted him and crossed the bar with that loose, confident stride.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Ro said as he pulled him in for a hug that was comforting and long like he’d needed.
Ro gave him a chaste kiss, his mouth warm and supple against his.
“Goddamn those lips,” Furi chuckled.
Ro laughed. “I missed you, too.”
Furi nodded, swallowing around the sudden knot in his throat. “I have missed you. Thanks for coming.”
“For you? Anytime.” Ro slid into the chair across from him while Furi lifted two fingers toward the waitress. “Not to mention you sounded like you were standing on a ledge.”
Furi dropped back into his chair and ran a hand over his hair.
Ro’s smile faded. “Fuckin’ hell.” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “So what have you done, brother?”
Furi scoffed before he could stop himself.
Of course.
Of course Ro assumed whatever happened had to be something he did.
Because Syn was selfless and kind and would never hurt anyone he cared for, respected, or called a brother.
He was a great man. An honorable man. Even when he was being an overprotective, stubborn, growly son of a bitch, he did it from a place of love and loyalty so deep it made Furi ache.
Everyone knew that.
Which only made this worse.
Ro studied him in a way that made him squirm. He was God’s lead interrogation specialist—he could get the hardest criminals to confess—and Furi felt as if Ro had already pinned him.
Before he could answer, the door opened again and Michaels walked in with Hart beside him.
Michaels— the task force’s sniper, and tactical marksman—seemed unfairly relaxed, tanned and rested in a way that was almost confusing. As if he was living his best life being suspended from his job.
Hart, on the other hand, was his usual intimidating self. So much so that Furi almost regretted including him.
God’s SWAT captain filled out his black utility gear from his wide shoulders to his size thirteen boots. He had a bald head and a long beard brushing his chest. His gold badge was clipped to his waist, along with two service weapons—one on his hip and the other strapped around his right thigh. The permanent don’t-fuck-with-me expression sat on his face as if it too were a part of the uniform.