Operation 7 The Cost of Pride
Furi
The moment he stepped inside their modest town home, he found his man near the back door sitting heavily on the stool at the breakfast bar, tying his tennis shoes with slow, frustrated movements.
It was peak hours, time for him to start DoorDining.
Damnit.
Every time he saw Syn getting ready to go deliver fucking food to college kids or people living in gated apartments, it carved something out of his chest.
The sergeant of one of the most feared narcotics task forces on the east coast being reduced to dealing with disrespectful employees at restaurants was breaking his heart.
He hadn’t seen Syn happy in weeks.
His shoulders were tight beneath the dark thermal shirt as he sat hunched over with his phone in his hand.
Furi walked over and draped himself around him from behind, kissing his cheek softly before glancing down.
Furi grimaced at the pictures and messages from Syn’s team in California.
God and Day’s suite was bigger than their entire downstairs. One photo showed an enormous rooftop pool glowing blue with a landscape of palm trees in the distance. Another showed steaks the size of hubcaps arranged on elegant white plates at whatever restaurant they’d dined at last night.
There was another one of Green and Ruxs hugged-up in matching plush white robes with the hotel logo stitched on the chest looking like rich mobsters at a spa retreat.
Syn smiled faintly and hit the thumbs-up reaction, before he shoved his phone into his pocket.
Furi closed his eyes at the twisting in his stomach. He knew how badly Syn had wanted to go with his team, but he also knew his man loved him enough to stay.
Which somehow made it worse.
His shop, Furious Style Customs and Auto Repairs, was barely hanging on with three quarters of his staff laid off.
While he worked on the more complex jobs, Syn had stepped in anywhere Furi needed him without one complaint, doing the menial work—manning the front desk, creating order tickets, answering phones, janitorial tasks and basic oil changes—so Furi wouldn’t be running back and forth like a chicken with his head cut off.
He kissed Syn’s cheek again tenderly. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to—.”
Syn stood so abruptly the stool almost fell over.
“Will you please stop apologizing,” he said, before lowering his voice. “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for. It was my choice not to go.”
Furi stayed quiet.
“Besides, I wasn’t interested in flying across the country to babysit some actor I think is overrated anyway.”
That was a lie. He knew his partner too well. But he backed down anyway because Syn’s pride was a dangerous thing to challenge.
Syn grabbed the truck keys from the hook beside the door, the one he’d bought during better days when his overtime checks hit like clockwork and neither of them ever worried about money.
Now they were two payments behind.
“How was your day?” Syn asked without glancing up.
Furi hesitated.
“…it was…okay.”
Syn glanced over.
“I sold the Ducati,” he sighed.
Syn broke into a huge grin, a rare one he hadn’t seen in weeks. “Hell yeah, baby! That’s great to—”
His smile died when he caught whatever expression sat on Furi’s face. Syn frowned. “What?”
Furi rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t get as much as I thought I would.”
“What do you mean? How much did you get?”
“About three thousand less than I paid for it.”
Syn cursed under his breath.
“But it’s enough to keep the lights on another few months,” Furi rushed to add. “Maybe longer if business picks up.”
The devastated expression on Syn’s face almost killed him.
He knew it was a long shot too. Business hadn’t picked up in over a year.
“Hey,” Furi said softly, closing the distance between them. “Maybe the task force’ll be back up and running by—.”
Syn laughed bitterly. “I told you not to bet on that.” He shook his head. “Honestly? It’d probably be better if they just shut the damn thing down already so I can move on to another agency or something.”
Furi hated hearing him talk like that.
The task force wasn’t just a job to Syn. It was his purpose, his family, his identity.
Furi leaned in until they touched chest to chest, foreheads together.
Syn slid the black bandana off Furi’s head and ran his fingers slowly through the thick, honey-wheat-colored locks, and closed his eyes.
Furi kissed him gently at first, then harder.
Syn grabbed his waist, pulling him in tight enough to make heat spark between them. Their mouths moved rough and hungry, frustration bleeding into the kiss.
Furi moaned against him when Syn’s hand slid around the back of his neck.
But Syn broke this kiss off too soon, breathing rough. “I better get going,” he muttered. “The water has a cutoff notice for next week.”
Furi swallowed hard.
“But don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll make sure it’s paid. Promise.”
Furi bit down on his bottom lip debating on voicing the thought he’d had a couple of days ago, before he decided to try. “Maybe one of the guys could loan us something until—”
“No.”
Syn jerked away from him, shaking his head so hard he’d probably given himself a headache.
“And I don’t want you to ask them either,” Syn growled. “I mean it, Furious.”
He nodded. “Okay. Okay. It was just a thought.”
A stupid one. He should’ve known better.
Syn was one of the proudest men he’d ever met, and providing for them mattered to him in a deep, brutal way.
Syn opened the door before glancing one last time over his shoulder. “Don’t wait up.”
He listened to the truck start and back out of the driveway, until the sound faded into traffic.
Silence swallowed their home.
He dropped onto the stool Syn had vacated and stared at nothing.
Damnit.
He felt worse than Syn did, because their financial problems weren’t just bad luck. They were his fault.
He’d allowed Syn to dump a huge chunk of his savings into his shop during the recession. When it didn’t work, Furi doubled down and Syn borrowed against his 401k to buy five classic bikes for him to restore for the Continental Ride Show in Daytona.
He’d been so sure the investment would’ve quadrupled in return.
But the recession never ended, and the show had been a disaster.
Half-empty crowds with lint-filled pockets, and no dealers or big buyers.
Nobody wanted tricked-out custom bikes when they were struggling to afford gas and groceries.
Now the shop takings barely covered the overhead, and the love of his life—a decorated police sergeant—was out delivering goddamn cheeseburgers.
Furi pressed both palms against his eyes.
It was killing Syn, but most of all it was killing Furi watching it.
Which meant he had to do something…anything.
Partners sacrificed for each other like Syn already had for him.
Now it was his turn.
Furi pulled out his phone and stared at it.
He hovered his thumb over the contact for nearly five full minutes before he hit call.
The line rang twice.
“Illustra,” a woman answered. “How can I help you?”
Furi’s voice caught in his throat.
Silence.
“Hello? This is Illustra.”
He stared at the floor.
“Um…can I speak to Mack?”
“I’m sorry, he’s currently in a meet—”
“Tell him it’s Furious Styles.”
It was her turn to be silent before she blurted. “One—one second please.”
The line clicked, then exploded with energy seconds later.
“Furi, my boy! It’s good to hear from you.” Mack roared loud enough to hurt his ears.
Furi shut his eyes and ignored the excitement, cutting right to the chase. “Does your offer still stand?”
Mack laughed like the jackal he was. “Fuck yeah it does.”
“Triple it.”
“Done.”
Furi hung up without saying goodbye. He gripped the phone tight in his hand, anxiety weighing heavy in his chest.
Syn was going to lose his damn mind when he found out what he’d agreed to do, but by the time he did, it’d already be done.
Love made people do desperate things. Bold, reckless…necessary things.
And if swallowing his pride meant doing something he’d said he’d never do again, to give back to the man who’d sacrificed everything for him, then Furi was going to do it.
And while he suffered the consequences, he’d watch the twenty-thousand-dollar royalty checks flood in.