Operation 12 When Love Lies
Furious
Furi slammed his phone down on his workbench.
“Fuck.”
He braced both hands on the scarred wood and lowered his head, breathing through his nose as if that was going to keep his stomach from turning itself inside out.
It’d only been a week.
One damn week.
And the views on his first video were still quadrupling every few hours.
He’d checked the dashboard when Mack had sent him the link, then again an hour later, then again that night because apparently, he liked a bit of panic with his insomnia.
Now it had become a sick ritual.
Refresh. Regret. Curse. Repeat.
A huge part of him hoped the video would flop, because the world had moved on to the newest, hottest cock, and Furious Styles was a thing of the past.
Then he would’ve just been able to cash the signing bonus check, pay the most pressing bills, and bury the whole ugly decision beneath the little pride he had left.
But Mack’s greedy ass had turned his temporary reappearance into a goddamn national event. He hadn’t just promoted it. He’d launched it like a damn Hollywood summer blockbuster.
Furious Styles: The Silk Encore
Furi had stared at the ridiculous title for a full ten minutes the first time he saw it. Under his name, in glittering metallic font was a tagline that made Furi want to crash his bike straight through Illustra’s front doors.
The Legend returns in three exclusive solo features. Platinum access required.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Furi muttered.
Mack had known exactly what he was doing. The money-grubbing bastard had blasted past fan favorite clips, ran throwback interviews, then sent out a newsletter calling him an “industry-defining icon stepping back in front of the lens for a final legacy event.”
Legacy!
He was a damn mechanic for fuck’s sake, not Mick Jagger.
Regardless, social media went insane.
And Mack was capitalizing to the max. He’d run a sale on new subscriptions, referral incentives for current members, even a new bonus credit system.
Then, because Mack’s appetite knew no bounds, he’d locked Furi’s videos behind the platinum member package. It wasn’t enough for people to subscribe. No, they had to upgrade and pay more.
He knew he shouldn’t be upset about the success of the release. They needed the money. His shop needed it. Their household needed it. The lights needed it. The credit cards, their vehicles, the insurance, the damned water bill.
Now, those problems were no longer problems.
His first check hit his account that morning.
Thirty-four thousand dollars in eight days—that also included the twenty-thousand signing bonus for all three videos.
Mack’s message after it launched was so cheerful it made Furi nauseous.
“Wait until royalties start posting from the Platinum conversions. You’re about to break my system, Furious.”
The deposit should’ve felt like oxygen, instead, it sat on his chest like a boulder, suffocating him…because he still hadn’t told Syn.
Years ago, when he and Syn had gotten together, he’d said he was finished with the adult entertainment business.
He had been. It wasn’t a lie.
He’d walked away from that world with no desire to ever go back. He never regretted what he’d done back then. He’d been good at it, and he’d survived his dire situation because of it. But he’d chosen a different life when he chose Syn.
Now, he couldn’t help feeling as if he’d betrayed him.
He hadn’t filmed with or even touched another man. Mack could’ve offered him ten figures and a damn Limited Edition Neiman Marcus bike, and he still wouldn’t’ve done that.
All his past videos and his three new ones were solo. No co-stars or manufactured intimacy by a stranger, no assistance to get him ready for filming, but he didn’t think any of those facts were going to get him a pass for doing it.
It’d been killing Furi to watch Syn work himself until he was drained.
He tried to hide it, but he knew his love too well. He was down, and disappointed.
His man should’ve been in Hollywood with his team, guarding one of the biggest actors in the world, working a real operation, doing what he was built to do, feeling useful.
Instead, he was delivering noodles, tacos, and overpriced salads to people who didn’t tip enough and probably complained when their sauce cup was missing.
Furi swallowed roughly.
Maybe now, with the money coming in, Syn could go join the other guys.
Furi perked up, thinking he’d buy the ticket to California and present it along with his confession.
Yeah, maybe he’d sit Syn down, show him the deposit, and explain everything.
He’d signed the contracts and already recorded all three videos. The first one had taken the adult entertainment world by storm and propelled Mack’s site back to the top as the highest-ranked one in the country. The other two were scheduled to be released over the next six months.
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.
If he wore that same expression in bed, then Free was one lucky man.
Hart’s eyes swept the bar before his glare landed on Furi.
“Styles,” he greeted.
“Hey guys. Thanks for coming.” Furi stood and accepted Michaels’s hug, then Hart’s rough clap on the shoulder.