Page 34 of Wicked Lies

Steven diverted his attention to his medical bag as he laid out the necessary instruments. Then he slipped the stethoscope into his ears again and ran it along Samson’s chest.

Nick shifted a few times, then rolled up his shirt sleeves. “What’s wrong with him?”

He couldn’t tell if Steven was ignoring him or intent on listening to Samson’s chest. After another minute, he moved closer. “I said, what’s wrong with him?”

Steven removed the stethoscope. “He appears to be suffering from pneumothorax caused by severe trauma to the chest area.”

“You’re gonna have to speak English, Doc.”

“I believe one of his ribs has punctured the lung. The air escaping from the lung is causing the pain, but without an x-ray . . .” Steven frowned. “He should be in a hospital.”

Steven’s calm demeanor grated on Nick’s nerves. “Can you fix it?”

“I’ll have to insert a needle into his chest cavity to relieve the pressure and expel the air. It should equalize the lung pressure so he can breathe easier.”

Cutting a hole and sticking a needle into somebody’s chest sounded drastic.

“There could be an infection or other complications under these circumstances,” Steven said.

“I know you’re trying to cover your ass, but I don’t give a shit about circumstances. All I want to know is, can you patch him up, and is he gonna be all right?”

“I would say his chances are good.”

“Then do it,” Nick growled.

Nick stayed glued to Steven’s side. He probably hated being watched so closely, but too fuckin’ bad. The whole procedure lasted about twenty minutes, but Samson’s breathing smoothed out, and he appeared to be resting easier. Then he injected Samson with a shot for the pain, cleaned up his cuts, repacked his bag, and snapped it shut. “I’ll come by tomorrow to check on him.”

He suspected Steven’s profession taught him to play it close and tight. Lucky for Samson, he didn’t have the same gift at the poker table. Nick peeled off some of the banded money from the safe and handed it to him.

After Steven left, Nick lowered the lights and stood by his friend’s bedside. Samson could be reckless, did crazy shit, and had a different girl in his bed every night, but he’d been there for him more times than he could remember, and Samson was the only one he’d want covering his back.

“Don’t worry.” Nick said into the quiet room. “Frank’s not gonna get away with this one.”

Every raspy breath Samson sucked in reminded Nick of Frank’s hold on them.

“How’s he doing?” Jax asked the minute Nick entered the living room.

Nick slammed a tumbler onto the granite bar top and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels off the glass shelf behind him. He splashed some into the glass and drank deep.

Jax poured his own shot. “Is he gonna be all right?”

Nick placed his palms on the cool stone, and hung his head between his arms. The whiskey hit his empty stomach, then seeped into his veins.

“Is he conscience?” Jax ventured.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Nick said as much to himself as Jax.

“This is fucked up.” Jax downed the whiskey.

“Frank did this.” Nick poured another shot for him and Jax. “He wants a fight, fine. I’ve got resources I haven’t even touched yet.”

“Like?” Jax slid onto one of the bar stools and swirled the amber liquid around his glass.

“Like my friends in Miami.” Nick downed the liquor. “Carlos hates sharing the profits from the South Beach club with Frank as much as we do.”

Three years ago, Frank acquired a run-down strip club in South Beach as payment for a gambling debt. Nick and Samson helped the manager, Carlos Vega, transform the place from a drug-infested hangout to an upscale hotspot on Ocean Drive. Over the years, Nick formed a close friendship with Carlos based on mutual respect and shared heritage.

Jax leaned his forearms on the bar. “You want to involve those crazy-ass Cubans?”

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