Page 51 of Wicked Lies

“More like over the edge.”

Nick wasn’t the one to play the hero, but he couldn’t ignore another woman in a hopeless situation. Maybe if he evened the score, it would end the guilt gnawing at him like a toothache.

Nick’s cell phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. One of the contractors working on the new club. “Yeah?”

“You better get down here. You got trouble.”

* * *

Cheryl didher best to keep her mind on making drinks and cashing out customers, but any stray minute put her right back in Nick’s bedroom. She still couldn’t believe she confided in him and then told him about Frank killing Jimmy. The strangest thing of all was Nick didn’t seem surprised by her confession or by Frank’s act of violence. He took it in stride like she’d told him she stole a candy bar from the corner store. His acceptance of Frank’s involvement in a murder shot up a dozen red flags. Had his life desensitized him to random violence? Sure, she and Jimmy scored plenty of illegal jobs. Cheryl spent most of her life on the other side of the law, but murder never entered her list of nefarious activities.

Then the encounter with Angela. She probably should have felt guilty getting caught with Nick. But a bitchy girlfriend interested in marking her territory sucked the guilt right out of her. Cheryl heard the murmurs about Angela’s temper and her vindictive ways. She’d also heard how territorial she was when it came to Nick, but seeing it firsthand was very interesting.

She may intimidate the workers at the Oasis, but she didn’t ruffle Nick at all. In some ways he seemed relieved, which posed another question. Why was a man—who could have whomever he wanted—with a woman he obviously didn’t care about? And where did that leave Nick and her?

* * *

Twenty minutes later,Nick stood on the sidewalk and sucked in the humid evening air outside of Club Wicked. He flicked at some anxious sweat popping up on his forehead and pushed through the doors with Jax close behind him.

“So, you decided to come join the party.” Captain Kevin Farrell of the NYPD, Brooklyn South division, stood in the middle of the vast empty space.

Nick strode forward with Jax at his heels until the large club shrank to include him, Farrell, and the two uniformed cops standing off to the side.

“Nice place.” Farrell’s cocky attitude radiated through the room.

Farrell ran his hand over the brass railing on the edge of the bar. “Great spot. Sure to make a ton of money.” Farrell nodded, and one of the cops picked up a barstool and smashed it against the granite bar until it shattered into pieces. Jax made a move, but Nick held him back.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Nick,” Farrell gloated. “And now Frank has given me the okay to take your punk ass down.”

There it was—the answer loud and clear. Frank’s personal fuck-you. The legal variances and inspections wrangled didn’t mean shit up against a dirty cop and a hardcore thug.

“Still nothing to say?” Farrell taunted.

The badge stomped behind the bar, picked up a few glasses, and let them slip from his fingers. “Geez, how clumsy of me.”

“That’s harassment,” Jax yelled.

Blood shot through Nick’s veins at an alarming rate. His heart thumped so hard he feared a heart attack, but he kept his expression blank.

Smiling, Farrell nabbed the neck of a tequila bottle and pitched it into the massive mirror over the bar. Nick flinched as large shards of the custom etched mirror crashed into the bottles on the shelves beneath it. All the pride he’d experienced two days ago when they’d hung it smashed to the floor awashed with liquor and jagged glass.

Jax groaned beside him, as anger burned in Nick’s gut. His jaw clenched until his teeth ached, but he refused to give Farrell the reaction he wanted.

“Now that’s harassment, boys.” He strolled around the bar and motioned to the two uniforms. “I think it's time we drove our point home.”

One cop pushed Jax out of the way while the other grabbed Nick.

“You’re crazy, Farrell,” Nick spat.

The cop to Nick’s left cracked his knuckles.

Farrell strolled closer. “It looks like you fucked up once too often, big shot.”

One cop held Nick’s arms behind him while the other wound up and landed the first few punches into his gut. His muscles tightened on reflex, but he refused to flinch. He glared at the cop and wheezed, “Is that the best you got, cocksucker?”

He’d taken plenty of beatings—as a kid by his father and on the streets. In his neighborhood, thirty was considered old age.

Pain exploded at the first blow to his face. He swallowed the bitter taste of blood as his head whipped from side to side. When he wavered, he visualized Cheryl. Their fists were her warm hands. Their curses were her soft words.

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