Page 12 of Wicked Lies

“If you’re gonna dump her, let her down easy, which means not letting her see your dick in some other bitch’s mouth.” Samson jerked his head over his shoulder. “We don’t want anything to interfere with our future.”

Nick gazed around the office. “It’s just you and me here. You don’t have to talk in code.”

“Can’t help it.” Samson jerked his head over his shoulder. “Especially with Frank’s intel. Fucker knows shit before anybody, and if he found out we’re in the process of opening up a club on our own, he’d fuck it up for sure.”

Nick had to agree with him. Frank’s level of knowledge was fuckin’ scary at best and dangerous at worst.

Nick’s brain spun back to Cheryl. There were a lot of loose ends and holes in her story, but if she was gone by tomorrow, as she said, he was done. The last thing either he or Samson needed was unnecessary drama.

“We just gotta lay low, do what the big man says, then spring it on him when it’s too late to do anything about it. Until then, we keep it all smooth with no drama.”

Samson could read his mind, and most times, it freaked him the fuck out, but this time he was right. Even if Cheryl did have pouty plush lips, which would feel so good wrapped around his—

Jax leaned in the doorway. “Everything’s closed up, boss.”

* * *

Cheryl finally relaxed enoughto strip off her clothes and take a nice hot shower. She lavished under the warm water, a far cry from the crappy one in her apartment over the Pit. This white and grey tiled stall had body sprays at every angle, a water temperature dial, and an overhead rain shower.

When Cheryl finished showering, she wrapped herself in a huge, plush bath towel and eyed her discarded clothes. The thought of putting them back on her clean body repulsed her. Nick said to make herself at home, so she entered the first bedroom off the bathroom, decorated as nicely as the other rooms but barren. Obviously, no one lived here anymore because there were no personal items. She opened the closet and found a few designer shirts similar to the one Nick had on tonight.

She contemplated putting one on to sleep in, then rummaged through the drawers in the closet system. The first three were empty, but the last one had sweatpants and t-shirts neatly folded. She wasn’t surprised Nick would be orderly. The vision of his impressive body popped into her brain, the same one she’d admired up close and personal earlier. And his voice. The rough rasp made her think of sex or how he would sound whispering in her ear while he . . . What on earth was the matter with her?

Cheryl yanked on the sweatpants, rolled the waistband a few times, and pulled the t-shirt over her head. The fresh scent of laundry detergent was way better than the stench of blood in a dirty alley.

Her natural curiosity coaxed her to investigate the only picture in the room—a double-framed photo on the bedside table. One showed a girl circa 1970 in her teens with palm trees in the background. The other one depicted the same woman, only older, with her arm around a little boy. She picked up the frame for a closer look. Yup, definitely Nick as a child. He had the same jet-black hair, onyx-colored eyes, and sun-kissed skin. The strong resemblance said—mother and son? He appeared sweet, innocent, and different from the man she encountered tonight.

Of course, everyone had a childhood and a past, and these two pictures made her interested in finding out what made Nick Santoro tick. Owning a club this size at his age, affording this apartment and another one on the Upper East Side, Cheryl felt his backstory could fill a novel.

She pulled down the plush duvet cover, settled between the snowy white sheets, and tried to clear her head, concentrating on two thoughts: retrieving her backpack stuffed with money and getting far away from Brooklyn.

5

The mirrored doors of Nick’s private elevator parted with awhoosh. Happy to be out of its confines, he admired the view of the East River from the wall of glass wrapped around the corner living room. He’d lived here for almost a year, yet it still amazed him. This place was a big jump from the dump he and Samson shared back in the day, furnished with Salvation Army furniture and cockroaches that outnumbered them a hundred to one.

“How’re you doin’, Killer?” The black and white striped cat curled around his ankles and through his legs, happy to have him home. She purred and pushed until Nick scooped her up and nuzzled the stub that used to be an ear.

He’d rescued her one night on the pier when some punks were using her as a science experiment. They’d already cut off one of her ears, poked out one of her eyes, and were in the process of dousing her with gasoline when he’d intervened and threatened to do the same to them. Skinny, dirty, and full of fleas, he’d named her Killer to boost her confidence.

After a visit to the vet and a few weeks of regular feedings, she’d gained weight and thrived. Now, she strutted around his penthouse like the queen of the palace. He hugged her, then she jumped out of his arms, thinking they’d both done pretty well for themselves.

He walked into the bedroom, flipped on the light, and flinched.

“You’re awfully tense.” Angela rose from the chair and went to the bar in the corner of the room. “Who were you expecting?” The accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

“No one. I’m just surprised.” Giving Angela a key to his penthouse a few months ago probably wasn’t the best idea.

She poured Johnny Walker Blue into two tumblers. Her perfect figure filled the La Perla Black Label negligé he’d given her the last time she caught him screwing around.

“It's Friday, and we usually spend the weekend together, right?” She crossed the room and handed him the intricately cut glass.

“Why were you sitting in the dark?”

“I was enjoying the view.” She motioned to the floor-to-ceiling windows featuring another view of the East River. “That cat of yours hissed at me when I moved her off the bed.”

“Jealous?” He joked.

“Me or the cat?” Angela quipped.

---