Page 14 of Wicked Lies

She huffed toward the door and turned. “And you know I’m right.” She bolted out the door, and Nick released a sigh of relief.

He refilled the tumbler and drank deeply. Whatever they’d had died a long time ago, but she refused to see it, not because she was in love with him—the complete opposite. Initially, their relationship centered around making the club a winner, and they’d competed for every ounce of success. Then they fooled each other into thinking it was something more, but Angela’s first love was money, and Nick’s was power. There was no blame. They’d both used each other to get what they wanted. Now, it was just business with benefits, nothing more, but Angela wouldn’t give up easily.

He gazed into the night, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. Time to move on, time to—

Cheryl popped into his brain again with the gutsy way she barged into his office and threw his shit back at him. Savvy, in-your-face confidence—she wouldn’t play mind games like Angela.

Yeah, if Cheryl stabbed you, she’d show you the blade first.

* * *

The next morning,Cheryl ignored the cats hovering around the dumpsters, doing her best to avoid broken bottles littering the alley alongside the Pit. At eight in the morning, she hoped to sneak in the side door that never locked right, head up to the apartment, and retrieve her backpack.

She hadn’t prepared for the nausea of seeing the bloodstained cement from the night before or the overwhelming wave of guilt. She paused, wondering where Jimmy’s body was now as the horrific scene came to life: the weight of his limp body as he crumbled to the ground—and the blood. No matter how long or how many times Cheryl washed her hands, the sticky thickness of his blood seeping over them remained in her sub-conscience.

She drew a deep breath and forced herself to turn away. The faster she got her money and changed her clothes, the faster she’d be on her way to JFK International, putting Brooklyn in her rearview.

Cheryl unlocked the apartment’s flimsy door and let herself into the small cramped space. Memories and thoughts of Jimmy threatened to surface, but she quickly extinguished them. He might not have deserved what he got, but he certainly never did anything to help himself either.

Cheryl stooped down and opened the small vanity under the sink, and her heart banged against her ribs. She frantically pulled out extra rolls of toilet paper and a tampon box, but her backpack wasn’t there. The tiny area would make her backpack impossible to miss.

She leaned back on her knees. “What the hell?”

“Looking for something?”

Cheryl startled then twisted around. “Where’s my backpack?”

Sal huffed out a laugh. “You mean the one stuffed with all the cash you owe me?”

She sprang to her feet. “That’s my money.”

“Not anymore.”

Cheryl pushed past him, searching the living room and then the bedroom. “Where did you put it?”

“The backpack is in the dumpster, and the money is safe with me.”

“You can’t do this.” Cheryl yanked open the bedroom closet. “Where are all my clothes?”

“In garbage bags, also in the dumpster.” Sal chomped on his unlit cigar. “You and that deadbeat Jimmy were three months behind in your rent, so the way I look at it, the money is mine.”

“I need that money.” No way was she letting him take three thousand dollars from her.

“You should’ve thought of that before you stiffed me every month.”

“Jimmy told me we were all paid up,” she lied, then felt guilty for putting the blame on a dead man.

“Well, he didn’t. Your fault for believing the loser.”

“Please.” Maybe she could play on Sal’s softer side. “It was all the money I had.”

“Too bad.”

Right, Sal didn’t have a softer side.

His beady eyes gave her a slow once-over. “I might be willing to split it with you if you do something for me.”

“Like?” Desperation made her humor him.

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