Page 23 of Wicked Lies

“You’re a crazy motherfucker,” Valentin spat out.

“I know.” Nick sensed Samson and Jax closing in behind him. “Sometimes you just gotta eat shit.”

“Are you gonna let this pretty nightclub owner tell us what to do?” Valentin’s edgy companion challenged.

“You better tell your boy to calm down,” Nick warned.

“Who the fuck is he calling ‘boy’?” the tweaker yelled seconds before silver flashed in the dim lighting. The sharp knife slashed through Nick’s shirt and across his bicep so quickly he didn’t feel it until he noticed blood seeping through the material.

Samson instantly drew his gun, and Jax spun around, grunted, and smashed his fist into the slasher’s nose. The knife skidded across the cement pilings as his hands flew to the pulpy, bloody mess. Jax swung again, and the guy staggered to the side before he hit the pier with a thud.

Fisting his bloody shirt, Jax hovered over him with his arm cocked, then shot a look over his shoulder. Nick shook his head slightly. Frank said to send a message, not start a war.

Jax released the tweaker then straightened, but the tic in his jaw told Nick he wasn’t happy with his decision. The guy slumped to a relaxed position, and Jax drove his size fourteen shoe into the guy’s balls.

The ear-splitting scream pierced the desolate pier as Jax glared down at him. “Stupid fucker.”

Nick and Samson exchanged a look, then he turned to Valentin. “You were told weeks ago to end this bullshit, and now you come here and bring people you can’t control.”

“But Nick.” He held his hands up and backed away, his wary gaze flitting from Samson’s gun to Nick’s glare. “Listen—”

“We’re done listening.” Samson turned to Jax and nodded to Valentin. “Take him into the warehouse, and make sure he knows how fuckin’ pissed off we are.”

Jax pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket, flipped it in the air, and caught it with a smirk. If Valentin was stupid enough to bring a hot head to a meet, he’d have to pay the price.

The slasher’s moans and Valentin’s protests echoed around them as Samson and Nick trudged up the pier toward the SUV.

Samson motioned to Nick’s bloody sleeve. “You all right?”

Nick mumbled a curse at the amount of blood already staining his shirt. “Fuckin’ perfect way to end a shitty night.”

“And now we have Frank sitting in the office waiting for a full report.”

Nick released the glove compartment inside the SUV and grabbed a handful of napkins. The Pizza Hut logo was immediately saturated with his blood. So much for Samson’s advice on eating healthy. Pizza Hut kept him from bleeding out all over the interior of the Escalade.

Fifteen minutes later, they eased into the lot behind the club. In that short time, his arm developed a heartbeat of its own, making movement painful.

Samson heaved open the back door. “Go upstairs and clean up. I’ll keep Frank occupied.”

Nick contemplated walking the fifty feet to the elevator or taking the stairs right in front of him. Not wanting to run into anyone, he opted for the stairs but regretted his decision on the third-floor landing. After wrestling with the metal stairwell door, he arrived in the small hall leading to the apartment.

He’d grab the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink, patch himself up, then head to Frank’s office for a thorough interrogation. He entered the living room of the usually un-lived-in space, taking in the empty glass on the coffee table and one of Cheryl’s shirts draped over the chair. He went directly to the ensuite bathroom off the bedroom and spied her hairbrush, a few vials of makeup, and her garbage bag suitcase. Even though she was downstairs working, he resisted the temptation to rummage through it. Yeah, not too fuckin’ pervy that the thought even occurred to him.

Did she always travel light, or was this all she could cram into the bag? It was the exact opposite of the huge satchel Angela toted to his penthouse every weekend filled with all sorts of crap. He had a feeling Cheryl spent her life moving around or on the run and had acquired the fine art of packing light.

He dragged his eyes away from her personal items and bent under the sink. The awkward position made his arm throb harder, and he mumbled another curse, not so much at Valentin’s goon but at Frank for putting him in the situation in the first place. The days of being muscle for hire were supposed to be behind them, just like collecting at the Pit. Of course, if he hadn’t gone to the Pit, he would’ve never connected with Cheryl—a woman who invaded his thoughts over the last few days more times than he wanted to admit.

He pulled out the oversized first aid kit, set it on the counter, and released the tabs. Inside was an array of ointments, bandages of all sizes and shapes, gauze, and tourniquets. Everything needed just short of performing surgery. Kinda sucked his life demanded having all this shit on hand, but it came in handy at times like this. He stripped off his bloody, torn shirt, balled it up, and threw it on the counter; then, he twisted his arm to get a better look at the damage.

“Fuck,” he mumbled at the amount of blood still seeping from the slash. He grabbed a washcloth, soaked it with warm water, and gently wiped away the excess blood. He angled his arm to get a better look in the mirror, and when he turned back, his hand hit the medical kit, sending it straight to the floor.

“Motherfucker,” he bellowed, then jumped when a shadow crossed the bathroom door.

“What happened to you?”Cheryl stood in the doorway, then tentatively entered the room. Her gaze wandered over his naked torso, then fixed on his upper arm. “Are you all right?” She moved closer, zeroing in on the deep gash.

“I ran into a little trouble tonight.”

Her eyes fell on the bloody shirt on the counter. “Looks like more than a little trouble. Knife cuts can be really painful.”

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