Page 58 of Wicked Lies

“How’s everything going?” Nick gripped the phone in his hand, hoping the late morning view of swaying palm trees from his balcony on Ocean Drive would calm him.

He hadn’t slept on the night flight to Miami, and after settling Cheryl into the bedroom at his condo, he’d spent most of the night sitting on the balcony. He stared into the vast, dark sky, his mind doing a constant loop over the events of the last few days. Now, at noon, his bruised face and lack of sleep left him edgy.

“Quiet for now,” Samson said. Then the rustle of sheets, a woman’s giggle, and Samson’s guttural rasp. “Oh, yeah, baby.”

“You talking to me?” Nick added sarcasm to his frustration.

“Nah—”

“Who the fuck is there with you?”

“Bambi, she’s helping me recuperate.”

“I thought you were supposed to be resting, not straining yourself.” More movement and muffled voices.

“Believe me, that part works just fine,” Samson mumbled into the phone.

“It sure does, baby.” Bambi’s squeaky toy voice shrieked through the phone, followed by kissy noises.

“Will you please take your dick outta her mouth and focus on what I’m saying.”

“Take a break, baby.” More shifting. “I gotta talk to Nick.”

“Hi, Nick,” Bambi squealed in the background.

Nick ground his teeth and gripped the phone tighter. “You gotta keep your head in the game. Why are you acting like a punk?”

“Maybe because I’m up here in New York looking over my shoulder every time I go out for a pack of smokes. This morning a guy stood too close to me at Duane Reade, and I almost decked him. Then I got Jax bitchin’, moanin’, and telling me Frank’s gonna take us all out.”

“Jax better keep it together and chill the fuck out,” Nick growled into the phone. So much for the early morning ocean breeze keeping him calm.

“He’s worried, Nick.” Samson paused. “We all are.”

“You wanna jump, say so now. If not, man up and grow a pair.”

After a few seconds of silence, he said, “We’re not jumping.”

“Things are hot now, I get it, but I know we’ll have Carlos’s support.”

“I hope his support in Miami helps us in New York.” Samson jumped inside his head again. It was fuckin’ annoying.

“It will,” Nick said with more confidence than he felt.

Samson drew a breath. “And don’t forget to look over your shoulder once in a while too,” Samson warned. “Just 'cause you’re in Miami doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nick still gazed below at Ocean Drive. The warm, flower-scented air drifted over the balcony as tourists geared up for a weekend in South Beach. Stretching his arms over his head, his eyes traveled to the sparkling blue water on the horizon. Sitting on the plane did nothing for the ache in his ribs.

He yawned and moved inside the bedroom where Cheryl was tucked in his bed. The light shadowing her smooth, golden skin, and the sexy line of her leg showcased against the cream-colored sheets. She deserved a life without worry, where she could depend on him to do right by her.

Moving away from her perfect silhouette, he showered and dressed. Sunlight spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and danced against the sleek stainless steel of his kitchen appliances. He rummaged through the cabinets and found a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. Anita, his housekeeper in Miami, provided all his favorite foods. He hadn’t been here in months, but he could depend on her to keep the kitchen stocked and the condo pristine. He craved cleanliness and guessed a shrink would say his roach-infested childhood was the reason.

Pulling out a bowl and spoon, he splashed milk over the Cheerios and munched on the little circles as he mentally rehearsed the conversation he’d have with Carlos. Draining the last of the cereal-sweetened milk from the bowl, he rinsed it, stacked it in the dishwasher, and left the condo.

He preferred to walk the few blocks to the Oasis South. The salt air helped clear his thoughts, and the people who crowded the sidewalk and overflowed into the wide boulevard energized him. A funky mix of models and cross-dressers strolled alongside flamboyant gays and old Palm Beach money. Ocean Drive combined Fifth Avenue elite with Coney Island sleaze. The cream-colored beaches and swaying palms competed with the neon-blaring hotel and club signs. A crazy combination of nature and glitz, but he loved it.

When he arrived at the club, he surveyed the outside. The building merged the Art Deco design of the forties with the flashy Miami Vice of the eighties and promised the rich, and wish-they-were-rich, the opportunity to mingle with celebrities of all varieties. By day, they played in the clear blue waters and tanned on the wide sandy beaches. By night, they were ready for whatever exotic, erotic diversions they thought the club offered.

He pushed through the doors, and although it was early afternoon, the bartenders and waitstaff were already setting up the multiple bars and VIP tables on the first and second floors. At only ten thousand square feet, the Oasis South had a more intimate feel than the New York club.

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