Page 3 of Nick

That feels weird to say. Cara and I spent a decade in a shabby apartment on the other side of the city. I knew every clank of the pipes, and the way every neighbor walked. It was familiar and safe. Until it wasn't. Until that night. The night I brought my angry boyfriend back to my house, and he snapped. Then it didn't feel so safe anymore.

A week after that night, I met him. Nick. The man with the wide killer smile, rich brown eyes, and shaggy hair so thick and perfect I wanted to run my hands through it. Cara and I weren't sleeping. We couldn't go near the spot in the living room. The spot where Tyler died. We couldn't stay there. Moving was a logical option. But the speed and efficiency that they did it with was mind-boggling. I nearly had a panic attack when Cara told me all her bosses were coming to help us move. The fact that they're billionaires didn't factor into my fear. But she described them as gargantuan more than once. Gargantuan men coming into our home? I was not on board.

But I sucked it up and came out to meet them and thank them for their help. And yes, they were huge. But they were also incredibly kind, and sweet. Cara introduced them one by one, but when she got to Nick, there was something about him that drew me in. He was kind, and flirty, and somehow, I felt more like me than I had in a week.

"Nick's kind of a problem solver, I guess?" Cara said. "I don't actually know what your job title is, but he could convince a nun to marry him in ten-minutes, easy."

I believed it. The man's sex on a stick, no doubt about it, but it's more than that. You can tell, just by looking at him, that he loves women. Wouldn't matter if I were eighty, or eight, he'd still wink, and pour on the charm. Something about him made the real me come out. The me that can handle any man.

"So, you have excellent oral skills?" I ask, my voice deadpan. The way all the guys' eyes widen, but especially Nick's, makes the corners of my mouth twitch. I couldn't hide my grin. That's all it took. All the guys, all nine of them, howled with laughter. Nick, charmer that he is, took my hand, still laughing, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it.

No one's ever done that before. It should have felt weird. But it didn't. Not even a little.

Then the men were a whirlwind, packing us up, and bringing us back to their high rise, and one of their empty apartments. Because if you're a billionaire, obviously you'd have a few spare ones lying around.

So we went from an admittedly dumpy apartment in a so-so neighborhood to the thirty-fourth floor of a high rise on the water, and I'm not mad about it. I could never have stayed in our old place. Here, we're safe. Here, we have a bunch of very large, very protective men surrounding us.

And a secured, private parking garage. One just for the top floors of the building. One with enough sensors and cameras to make even me feel safe. It's here that I let myself decompress, breathing out the stress of the day. It's hard seeing people in pain. It's hard causing it sometimes, even though I know in the end, it will help them. But I know that's not why I'm tense. It's the low level fear I'm living with that's doing the most damage.

I have to get a handle on it. I can't live like this for much longer.

2

NICK

He's an arm waver. I've witnessed a lot of versions of angry. There's the pulsing jaw guy. The clenched hand guy. There's the yeller and the avoider. Dealing with all of them is my job. I'm the guy that comes in to calm shit down. To make everyone feel heard. And in the end, get exactly what we want.

The arm waver, the owner of a garage we're negotiating a takeover with, raises his voice and takes a threatening step forward, slapping his hands on the top of his desk. It's completely expected. Almost boring, really. I don't bother standing up.

Some of my brothers would intimidate him with their size at this point. I could too. I'm a big dude. But that's not the play. This guy doesn't want to sell. But he has to. We both know it.

"You're a damned leech, feeding off the hard work of others," he snarls, spit flying, landing on the dust-coated pile of papers on his desk. A few red 'past due' notices peek out of the stack.

"You did a lot of good work here for a long time," I say, nodding. I don't say that he fucked it up with his bad choices. He knows it as well as I do. He's just not ready to admit it yet. "Aren't you tired? Wouldn't you like to take a little time and find something new? You've been in this business for decades. Might be nice not to be the boss anymore. No more bills, no more dealing with delayed parts orders, or employees that don't show up. You can do whatever you want."

He's still snarling, but the fire in his muddy brown eyes has dimmed. "You're lowballing me," he mutters. He doesn't really believe it. He's just putting on a show.

I make a humming noise and prop my chin on my fist, staring at the paperwork. He follows my gaze, and his cheeks flush. "You have a good shop here," I say quietly. "But you've been going through a rough patch. It's not worth what it used to be. But you have choices, man. You don't have to sell. You can stay and keep fighting the good fight."

Now I stand, rising to my booted feet. I don't look like the kind of guy that would be sent in to talk through a deal. I don't wear suits if I can help it. I love my motorcycle boots. And I'm about a year past my last haircut. Add in my leather jacket, and nothing about me says 'corporate stiff'. And that's exactly why these guys respond to me. Some deals we do, it's the suits that handle it, like Maverick and Ransom. But when it's time to get in the mud, I'm the guy for the job.

"Fighting the good fight," he mutters, raking his fingers through his mostly gray hair. The man's hollow eyes and ruddy cheeks tell the story of the last few years of his life. Too much booze, not enough sun. His hands are still calloused and worn. I guess they would be since he's chased most of the good employees away and is stuck doing what little work there is, all on his own.

He drops heavily into his chair, a puff of dust rising into the air, and pulls the contract off the desk, flipping pages with a little more interest. "If I sold...you wouldn't want me to stay on? Help you run the place."

I shake my head. "We have a team that handles everything. The renovations, the management, all of it." Keeping a drunk former owner around would be very bad for business.

His lip curls into a snarl. "Of course you do. You fuckers got enough money. Don't need a little guy like me."

I don't respond, and he runs out of steam, staring down at the papers. "Might be nice, not having to worry about all these damned bills." He looks up at me, forgetting to be angry as he studies me. "I expected them to send a stuffed shirt. You don't look like any rich guy I've ever met."

I shrug and tuck my hands into my jeans pockets. "That's the nice thing about being rich. You can dress however you want. There's no one left to impress."

He snorts and grabs a pen off the desk, scribbling his name on the signature line. "There. This giant pile of junk is yours. Enjoy. When do I get my money?"

I take the paperwork and tuck in under my arm as I pull out my phone, and send a text to my brother Maverick.

Me: He signed. Wants the money.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com