Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“I didn’t have a confrontation with Mr. Blackwell. I was having a drink with a colleague when I intercepted a hostile disagreement between Mr. Blackwell and his ex. Nothing more.”
He had no doubt the police had already viewed the restaurant’s security footage, so he told the truth.
“Evan Scott.”
“If that’s his name, then yes,” Lucas answered.
Sharpe turned from the liquor shelves and leaned against the wall, smirking around his toothpick.
“‘Intercepted?’ Is that your word for posturing over Evan Scott and threatening him in the middle of a full restaurant?”
Lucas’s impassiveness didn’t falter as he cut his gaze toward Detective Sharpe. “I’m not a man who loses control in public, Detective. Mr. Blackwell asked his ex to leave, and when he didn’t, I reiterated it.”
“Threatened,” Sharpe sneered.
“Insisted,” Lucas shot back.
Kelly took over. “What were you and Thorn Blackwell doing here at three in the morning?”
“Minding our own business.” Lucas rose, buttoning his suit jacket. “I really need to get to my meeting, detectives.” He reached into his drawer, produced a sleek business card, and slid it across his desk toward Kelly. “If you need anything further, you can go through my attorney. I’ve entertained your asinine questions long enough.”
Detective Sharpe let out an unamused chuckle. “Yeah, you’ve been real entertaining, Brewer. Typical of a mogul in an expensive suit trying to pretend he doesn’t reek of last night’s vodka and a three a.m. bad decision.”
That was enough!
Lucas’s composure didn’t crack, but his voice dropped an octave to cold steel. “Get the fuck outta my office.”
Kelly closed her notebook with a sharp snap. Sharpe grinned and flicked his toothpick into Lucas’s trash can before he followed his partner out.
The door closed behind them, and Lucas let his jaw tighten.
He checked his reflection in the fifteen-foot mirror, forced the business mask back into place, and strode toward his conference room to the meeting he was fifteen minutes late for.
But his mind wasn’t on business. It was on the so-called “bad decision” he’d made at three a.m.
Thorn.
44th Street, Pacific Avenue
Alibi’s Bar
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
6:00 p.m.
Sharpe finished his fourth shot of Jim Beam, then motioned to the bartender for another bottle of Heineken.
It was pretty pathetic for him to be in such a cruddy dive on a Friday night by himself and already drunk before eight, but oh well, fuck it.
He’d been at the station day and night working on the Evan Scott and Thorn Blackwell case, until his captain had forced him to leave and decompress.
He didn’t think Thorn was a murderer, but something odd was happening, and as an investigator, he couldn’t stand missing pieces of a puzzle.
He was supposed to be home resting, but anytime Sharpe had a free moment to himself…his mind went to bad places.
Time to think and get lost in his head was his worst enemy. Not the bad guys on the streets or criminals eluding prosecution—it was his own fucking memories.
He was fearless in the line of duty and could survive almost anything…except his thoughts.
“Is it that bad, Detective?” the scantily dressed bartender, Shay, asked with an uninterested expression.
He was sure she didn’t give a damn how he was doing, but since Sharpe was the only loser drinking at the bar, she decided to break her boredom.
“It’s always bad, Shay.”
Sharpe scrubbed his hand over his rough jaw, then through his wild hair. He pulled his hand away and wiped his greasy fingertips on his pants leg, trying to remember when he’d last washed his hair.
“If you say so.”
She popped a loud bubble with the wad of pink gum and asked, “Want another shot?”
“Why the hell not? Make it a double.”
Shay grabbed the bottle of Jim while he slid off his barstool and made his way to the back of the dark bar toward the restrooms.
He did his business and stumbled out of the door, right into the arms of a tall, slim man who smelled all kinds of wrong to be in this place.
He smelled fuckin’ delicious. Like old-school Cool Water cologne and nicotine.
Sharpe swayed on his feet, his gaze cast down as he took in the expensive black biker boots and toned legs in designer jeans. He had a sinking feeling about who was standing in front of him, but he’d be damned if he wanted to raise his head and acknowledge him.
Lincoln.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Sharpe bit out as he ground his molars to keep from groaning his mortification.
This was his hole-in-the-wall dive. No one came into a place like this unless they were like him. Pitiful.
“It’s not a coincidence, I assure you,” Lincoln answered in a low, silky tone.
Fuck me. And fuck that voice.
“What do you want, Lincoln?”
“You,” he said in a way that brooked no argument. “Be at Belladonna tonight at nine. That is if you’re still interested in what’s going on behind our closed doors.”