Page 8 of Bad Boy Next Door
Lights turned on in the apartments across from us.Shit.
“You broke my arm.” Suit Guy said.
I hadn’t meant to do that, but hoped it meant we were done with the attention-grabbing noises for now. But Tough Guy landed a punch to my jaw.
I staggered back, exaggerating the effects, then lunged, grabbing the man and twisting him to the ground in a chokehold.
Suit Guy picked up the gun and aimed it with his shaking left hand.
“Don’t be stupid.” I glared at the man while pinning his much larger buddy.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Suit man raced down the alley, leaving both the gun and his buddy behind and cradling his probably broken arm.
“Shit.” The man on the ground’s voice was muffled as I kept pressure on his chest and throat. “No cops. Please. Let me up. I’ll go.”
I eased off the man, then watched as he pushed himself from the pavement and staggered down the alley.
The door to the club opened a few inches.
It was Stan.
“What the fuck, Nick?”
I shook my head. “Some assholes thought they could get in the back way to rob us.”
“Was that a gunshot?”
“Yeah. One of them was armed.”
“You okay?” Stan asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Get inside before the cops come,” he said.
I headed toward him.
Stan’s eyes opened in alarm, and before I could grab the handle, he shut the door, leaving me in the alley. Two cruisers had pulled in to block the end, and their spotlights captured me in their glare.
* * *
Nick
Three hours later, I pounded on my brother Keagan’s door.
“It’s open,” he yelled from inside.
I yanked open the door and stormed in. It was nearly four in the morning, but all four of my older brothers were there. The whole Downey gang gathered around our eldest brother’s living room, drinking beers like it was a Sunday afternoon.
As usual, Keagan was holding court, standing near the nonfunctioning fireplace. His dark curly hair looked like he’d been dragged out of bed, but his light-blue eyes revealed a stormy mood.
Dillon, one of the twins, sat on the back of Keagan’s sofa, his feet on the cushions, hair falling forward to hide his face as he fiddled with some gadget. Looked like he’d taken apart a smartphone.
His twin, Mac—short for Cormac—sat next to him, dressed like he’d come straight from a club or a date. He grinned, his dimples acting like nothing was wrong.
Shane, across from Dillon and Mac, hadn’t raised his head when I entered. Not one guilty inch. He twisted a beer bottle between his hands, his left leg bouncing on the floor like keeping still was outside its skill set.
