Outsider: The Flawed Series Book Two by Becca J. Campbell

Author:Becca J. Campbell [Campbell, Becca J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Surreal Media Studios
Published: 2015-01-06T05:00:00+00:00

~

Finding Gus had taken a while, but Nic had finally secured himself a decent weapon. He was more than happy with the Wilson 1911. Things were falling into place.

Nic strode into the pub and up to the bartender. Resting an elbow on the counter, he glanced at the clock and ordered a glass of wine. He was three minutes early to meet Doc, and that calmed him. When the barkeep brought him the drink, Nic paid in cash, withholding the tip. Climbing onto one of the stools which made him feel taller, he swiveled to scan the room. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it with a diamond-encrusted lighter—one of the few items he’d managed to keep in his painful eviction.

Rooney’s was an upscale place, for a bar. Men wore slacks. A few of them were in suits. Women were clad in black dresses and stilettos.

On the weekends a jazz band typically had the small stage in the corner, gracing the patrons with their matching snazzy red jackets and upbeat ditties. This was an off night, and the only music came from the overhead speakers. So why was there a crowd of people over by the stage?

He frowned, craning his neck, which didn’t help him see any better. But then the mass moved his way and he caught a glimpse of video cameras and equipment. Professional-grade, like someone was filming for television or something. He wondered what they were doing at Rooney’s.

A gorgeous woman with wavy dark hair and a pouty mouth broke through the crowd and strode toward the bar, a coy smile curving her red lips. Three men were close at her heels, eyes locked on her, stupid grins plastered on their faces. A camera crew trailed after the foursome, pushing past onlookers. The woman walked up next to Nic, draped her arm over the counter, and winked at the bartender.

“Four martinis, please.” The three males hovered like canines waiting for someone to throw them a stick.

“ID?” the bartender said.

She pulled the card from her bra, giving him a sultry pucker, and slid it across the bar with a French-manicured finger.

He glanced at the driver’s license. “Coming right up.” Looking at the cameras, he straightened a bit as if subtly posing, and then turned to make the drinks.

That was when Nic caught on. It was a reality show—one of those stupid television dating games. These guys would have to battle it out and she’d pick them off one at a time until only one was left. He glanced over at the ID, wondering why the woman looked so familiar. He usually didn’t forget a face. Jessica Bronson. That name didn’t ring a bell…

She picked up the ID and, before she dropped it back into her cleavage, Nic caught the address. He wouldn’t normally have noticed, but it was 369 Windsor Hill Avenue, not something he could let slip from his eye. Three words and a perfect number.

The tallest of the three men took a step closer to the woman, casually snaking his arm around her waist.

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