Chapter 3 Nick
NICK
After we finished singing Happy Birthday to Abigail, I slipped away to the bar for a drink.
The kind of drink that settles something restless in your chest. These gatherings always left me in my head—nostalgic, maybe, or just tired.
Seeing Colt again dragged me back to the days when life was simple, when it was just about our mothers and chasing money.
Now, thirty-three is staring me down, and my mom won’t let up about marriage.
Like it’s some deadline I’m failing to meet.
But not all of us became NFL stars with women practically lining up like it’s draft day.
For Colt, finding a wife was just statistics—inevitable, even.
So no, I’m not surprised he’s locking down another marriage, another baby.
Me? I gave up on all that a long time ago. I thought gifting my mom a whole damn restaurant might earn me some peace, maybe even pride. But apparently, a fully built dream isn’t enough when it doesn’t come with a crib and a ring.
I poured everything into this place—every cent, every sleepless night. I’ve never borrowed a dime. Lived lean, worked hard. And I’m not about to start begging now.
Cash is king, but so is survival.
I plop down on the bar stool and wait for the bartender to give me my usual.
I probably shouldn’t be here because, unlike some of those people in that recovery lakehouse, I know what it means to be an alcoholic.
It means you can’t stop. I’m typically able to if I have priorities in the morning but I don’t have shit going on, besides my restaurant now, since I was let go on honorable discharge.
“Long time no see, Nick. How ya been?” Bailey says.
She went to Colt and I’s high school and seeing her comforted me because it made me feel like I did more with my life than continue to serve assholes at the bar every day.
But one may also argue I just served different types of assholes being a tier-one operator.
“Ya just been lying low, Bails.”
“Any particular reason why?” she says as she wipes a glass cup.
I watch her empty some ice into a bucket and place some beer cans inside.
She’s put on some pounds since the last time I saw her, but she doesn’t look bad after two kids.
I felt sorry for her, though. The guy she had a kid with bailed out on her.
It’s how we gave her the nickname Bails.
She hated it at first, but now takes pride in being a single mom who’s provided for her kids all alone.
That I can understand. My mom was the same way, but my dad didn’t bail; he died.
“For one, I've been busy at the restaurant, and two, my mom has been hounding me about when I’m going to get married and have kids, so if she found out I’ve been coming here every night, then she would cut my balls off and tell me they aren’t of good use anymore.’
“I love your mom.” She says through a laugh.
“Hey, whose side are you on?”
“Your mom’s, obviously.”
“Just give me a whiskey on the rocks.”
“Coming right up, Soldier. And why aren’t you married? I heard your boy, Bolt Colt, is engaged. Never thought that would happen after he got burned from his baby momma.”
I let out a long sigh.“You and me both, but I guess he fell in love, and honestly, she's a cool chick. So I’m happy for him. He made me his best man at his wedding.”
“Honey, with that perfect smile, you are bound to find your future wife there.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why, you don’t believe in love?”
“No, that’s not it. I just don’t think some people are suitable for marriage.”
She shakes her head and grabs a glass cup from the gantry. She turns around and places the cup in front of me on the counter. “It’d be a damn shame not to reproduce those genes. That’s for sure.”
“Good genes or not,” I say through a light chuckle, “I should be alone. Trust me. Don’t let these good looks fool you.”
She pours the dark golden liquor into the cup and my mouth salivates, craving the sting from the burn when it goes down my throat.
“Oh, I already know,” she adds a splash of Coke, just the way I like it. “Now go easy on that, and don’t ask me for another. I don’t care how damn hot you are or how many tattoos you have on your arm. I’ll call security on your ass and throw you out of my bar.”
I lift the drink to my lips. “Yes, ma’am.” I close my eyes as I feel the burn slowly trickle down my throat, savoring the sensation. It instantly warms my stomach, and I can feel the tension between my ears subside.
I check my phone.
9:30 p.m.
Dax said he’d meet me, but he probably got distracted by some new booty call.
I wasn’t gonna worry about him tonight. He’s a big boy—if he changes his mind, he can call.
Honestly, I could use the quiet. Abigail’s party was a lot.
Too many voices, too much hype. Now it’s just me and my thoughts.
Dangerous territory lately, since I couldn’t stop thinking about that blonde girl.
Those legs are long and toned. That wavy blonde hair, the sharp blue eyes. She didn’t look like anyone from around here, and that just made her more of a mystery. Colt didn’t give me any real answers when I asked about her. She didn’t fit here.
Looked like she belonged on a beach, brunching with bottomless mimosas, not stuck in this no-name town with a bunch of hillbillies.
That’s probably what she thinks of us anyway.
California girls walk like they’ve got gold under their feet just because their birth certificate says “State of California.”
She looked like someone who’d never had to fight for anything. Never missed a meal, never counted gas money. She was everything I said I hated. But the second I saw her, I couldn’t stop thinking about her doll face.
Not that I’m desperate. If I want company, I wear the uniform, walk into a bar, a diner, hell—even a grocery store—and women come running.
Then I hear the front door swing open. A rush of cool air hits my back. My shoulders tense. I glance behind me, quickly. For a second, I think I’m seeing things. But no—she’s real.
She walks past and takes a seat to my left. I keep my eyes forward, acting like I didn’t notice. No point in trying to talk. She can’t stand me, and the feeling’s mutual. Bailey moves toward her, sets a napkin down. She smiled, then grabbed a shot glass and the Tito’s.
Such a basic bitch.
As soon as she pours the shot, Mel throws it back and asks for another one.
Jesus. Maybe this girl was an alcoholic.
She downs the second shot like it’s nothing—no flinch, no pause. Just tilts her head back and lets it burn. Most people make a face or shake it off. Not her. Like she’s done this a thousand times.
Bailey pours a third. I shift in my seat.
Part of me wants her to notice I’m here.
Just enough so she knows someone’s watching.
Someone who won’t look away if things go sideways.
If she gets wasted and something happens, I won’t think twice about going straight to Abigail.
Let her clean up the mess. But then Bailey takes the bottle and walks it back to the shelf.
Mel’s staring at her phone, not the shot. Good. At least she’s slowing down.
Smart move.
It’s past eleven—still no words between us. I should’ve left an hour ago—finished my last beer thirty minutes back—but I’ve been nursing it, eyes locked on her table more than my glass.
She’s not alone anymore. Two guys joined her after her fifth shot. Never seen them before. But I’ve been trained to pick up on the energy in a room: posture, tone, body language—things most people miss. And everything about these guys screams bad news.
They started off respectful, keeping space. That didn’t last. Now I’m watching one lean in close, fingers brushing her shoulder. The other one just slid a hand along her thigh like it’s his to touch.
I clench my fist around the bottle, jaw tight.
I want to intervene. I want to rip their hands off her.
But I stay seated. Still. Calm. Not my place.
That’s what I tell myself. But it doesn’t sit right, especially not when she’s dressed like that.
Black dress, low cut, barely covering anything.
If she bends the wrong way, the whole bar’s getting a show.
She doesn’t even seem to care. That’s what pisses me off the most—how casual she is about it.
But then again, both times I’ve seen her, she’s been like this.
Like she’s daring someone to want her—and resenting them for it at the same time.
I try to focus on the music, drown it out. But it’s the same overproduced hip-hop crap—just noise. Nothing to distract me from the way my blood’s starting to simmer. She has no idea what kind of danger she’s in. Or maybe she does—and doesn’t care.
And I hate that I care this much.
“You want another one, Nick?”
Bailey snaps me back into reality as I look up at her. “Uh, no. I think I’m fine. I’m about to drive.”
“I was wondering. You’ve been babysitting that drink like it’s your last one for life.”
“Just in no rush to leave, is all.”
She gives me a conspicuous look. “Okay, I’ll tab you out, just pay whenever you’re ready.”
She walks over to the register, and my gaze follows her.
I pretend I'm looking at Bailey when I’m focused solely on Mel.
The guys are so close to her now that either one of them could easily slip a finger up her dress and finger fuck her right here and now, and no one would see it.
What the hell was she even doing here this late?
Why wasn’t she back at the lake house? Hell, she didn’t even look old enough to be in a bar.
Was she even twenty-one? And why the hell do I even care?
“Be careful driving home,” Bailey says as she places my ticket on the counter.
I grab my wallet and cover the bill plus a tip with the cash I toss on the table, the same time I see both those guys eyes lift and rake over Mel’s ass as she walks to the bathroom.
I guess that’s why I find myself walking down the length of the bar straight over to them.
They are so engrossed in their conversation about tapping that tonight, they don’t even notice me standing behind them.
Not looking over my shoulder to see if Mel is coming out of the bathroom, I clamp a hand down on each of their scrawny shoulders.
“Holy shit,” one of the guys mutters when I walk up.
“I’m Nick,” I say, calm, clear.
The round-faced one licks his lips, a fake grin twitching. “Yeah, we know. Nick Consele. Heard you nearly died saving some guy and your dog. I get risking your life for your team, but the dog?” He chuckles. I picture snapping his windpipe between my thumbs.
“Cool,” I say flatly. “Now, how about you two call it a night? I’m taking my friend home.”
“Your friend?” the better-looking one smirks.
“She’s my sister’s friend. Asked me to keep an eye on her.” They know I’m lying. I don’t give a shit.
“She doesn’t want to go,” Round-Face says.
“She doesn’t have a choice.” Then I feel her small hands on my shoulder. I turn—Mel’s glaring.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Keeping your name out of the police blotter.”
“These guys are nice,” she says. “They offered to pay since my card got declined.”
I look past her. “Bailey—put Mel’s tab on mine.” When I turn back, she’s blinking like I just slapped her.
“What the f—”
“Handled.” I cut her off. “Now—”
“I don’t know what your prob—” Round-Face starts.
I grab his shoulder. Squeeze. Not enough to injure, but enough to hurt. He flinches. That feels good.
“I don’t have a problem,” I say, low and steady. “But I do have a line. And groping drunk women who can’t make clear decisions? That’s over it. So finish your beers—and keep your hands off her.”
Mel steps in. “Nick, stop treating me like I’m some helpless kid.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
She scoffs.
I drop my voice, not loud, but lethal. “If you didn’t drink like you were bulletproof and dress like bait, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
She recoils. That one cut too deep. But I don’t take it back.
“She’s not even yours, you psycho,” Round-Face snaps. “We heard you lost your damn mind when you got back from Iraq.”
The itch hits hard. I haven’t felt much in months—but this? This feels like fire under my skin. Feels alive.
“How about you both pay and get out before I do something I’ll regret.”
Better-looking shrugs. “Why do we have to leave? You’re the one leaving.”
“Because I fucking said so.” My voice cut through the air. Better-Looking backs up. Then Round-Face opens his mouth again. “Speaking of leaving—there goes your bitch.”
That’s it.
My hands are around his throat before I even think. I slam him back against the wall, fingers clamped tight. His face turns red. Eyes wide.
“Nick!” Bailey shouts. “Let him go!”
I do. Slowly. Controlled. Not for him—for me. Then I hear it—a door slam. My head whips around.
Gone.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I dig into my wallet and toss a hundred on the bar. “If that’s not enough, I’ll cover the rest tomorrow.” I storm out into the night. The silence hits harder than the noise inside.