Free The Wicked Bad (Crimson Romance) by Karyn Gerrard

around. His bar was housed in a small building, all red brick, probably the age of her bakery or a little older. It sat in what must’ve been decades ago a busy industrial area, the sugar refinery and the bottling plant both now closed had once employed hundreds. The only industry left in this area was the dock and that stood a shadow of its former self only employing seasonal workers or part-timers. The pulp mill was still in operation, but they were continuously cutting back, who read newspapers anymore?
    Times were tough, but Nick must be making a comfortable living. Veronica glanced up. He had a neon sign that looked kind of retro and cool. It blinked
The Chief
in a brilliant white. It suited the aged brick. Old wrought iron steps lead to the front door which was an ornate carved heavy oak that must’ve been original to the place. The door had many gouges and dents and every one had a story, she imagined. She headed toward the entrance, but Nick touched her arm to stop her.
    “We’ll go around back.”
    Nick took her hand in his oversized one. It was large, warm, comforting and dry. In the distance a siren wailed mournfully, a common occurrence in this part of the city. Veronica could also hear the screech of an alley cat. Unlocking the door, they stepped into an alcove. A set of narrow stairs hugged the wall on the left.
    “That goes to my place. I’ll show you later.”
    Still holding her hand, he flicked the light switches and the bar became illuminated in a soft incandesce. Veronica gasped. Nick’s bar wasn’t what she expected. The walls were the same brick facade as the exterior giving it a warm feeling like they stood inside a cozy fireplace.
    The bar counter looked clean and beautiful with original, gleaming oak containing carved inlayed leaves and nuts which a long ago artisan must have lovingly hand crafted. Veronica ran her hand along the top. It had been varnished many times, but seemed to be in good shape. A few stools sat in front of the bar. There were fourteen small tables and chairs in the place. Over in the corner stood a huge pool table with the same inlayed leaves and nuts design on the legs and trim that were on the bar. The felt was a royal blue color. On the wall hung a rack of pool cues along with numerous framed shots of Indian motorcycles through the decades. The floor squeaked as she walked across the boards. Veronica glanced down, ancient dark-wood plank floor that had seen better days, but clean and kept varnished.
    She glanced at Nick standing by the door. He watched her closely for her reaction.
    She smiled. “It’s lovely Nick, you can see the care you take. Your personality is in these walls.”
    Veronica headed to the illuminated jukebox. At first glance she thought it was one of those old ones that still played records, but she observed it played CD’s. The retro look fit in with the place perfectly. She scanned down the list of music, all old stuff from the Sixties and Seventies. Nick walked up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders.
    “All my own choices. If I have to work in here, I’m going to listen to the music I like the best.”
    His voice sounded soft, but had a powerful purr. Nick was obviously pleased with her positive reaction to his place. Veronica tried not to tremble at the feel of those masculine hands on her shoulders. His warm breath caressed her cheek as he spoke. She inhaled and bit back a moan from his closeness.
    “Most of this music came out before you were born,” she observed.
    “True enough. Take a seat. I’ll bring you over a drink.”
    Nick pushed a few buttons on the jukebox, adjusted the volume, and moved behind the bar. Veronica exhaled and took a seat by the window. She listened to the song, it sounded familiar, no doubt from the Sixties.
    Nick brought over a Miller Lite and sat it in front of her. He took a seat opposite, twisted the cap off his beer and then inclined his head toward the jukebox.
    “The Grass Roots, 1967.
Live for