The Nice Guy

THE NICE GUY SARAH A. DENZIL SL HARKER CONTENTS Prologue Part I Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Part II Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Part III Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Part IV Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Epilogue Also by the authors About the authors Copyright © 2023 Sarah A. Denzil and SL Harker All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form. This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organisations, and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Cover Design by Damonza Newsletter Instagram Website Facebook Twitter PROLOGUE I don’t believe in fate. Never have. I hate the thought of not having control over what comes next. The cynic in me thinks that it might be a lazy way of avoiding responsibility, of washing one’s hands of the choices we make. But perhaps it’s comfort for broken souls. All I know is that there often comes a time when a person must take control of their own life. No one else is going to do it. Difficult decisions will be made, and those choices will reveal the true mettle of the individual within. When my skull collides with the wall, I know I’m facing that choice. I could give up and let it all go. There would be peace, at least. I hope so anyway. Fighting means feeling the pain. Fighting means facing the fear and doing it anyway. So which am I going to choose? PART I CHAPTER 1 On this cool September Saturday, the East River is the colour of caramel. Early-morning sunlight glints across its surface. There is a crispness in the air, though the sun’s rays warm my bare neck. I watch as men and women file into the streets, all joining as one. My fingers tighten around the cardboard sign in my left hand. It’s illustrated with one image—a coat hanger. “Can you believe how crowded it is?” Jessa’s petite frame leans towards me so that I can hear her over the sea of people. I don’t like crowds, and I never have. But I’d felt it important to come out, to be a voice among the many. “You okay?” she asks. “Yeah, fine,” I say, trying to make my smile seem genuine. Pushing the worries out of my mind, I concentrate on the chants, the boots on the ground, Jessa’s milky skin glowing golden in the Manhattan sun. We shuffle along like a herd of cattle. Gone are the usual vendors selling street paintings of New York City’s skyline or T-shirts with Big Apple logos plastered across the chest. In front of me, the double arches of the Brooklyn Bridge perch proudly beside each other. The wooden planks creak beneath my feet, but I can see through the slits that there isn’t the usual traffic jam as people try to exit Brooklyn or enter Manhattan from the other side. It’s instead replaced by a bottleneck of people. This women’s march is important. It feels important. Necessary. I reach across and clutch Jessa’s slim wrist, fearing we’ll be swallowed whole by the swarm. My heartbeat quickens, and my senses become overloaded. There are rowdy chants to my right. The air is filled with the heady scent of perfume mixed with body odour. Bright flags and placards are thrust into the air by the protestors. I can’t catch my breath. Jessa shields her eyes from the sun with one hand then lifts up onto her toes to get a better angle over the crowd. A tall guy with broad shoulders blocks our view up ahead. “What’s going on up there?” A line of worry creases between her eyebrows. I follow her eyes and frown. “What do you mean? I don’t see anything.” The Empire State Building is to my left, and to my right, over Jessa’s head, is Lower Manhattan. The Stars and Stripes flag hanging from the bridge swishes in the wind. I’ve been living in New York for a while now, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the noise and the bustle. It’s a love–hate thing. Most days, I love being part of this ever-evolving beast of a city. Some days, it overwhelms me. “I think the crowd is coming to a halt,” Jessa says. She stands on her tiptoes again, her silky black hair blowing in the breeze. “I think there might be a counterprotest over on the other side of the bridge. It’s preventing the flow of the crowd.” “That’s not good,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the police will disperse them.” I hope she’s right, but I also have my doubts. I’ve seen protests turn from peaceful to violent extremely quickly. It’s one of the reasons I don’t usually attend. But this felt different, so I put my doubts aside and joined my best friend. There’s a swell and a push. We take two steps back. I’m trying not to think about the fact that there’s nowhere to go when you’re on a bridge. We’re stuck right in the centre of the crowd. I lose my grip on Jessa. “Don’t panic. Just breathe. Okay? Breathe,” Jessa says, now two people away from me. “If we get separated, I’ll meet you over on Washington Street.” Her voice sounds even farther away, or maybe the crowd