Page 149 of My Pucking Crush

My husband stopped sending them checks, too.

Warm hands on my shoulder spin me around. Max looks wrecked, his eyes taking me in.

“Oh, baby.” I don’t hug him, though. I’m covered in this asshole’s toxic blood.

“I’m fine. The kid. He ran off. And went into one of those trailers.” Max pulls down a cheap metal blind and points to a row of sad, mobile homes in a ragged, uneven row.

I sigh in relief, worried that we had to drop off the kid at a police station.

Harris was a maintenance manager here and had unfettered access to all the homes. He used his authority to stalk his prey. He must have been luring kids here with candy and video games. One was playing on the television while he raped the kid in his dirty kitchen.

“Is he dead?” Max glances over my shoulder.

I have the stomach for this brutality. Max doesn’t. I don’t want that vision in his head. “Yes, my love.” I cup his cheek, his eyes straying to the blood on my hands.

“I fucking love you.” He kisses me wildly, biting at my lower lip, the final edges of his rage taken out on me.

“I love you more. Come on.” I pull Max out of the trailer I’m tempted to torch, but don’t want any other homes to burn. Or anyone else hurt.

These people have been through enough with this monster.

We get to the rental that I parked in a shadow. I remove the bloodied clothes and put them in a plastic bag. In fresh jeans and a T-shirt, I drive out of the trailer park. Max told me he’d been there as a kid, so finding hisDNA there won’t be suspicious. Me? I’m a ghost now. My prints and DNA won’t show up anywhere. Ever again.

When we hit the highway, Max opens the car window and breathes the muggy Georgia air deeply into his lungs. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Ha! Nothing gave me more pleasure.” I grip his hand and kiss it.

“Nothing?” he asks.

“I only wish we fucked in front of him.”

“Asshole would get off from it.”

“True.”

My phone rings, and I stare at it. I’m off the grid as far as my work for Sebastien Daria. He happily gave me the time off to end this disgusting man’s life.

Seeing the number flash across my screen, I pull over. “Sam? What’s up?”

“Where are you?” my sister asks, her shuddering voice icy.

“What’s wrong?” I growl, thinking she’s in trouble.

“I asked whereyouare?”

“Marietta, Georgia.”

“Get your ass to Chicago.”

My hands shake. “Isthatwhere you are? Does the bratva have you?”

“No, brother.” She sounds like she’s crying. “I’m perfectly safe. But please. Just get here. I’ll text you the address. Bring your husband. You’re going to need him.”

WE LAND IN CHICAGOfour hours later, after finding a private plane. I stop at an armory run by a man I still trust and load up on guns, ammo, hand grenades, and anything else they’ll sell me.

“Please go to a hotel,” I say to Max, checking everything.

“No. I stay with you. Besides, your sister said to bring me.” He takes the Glock on the counter and puts it in his jacket.

---