Page 164 of Nash

So, I lick my lips and let him relish my singular focus on his penis while I fire my over-educated snark.

“Is it cold in here, or does that little thing run in your family?” Slowly, I step back while I cuckold him, “Lucky for you, it’ll clearly be a short race. It obviously won’t take long.” Another step back. “But your little helmet does explain your huge car. A Tesla Truck, right? I bet your little man fits easily inside it.” I laugh, backing into the foyer. “But who are we kidding? Your puny prick will fit in Ken Barbie clothes.”

I could almost be wildly amused by this, but I’m not.

He’s stroking and stalking my way, clutching the blood-stained knife in his other hand. God, this explains some of his violence, too. This isn’t a fetish for him. It’s sociopathic.

A fetish respects consent. It’s harmless when all parties are respected, when it has no negative impact.

But Turner thrives on harming innocent people, on violating the most vulnerable. He has no remorse, no empathy. It’s terrifying, disturbing, and vile what he does to children, women, and others.

My educated mind labels it Antisocial Personality Disorder. But my instinct, my memory, tells me to fight, to survive.

I hope he rots in hell with Chad.

“But is it supposed to drip like that?” I point at his tip. “Careful, green semen means it’s infected.”

He falls for it, glancing down while I spin around, racing for my clubs. They stand in my black golf bag, and it’s training. It’s years of reaching blindly. I know the heavy weight in my hand. The cold forged steel. The titanium-plated front. The distinct design made for accuracy, trajectory, and control.

My nine iron.

In a fast jerk, I whip it out of my bag, my skilled hands wrapping around it. They know the grip. My shoulders know the rotation. My hips torque for maximum strength, ready to unleash pure power.

Turner charges my way, his teeth gritted, his dick raging. But his head? It’s a much larger target than any golf ball, and I swing at it with all my might, never losing focus, watching my club make full contact as it smashes his temple.

No, I don’t shout, “Fore!”

I let the sickening crack of his skull be the only sound. Instantly, my stomach lurches at it while he grunts, “Bitch.”

It’s the only word he can say, falling against the wall. But I didn’t knock him out. The permanent damage takes too long to start. It gives him too much time. He staggers, dizzy, as a crimson drop falls from his nose. His lips snarl, his eye blinking while he raises his knife.

I’m not at a good angle.

He’s too close, and this foyer is too small for me to backswing to strike again as his knife lifts with his evil, scarred smile.

Oh, god. This is it.

I raise my arms, holding my club as I duck my head to protect my neck while he sneers, “Told you.” His words slur, “Men have more?—”

BANG!Itexplodes out of nowhere.

I’m startled, yelping and jumping back as blood spews from Turner’s head and…

Oh my god, he’s been shot. He’s shot!

I still clutch my club as a weapon, watching as Turner collapses before me, his body almost knocking me down, so I jump back.

“Vale! Are you hurt?”

In a shocked haze, I lift my focus from Turner’s dead body at my feet, blood pooling around his shattered skull.

It takes a moment for me to focus. For me to see … Nash … with a gun in his hand.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

NASH

After what happened with Turner,the instinct to hold my daughter was overwhelming. Thankfully, she let me.

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