Just Let Me Love You (Judge Me Not #3)(32)

Walking along the side of the road, closing in on Paul’s trailer, I review the plan. It’s simple, really.

Find Paul.

Kill Paul.

Get the f*ck out of Dodge.

So if it’s so simple, why am I having doubts?

No time to think on it further. I’m at the trailer.

I hurry to the back, where I take a quick peek in a dirt-smeared window.

Paul is inside, of course. He’s sitting on a reclining chair, and, as I thought, watching TV. I remind myself that the reason he’s even home and in the trailer is because he’s expecting Cassie.

Prick. I raise the gun so the muzzle rests against the glass.

I could shoot him from here. The back of his head is facing my way, and I have a good angle.

I close one eye and aim.

And aim.

And aim again.

Shit. My hand is shaking too much. In fact, I’m shaking so much that the gun tap-tap-taps at the window before I can steady my arm enough to lower it to my side.

And now I am f*cked.

“What the hell was that?” Paul bellows from inside the trailer.

Fear overtakes me. It consumes me. I absolutely cannot do this. I’m out of my league here. I am not a killer. Cass and I will have to find another way to take care of Paul. Killing him is obviously not going to be the answer. I just don’t have it in me to commit murder in cold blood.

Sorry, Cassie.

I run to the front of the trailer just as Paul emerges from the door.

I take off—faster, faster—but he catches up to me and tackles me, shoving me to the ground. I’m pinned, but I still struggle and fight.

I get the gun pointed at the prick at one point, but he’s in his twenties and I’m only in my teens. He’s a man, and I’m a boy.

Paul is much stronger and easily wrestles the .45 from my grasp.

Pointing the gun—my gun—in my face, he spits out, “You little f*ck, what are you doing out here? And what’s with the gun? You and that little bitch come up with this shit? You think you can come here and just shoot me?” He laughs. “Guess that plan is f*cked all to hell now, huh?”

He chuckles again, but underneath he sounds outraged.

Somehow I muster the courage to say, “Just stay the hell away from Cass, all right?”

Paul’s response is another laugh.

And then he quits laughing and hits me in the side of the head with the gun. That shit hurts like hell.

“Fuck,” I grunt as hot blood begins to trickle down my temple.

Paul palms the gun and smirks down at me. Evil bastard. It’s clear from the angle of his body that he’s about to slam the .45 down on my face. I close my eyes and wince, waiting for the sure to be bone-crushing blow.

But it never comes.

Instead, I open my eyes and watch as someone behind Paul delivers one solid hit to his head. With what, I don’t know.

Paul crumples onto me and I am blinded by his bulk. I struggle to escape, pushing at his limp form.

Suddenly, someone pulls Paul off of me.

When I’m free, I look up and find my rescuer—Chase.

“Should I even be surprised?” I say, astounded, shocked, and happy all at the same time.

“You all right?” my big brother asks as he offers me his hand.

I take his hand and let him lift me to my feet. “Yeah, I think so,” I reply.

Once I’m upright, I brush myself off, glance over at Paul. He’s prone on his back, not moving.

Turning back to Chase, I see a bloody pipe in his hand. “You hit him with that?” I ask, eyes widening.

Chase nods grimly as he tosses the heavy piece of steel to the ground.

Shit, we can’t leave things like this.

Swiftly, and with no hesitation, I drop to my knees. With the edge of my T-shirt, I pick up the pipe and wipe away my brother’s prints.

“What are you doing?” Chase asks.

“Fuck, man…” I glance up at my brother, who will clearly do anything to save me. “I don’t care if you killed him,” I state. “But I won’t stand by and let you go back to prison.”





Chase



A murder rap…

Great, that’s just what I need. With my record, I’ll never again see the light of day.

Thankfully, though, when I fall to my knees next to what looks like a lifeless body, I notice Paul’s chest is rising and falling.

“Thank God,” I breathe out, relieved. “He’s still alive.”

Will, who is done cleaning my prints from the pipe, comes over and kneels down next to me. “What should we do now?” he asks in a shaky voice.

Pulling out the cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I say, “I think we better call an ambulance.”

Will grimaces. “That means the police will come.”

I rake my hand through my hair. “I know.” I exhale resignedly. “But what other choice do we have, Will?”

He shrugs and looks away. I know he feels bad for this idiotic stunt.

“You’re not going to get into any trouble, right?” he wants to know. “I mean, you did what you had to do to get him off me. He was about to crush my face.”

“All true,” I say. “I’m sure the police will understand.” Yeah, right.

Will may have cleaned up the pipe, but the police will still see Paul was hit by something. And then there’s the gun—Will’s prints are all over that thing.