The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(90)

“I keep my shit clean,” Tino went on. “I even manscape. I’m the cleanest motherf*cker in Garnet.”

Chuito was still laughing, and he realized he was going to end up sleeping on Tino’s couch. “I got to stop drinking after running.”

“Puerto Ricans can’t hold their liquor like Italians.”

“You just told me you manscaped. You’re f*cked-up too.”

“It’s a common courtesy,” Tino went on. “No woman wants to suck on a hairy dick.”

“Tino, no.” Chuito hid his face in his arm, trying to block that horrible image. “Ay Dios mio.”

“You don’t manscape?” Tino asked him, completely oblivious to personal privacy the way Italians were apt to be.

“Would it bother you if I didn’t?”

“Yes, it’d insult me as a man,” Tino said as if he meant it. “You’d let a chick suck on your hairy dick? That’s rude. It gives men a bad name. That’s ten thousand times worse than sweating all over a fine suit ’cause you don’t like undershirts.”

Chuito was still laughing, the booze making it funnier than it probably should be. “No one’s sucking on my hairy dick.”

“Then that’s a whole other issue,” Tino growled as if he was still insulted as a man. “What is your deal?”

“I manscape,” Chuito admitted rather than own up to the rest of it.

“Thank God,” Tino said, clearly appeased and forgetting the rest because he was completely f*cked-up. “I was about to buy you a buzzer to go with the undershirts.”





Chapter Thirty-Three


Ironically, the next day, not one redneck flashed a shotgun at Chuito when he ran past. He became part of the scenery. They barely noticed him. They just kept on doing whatever the hell they were doing and didn’t see the Boricua fighter who ran past the same time that day as he had nearly every other day for the last two weeks.

They got lazy.

Just to test it, he turned around and walked back, faking a stitch in his side. It was snowing. He really did not want to be out in this shit. Usually he used the treadmills at the Cellar during the winter.

Now he was stuck running through the rest of the winter in this mierda.

Just to cover his ass.

That chafed worse than the holster.

Talk about paying back debts.

The Conners’ shady investments paid off in a way they would never know. Taking a chance on sponsoring Chuito had gotten a Miami Boricua to run in twenty degrees just so Wyatt wouldn’t go to prison.

Chuito stopped at the trailer park. He leaned over and grabbed his side as he looked at the front door to Vaughn Davis’s place.

Then, as he stood there, the door opened, and a tall, heavyset man Chuito had seen more than once walked out. He was one of the motherf*ckers who favored shotguns. He lived at the meth house down the way, and Chuito got the impression most drugs in Garnet funneled through him. The drug dealer paused on the porch and called out, “Hey, Rocky, do you fight in meat lockers when you’re done running?”

Chuito arched an eyebrow and kept his hand on his side as he straightened up. He used the excuse to study the lock on the trailer again, but he couldn’t help but ask, “Where’s your shotgun?”

The drug dealer laughed. “Where’s your .38?”

Chuito lifted his sweatshirt, showing off the holster he was wearing. “Can I run without it? It’s chafing like a bitch.”

The drug dealer waved him off. “If you want to slum, be my guest.”

“Gracias.” Chuito nodded and started walking away.

“Hey, Rocky.”

Chuito turned back to him, arching an eyebrow once more.

“Is it true what they say ’bout ya?”

“What do they say?” Chuito asked him.

“They say you did some pretty interesting things back in Miami.”

Chuito gave him an unimpressed look. “Shopping for employees or customers?”

“Just curious.”

“We’re good,” Chuito assured him. “I don’t give a f*ck what you do, man. Everyone’s got to make a living.”

“What ’bout the sheriff?”

“You think I talk with the sheriff about what I used to do in Miami?” Chuito snorted and repeated, “We’re good.”

He nodded, seeming to hear the truth in Chuito’s words. “Okay, then.”

“No shotguns.” Chuito gave him a harsh glare. “They irritate me.”

The drug dealer laughed and agreed. “No shotguns. I promise. I’ll tell the boys you’re all right.”



The next two nights, Chuito ran later, closer to ten o’clock, and it was cold as f*ck. The lighting was bad without the last fading streaks of the sunset to help. He nearly busted his ass more than once.

And of course, it was snowing both nights. He was officially done with this project. This motherf*cker needed to die just for making Chuito be out in this.

On the third night, he ran at midnight. No one was on the road. No one was outside. No lights were on. Everyone in Garnet slept early, even the criminals.

He had run past the trailer park for over two weeks, and he hadn’t once seen Vaughn Davis since he got out on bail for shooting at Wyatt.