But I damn sure owed it to myself.
"So, you ready to go take out the trash?" he asked a few hours later after we'd spent the day watching TV cuts of R-rated movies, snorting at the ridiculous ways they'd tried to cover all the expletives.
By taking out the trash' he meant murdering a man who had once held me down on a bed and stripped me of something that was meant to be mine to freely give.
So yes.
Yes, I was very ready to take that particular piece of trash out.
Chapter Ten
Finch
I wasn't used to having 'the talk.'
But after a lot of thinking with her sleeping peacefully on my chest, it seemed like the only option.
Because shit had changed, hadn't it?
In small ways that led to bigger things.
I mean, I was quitting smoking because she wanted me to. I'd considered--and attempted--it dozens of times in my life. The only time I had been successful was when the choice had been taken away from me when I'd gotten locked up. But as soon as I got out, the first fucking thing I did was go buy a pack. That was the level of addiction we were talking about here. It had gotten to the point where I had accepted it as a part of my life.
Then she came in, throwing around her sass, buying me fucking lollipops and patches, and something seemed to click. Sure, I'd snuck a couple cigarettes. But she had always been there in my ear, whispering about wanting me to live a long life.
So, I was quitting smoking.
And I was thinking about a future that didn't involve a revolving door of beautiful women. Because for the first time in my life, I was starting to think that just one woman could be as equally as fulfilling. Maybe even more so.
I might not have been the smartest guy in the world, but I knew it wasn't going to be an easy sell for her. I understood that what she had been through had made some things hard. If not completely impossible.
But I wanted to try.
I wanted her to give it a try.
Give me a chance.
Maybe it would go nowhere. Maybe she would decide that she was right all along, that relationships were not something she could have in her life.
That was fine.
But I wanted us both to find that out, not just assume it.
She'd been every bit the hard sell I figured she might. But she'd agreed we would give it a go. On her timeline.
That was all I could ask for.
And with that decision made, it felt even more right that we were doing this, working on this little 'project' together.
Getting rid of someone who still had a pull on her.
Dressed all in black, Chris whipped fake license plates out of her bag, telling me to pull over on a side street where she hopped out to attach them with some sort of magnet system, then hopped back in, giving me a nod.
Of course, she thought of the plates. This woman thought of everything.
As we turned down the street to Michael's house, she slapped a wide-brimmed baseball cap on my head, yanking down the brim to obscure my face, then doing the same for herself.
"Cut the lights as soon as you turn in," she demanded, even though she'd already told me the plan three times since we had breakfast.
I was having a hard time figuring out what she was feeling.
Anxiety?
Anticipation?
Uncertainty?
It seemed to be a defense mechanism of hers to hide all those things behind her lists, her plans, and the repetition of them.
Which, I guess, was good for her, for her work, for her future as a leader. Maybe it was even good for her own mental health. But it made it hard as fuck to figure out what was going on inside her, to know what to say.
I didn't know if she needed reassurance or a quick out.
In lieu of those words, I chose practical ones.
"We never talked about this next part," I reminded her, taking the gun she offered me, checking the magazine and chamber. Although I knew with her anal attention to detail that everything would be in order.
"What about it?" she asked, looking ahead toward the shed where the light was already on.
"If I am going in alone, or if you think you want to be there," I specified.
"I'm going in," she told me, nodding once.
"You're sure you--"
"I don't want an out, Finch," she told me, jaw tight. "I want to get this done," she added.
That was another thing to appreciate about her. Yeah, she had her guards. And, yeah, she was good at hiding shit. But she also gave it to you straight, no bullshit, no making you guess.
"Okay. Let's do it," I agreed, yanking my cap down lower, watching as she did the same, both of us hopping out, closing, but not slamming the doors.
I didn't have much information on this guy. What he did for a living. How old he even was these days.
All I knew was what I had seen in the file.
He was an adult.
He liked to rape little girls.
And he liked to be the first.
I'd always thought virgin fetishes said a fuckuva lot about a man. This simply reinforced that belief.
I also knew he liked to be rough and cause pain.
I suddenly wished Chris had given me a choice of weapon. Because I would have liked something that caused a longer, more drawn-out death than a gun. Knives were good for inflicting as much pain as possible.
But it was too late for that.
We were approaching the shed.
Chris's hand was reaching out, closing around the knob.
Her gaze was still focused forward, giving me nothing. But she took a deep breath, nodded, waited for me to nod back, then yanked the door open.
I'd wondered why he chose to go out into his shed to indulge in his sick fetishes.
Seeing this space, I suddenly understood.
The walls were plastered with images of girls. Not women, girls. All of them in various forms of dress, some completely naked. All of them battered, dirty, haunted-looking.
All of them his victims.
My gaze shifted to where Michael was situated at the far end of the small shed, at a long desk set up with three large monitors, an ergonomic office chair, a stack of towels, and a giant fucking bottle of lube.
I didn't have to know, to know.
Those videos he was watching? That was footage taken the times he'd paid to have girls ripped off the streets, thrown in basements, then dragged up, tied to a bed, helpless but to endure his disgusting ass hurting them.
Rage bubbled up, a burning sensation that seared the back of my throat.
Chris was on that computer somewhere.
That simply lit a match, created an inferno inside.
With headphones on, the fucking idiot didn't even know we'd busted in.
I could sense movement from Chris, noticing her shifting back. I thought to retreat, but then felt the wind of the door closing, sealing us in.
The gun had a silencer.
But she was nothing if not careful.
I wasn't someone who shot people in the back of the head.
It wasn't that I was above it.
But I wanted to look a bastard in the eye when I took him out of this world.
Most especially this bastard.
My free hand reached outward, grabbing an ice scraper that was hanging from the wall, flinging it across the space, feeling a small bit of satisfaction when it whacked off his head, making him shoot up onto his feet, his headphones pulling at the port on the monitor, making it slam forward onto the desk. Which was good. Because I wasn't sure me or Chris were prepared for what footage might be on it.