Page 147 of Lucky Mother Pucker

“No idea. All I know is that asshole needs to pay for what he’s done to Lucy. I want to get her parents’ stuff back.” I take a breath. “I’m gonna go over there and talk to him. I want you guys to come with me to help convince him.”

Nick lifts an eyebrow. “Convince him, huh? Is that code for kicking his ass? Because I’m down with that.”

“I’m not planning on getting physical with him,” I say. “I figured if we all show up, we have a better chance of getting into the house.”

Recognition flashes in their eyes. They all seem to understand what I’m implying.

“I understand if you guys don’t wanna do this with me. You can say no.”

“Nah, I’m in,” Nick says.

“Same,” Travis says.

“Me too. Screw this guy for what he did to Lucy. Let’s get her stuff back,” Blake says.

I sit there for a second, processing the surprise from seeing how all-in my teammates are. But I shouldn’t be. We’ve always had each other’s backs, no matter what.

“Thanks, you guys. This means…”

Nick reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been there for all of us.”

I swallow and nod. We all stand up, and I grab my keys. I fill Wally’s water dish and give him a bone, then we head out to my car.

Nick offers to drive him and Travis in his truck so we have enough car space to collect all of Lucy’s parents’ things.

I give him her address, then we hop in our cars and drive.

Chapter 53

Leo

We pull up to a brick ranch-style house in a quiet neighborhood, then kill the engine.

It’s the house I remember in that photo Lucy showed me.

977 Pickett Street. The best street in the whole wide world because my Lucy girl lives there.

I think about the tears glistening in her eyes when she told me that.

This house belongs to her, not her stepdad.

But I can’t focus on that right now. Right now, my sole focus needs to be getting her parents’ things back.

We step out of our cars and walk up the drive to the porch. I pound on the front door with my fist.

“Just a second!” a gruff voice hollers from the inside.

The door opens, and a scruffy guy with salt-and-pepper hair in a stained t-shirt answers.

My nose wrinkles at the stench of stale beer and weed.

“What do you want?” he mutters. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s slurring his words.

Anger pounds through me. I ball my fists at my sides. I want to punch this motherfucker in the face. I want to break his jaw.

I force myself to take a slow, steady breath.