Chapter Seven #3
Because it was another one of those burdens. Another one of those things. She had gotten involved with what was happening
here, and she really wanted to help. Wanted to be part of it.
Or maybe want was a strong word. There was a need to. To prove herself. To make herself useful. They chatted for a few more moments with
the Sullivans, and then she and Denver mutually moved closer to the fire. Closer to blending in with the rest of the group.
Even though she had a sense that Denver never quite folded in.
She took another sip of beer, and then the back of her boot heel hit a rock, and she stumbled. Denver reached forward, grabbing hold of her arm and steadying her. His touch was like fire. His hands were rough, big. And it was far too easy to imagine what it would be like to have them on her body.
“Careful,” he said.
“Sure,” she responded, trying not to sound all breathless. She didn’t do breathless. It wasn’t in her repertoire. She was
the one that left men breathless.
Though, he seemed like he was breathing pretty hard.
“Hey.”
The voice, unfamiliar and not from her or Denver, felt intrusive as it pierced the moment.
She turned to see a man near her height, wearing a white cowboy hat and pretty damned nice boots, standing there smiling at
her. “You want to dance?”
She could. She could dance with him. Maybe she could even let him take her home. Maybe it would do something to rid her of
all the strange, conflicting feelings that she felt for Denver. It would be safer. Safer than ruminating on the heat left
behind by his touch. On the way his own breathing had grown more labored.
Yeah. It would be safer than all of that.
“Sorry. My dance card is full.” She gave him her best, charming smile that also served as the punctuation at the end of the
sentence. There was no opening for him to ask again. And thankfully, he took her at her word.
“Maybe next time,” the cowboy said, looking between her and Denver.
“No need to turn them down on my account,” said Denver.
“Oh Denver, I don’t do anything on account of a man.”
“I believe it.”
“Actually, I best be heading home. I’m meeting Manny bright and early.”
“All right. I’ll drive you back to your truck.”
“I don’t want to make you leave early. I bet I can get a ride.”
“I’ll take you back.”
They walked away from the bonfire, and it was interesting to her, the way the crowd parted slightly when he walked by, when
it seemed to fold in slightly around other people who walked on through.
“You scare people,” she said as they got into his truck.
When the door closed, and they were shrouded in the quiet of the cab, her own heartbeat began to go faster. Suggesting that
she herself might be a little bit afraid. But it wasn’t the same kind of fear that she had just witnessed.
Hell, she was afraid of herself.
She had to minimize the bad mistakes she made in her life. Because her dad had made so many on her behalf. So many that she
was still paying for. And she knew that Denver understood that. Knew that he understood the importance of keeping her personal
tab just a little bit lighter.
“My dad scared people. I inherited his face.”
“And his reputation.”
“Yep. I’m a gambler, you know. Just like my old man.”
“Not at all like your old man. You’re not gambling with other people’s money. You’re gambling for it.”
“Yeah. And people do know that. In the sense that I think everybody trusts that if I was bad news Sawyer Garrett would’ve
had me out on my ass. And if not Sawyer, then Daughtry.”
“Yeah. How does that work for Daughtry? Being a cop here, with your dad’s reputation?”
“Tell you the truth, I think him getting that badge was the easiest and quickest way for him to declare that he was one of the good guys to all the people here. And maybe the only thing they would believe.”
“But that wasn’t your path.”
“No. It’s admirable. But it certainly wasn’t going to pay back all those debts.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Daughtry didn’t do it to get rich. He was there too.”
“I know.”
“You were too young to see all that,” Denver said, as he started the truck engine and began to drive them back toward King’s
Crest.
“Can we not do this? It’s sort of the same as being called a saint. I was too young for a lot of the shit that my dad put
me through. But he didn’t care. Because he didn’t care about anybody but himself. I don’t need you expressing regret over
my lost childhood. It just feels . . . pointless.”
“Even so, I hate that you saw your old man dead.”
“I don’t. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it to be true. I would’ve thought, all those years, that he was going
to come stumbling back up to the house. That we weren’t really free. Free of him and all the lowlifes that he brought with
him. When I tell you that I don’t mourn my dad, believe me. And I don’t regret seeing him that way. Cold to the touch. Lifeless.
Because I knew. I saw the blood drain out of him. I knew.”
She knew that it sounded fierce. That it sounded cold. She didn’t care. Life had made her cold on that score. Warmth, softness,
they were luxuries for other people. For different people. It was part and parcel of the burden that had been put on her back
when she was born to Dan Patrick. Everybody had their different issues that their parents kicked onto them at birth. For some
people, it was an issue with their body image. A need to overachieve.
For her, it was something else altogether. A little bit darker. A little bit more sinister. But everybody had their burden.
So she just got hard enough, strong enough to carry the one that she’d been given. What was the alternative? Lie down to feel sorry for yourself? That was hardly going to save you.
“I can understand that. I wish that it had been my dad that day. Instead, he went to prison for a while. And now he’s a free
man. I’m not afraid of him coming back though.”
“You’d kill him if you had to,” she said, as the truck rumbled and rolled over the rough dirt road. “I know you would.”
“You’re damned right about that. I absolutely would kill him if I had to.”
Because Denver was all about balancing the scales. And if he thought that his dad had come back to continue to hurt people,
if he heard that his dad was still out there hurting people, she had a feeling that he would take it upon himself to put a
stop to it. Because he would feel like that was his burden to bear.
They pulled up to the house, and she was relieved. Felt like she could let out a breath that she’d been holding.
He killed the engine, and she tumbled out of the truck as quickly as possible, because she didn’t want to be sitting in there
with him when the silence descended. When they were left with nothing but the pop of the engine in the stillness that came
at the end of a long night.
Because she didn’t trust herself to make the right decision. Because if he touched her, or so much as looked at her with the
intent to put his mouth on hers, she wasn’t actually sure what she would do.
She didn’t lose control. That wasn’t who she was.
Everything she did was deliberate. Whether she chose to let off steam or not.
And here she was, feeling precariously close to an edge that she had never stood on before.
She didn’t like it.
So she gulped in a big breath of the cold night air, and began to walk to her car before he said goodbye.
“Sheena,” he said.
“Good night,” she called back.
And she didn’t stop. Didn’t turn back to look at him. Instead, she got in her car and drove away. And she knew full well that
what she’d done had been for the sanity of both of them. Even if he didn’t realize it.