27. Ranger
Chapter 27
Ranger
I ’ve just placed my watch by the bathroom sink when the front door closes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and when I hear the first sob, rage races through me.
The first time I heard Denver cry, she had just been fired. It was her first job, and although I’d been against it, I’d relented to make her happy. We weren’t in the media then, so they had no idea who she was, and when they’d fired her, she’d come home in tears. She’d sobbed as she’d poured herself a glass of wine and told me her boss had screamed at her in front of everyone. Her mistake? Getting his coffee order wrong.
That same man is now buried under one of the many buildings I own. I’ve long forgotten which one.
So, when I descend the stairs and find her in the kitchen hastily wiping away a tear, I’m wondering who I need to kill to ensure she doesn’t shed another.
“Who?” I ask.
Her lip trembles. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It fucking matters.” I round the kitchen island, and she looks up at me with glassy eyes. “ Who ?”
Her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, and she sniffles before saying, “Hayes.”
That fucking cop. He has a hard-on for us, desperate to make a name for himself by bringing down a Luxe, and I truly think he doesn’t care which one.
Wesson whines softly as he sits by her feet. I gently run my thumb under one of Denver’s eyes, then the other, somewhat removing the mascara. “Wine. Bath. Then you suck it up.” She grits her teeth and nods. I kiss her, tasting the salt of her tears, and it only enrages me further. “Wesson, look after your mom.”
He leans against her legs in response, and Denver doesn’t stop me as I grab my keys and stride out the door.
There’s a fine line to walk when it comes to cops. So many of them are in my pocket that sometimes that line blurs—right now, it’s almost gone. If it were any other man, he’d already be biting a curb, but there are ways to do things and people to call before you do anything.
I find the contact on my phone, and it rings four times before it’s answered.
“Sampson.”
“Why isn’t Hayes on my payroll?” I use the heel of my palm to steer as I turn out of the drive and start toward the city.
Detective Sampson clears his throat, the noise in the background quieting as he moves somewhere private to speak. “Because he’s wet behind the fucking ears.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” I say. “Where is he?”
“He’s not here today.”
I slam the flat of my fist into my window. “Then why the fuck is he harassing Denver?”
“Fuck, I was going to call you when I got a name, but…” Sampson grunts. “They have someone.”
It isn’t fear I feel. It’s anger. “And what is this someone doing?”
“I don’t know, but they’re close enough to you that Hayes has been walking around the station like he has two fucking dicks,” he says. “You think anyone would turn?”
No one of importance. The only people who know anything that could hurt the Luxe name are Denver and Cal.
But Cal wouldn’t… no. There’s no fucking way.
“Find me a name and send me Hayes’s address.”
Sampson pauses. “What are you gonna do?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
I hang up, and by the time I’m closing in on the city, I have an address. It turns out that Hayes isn’t home, he’s at a bar, but that works in my favor. I park up, not bothering to lock my car as I stride across the street toward the small establishment. I don’t go inside; I position myself in the alley closest to it.
And I wait.
My phone hums in my pocket.
My Love: You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?
In the darkness of the alley, I smile. It’s the first text she’s sent to me since the day Wyatt died. The message before this one is a selfie of her with a birthday hat on as she eats breakfast in bed. She’s grinning at the camera, and underneath, she wrote, “Where’s my gift, Grim?”
Twelve hours later, Wyatt was dead. She had no idea everything would change that night. Neither did I. Denver had been reborn in the split second it took for the bullet to leave the gun and take Wyatt’s life.
His betrayal cracked her down the middle, but instead of breaking permanently, Denver fixed herself with revenge. She saw her chance to get what she needed to survive and devoured it without choking. I’ve always loved her, but that night solidified my obsession. I could no longer only have moments with her. I needed everything.
Me: Are you in the bath?
She reads it immediately but doesn’t respond. She types, stops, and types again.
My Love: You’re not getting a selfie. Come home.
Me: Soon.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and resume waiting. It’s another twenty-five minutes before the bar door opens and Hayes emerges. He pauses on the sidewalk, busy getting out a cigarette, and I slip my hand into my pocket, the cool metal of the knuckle dusters sliding onto my fingers. It’ll only take a few hits to get my point across and make me feel better. He won’t know it’s me if I’m careful.
The flick of his lighter is my starting pistol, and I step out of the shadows.
Tires screech across the dry street. The roar of an engine fills the quiet, and I dip back into the alley as a car comes screaming toward us.
A hail of bullets fills the air. Glass smashes, people shout, and car alarms blare, but despite the commotion, I smile. It seems someone was already eager to take care of Hayes, and while it won’t sate the overwhelming urge to bury my knuckles into his kidneys, at least he’s gone.
The car speeds away, and I lean out of the alley, spying the damage.
I expect blood to be spilling onto the street, but Hayes is behind a parked car, on the phone, his head turned toward the brake lights of the car as it drives further away, taking a corner at speed.
And that’s when I see the target of the drive-by.
My fucking car.
Denver sits up as I enter my bedroom. She’s on the bed, wearing the oversized t-shirt she sleeps in, her hair damp from the bath.
“What happened? You’ve been gone for hours.”
I drop the keys to my bullet-riddled car on my bureau. “Cal had to pick me up.” She tracks my movements with wide, gray eyes. “Someone shot up my car.”
She’s hot on my heels as she follows me into the ensuite. “Oh my god, are you okay?”
I arch a brow as I unfasten the top button of my shirt. “Do I look hurt?”
“I’m just checking, asshole,” she says and watches as I reach back and pull the shirt over my head. She averts her eyes as I strip and turn on the shower. “Who did it?”
“My guess is Wilder Harland.” I step under the stream of hot water, running my hands through my hair.
Hayes hadn’t needed to check if the car was mine. He’s followed me enough these last few months to recognize the plates, but by that point, I’d already made myself known. He’d demanded to know why my car was outside the bar where he’d been drinking. I’d smiled and called it an unhappy coincidence.
“Are you going to do something about it?” Denver asks cautiously. I face her. The glass partition spans almost the entire width of the bathroom, and she stands at the open end, no longer too shy to stay close. Water runs down my face and body, and steam curls around her feet.
Water warms my soles as I move from under the stream and toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on my face, her cheeks flushing pink.
“I’m already handling it,” I say, eyeing her t-shirt. “Are you joining me or just watching?”
She swallows. “Neither.”
My lips twitch. “Then why are you here?”
“Axel isn’t home. I’m worried about him.”
The temptation to tease vanishes, and I turn from her, lathering up my body. “He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need chasing.”
“He got into it at the club tonight,” she says. “I’m just?—”
“If you’re so worried, then call him.”
She doesn’t respond. I rinse out the sandalwood-scented shampoo and switch off the shower. Denver chews her thumb quietly, and I reach by her for a towel.
“Stop worrying.” I kiss her cheek. “He’s fine.”
I return to the bedroom, and she follows. I’m disappointed by how much I’m enjoying her being this close. But even I know that won’t last. She needs me tonight, but she won’t tomorrow.
I get into bed, exhaling deeply as I lie back against the pillow. Holding out my arm, she climbs in next to me and cuddles into my side.
Fuck, this feeling. Knowing she’s close because she wants to be, even if it’s just for now, is a rush I’ll never take for granted. I feel whole with her, like taking the deepest breath after being starved of oxygen. She rests her leg over my stomach, leaving no space between us, and if I were to die now, I’d be okay with it.
“I liked our talk at the restaurant,” she whispers. “Even though you planned it.”
So, the photos are online. That’s good. As important as it is for Denver to be seen as grieving, she also needs to be viewed as untouchable. Being by my side again gives her the kind of protection no gun ever can. I hadn’t liked lying to her, but it was necessary.
“Me too.”
“Will you please get rid of Harland?” she asks.
It isn’t easy for her to say that. Despite Wyatt, she isn’t a killer. I want her to be. I know she can be. But I also know her limits, and I need to ease her into a life where pulling the trigger is an instinct, not a last resort.
I kiss her forehead. “He’s probably already dead.”
If Sampson has done what I pay him for, he’ll have found Harland or his men before they left the city.
Denver plays with the bracelet on my wrist. “Should I make you another one?”
My heart warms. “Sure.”
“A pink one?”
I grunt, and she squeezes me. Her exhale is one of contentment, and I’m glad I’ll have this forever. With my wife.
“Why do I always feel so safe with you?” she asks quietly.
I reach back and turn out the light, hold her as close as I can, and whisper, “Because you are.”