Chapter 12
Colt
Ihave no idea how my night went like this. How I looked up from a dinner table to see Denver Luxe killing a man and saving my life. How we sat in an elevator for hours. How she’s in my arms now, and it doesn’t feel strange.
It’s close to morning. Soon, the sun will rise, and this bizarre evening will come to an end. I don’t remember us sitting on the couch, or her curling up into my side and closing her eyes. I do remember when she stopped crying, because the ache in my chest eased, and I dragged a blanket over her.
When I called her all those months ago and asked her to leave my brother alone, I knew it wouldn’t work. Vengeance isn’t over until it’s done, and she was nowhere close to that passing. I’d accepted then that we would probably go to war, and I’d lose people, and so would she.
I never even considered it might end like this.
Denver’s hand is on my chest, and she presses her nails gently into my shirt. At first, I think she’s dreaming, but then she stirs. She holds her breath and sits up, rubbing her face.
“You stayed,” she says, her voice croaky. I nod but remain silent, worried if I speak, she might realize who I am and ask me to leave—but then her cheeks pinken and the awkwardness ramps up so quickly, and I realize if I don’t speak now, it’ll only get worse.
“You should change,” I say. “Your clothes are still wet.”
She looks down at them and rubs her face again. “Right.”
She stands, keeping my jacket on as she goes to the double doors and disappears into the room. When I hear a second door close and the shower water start running, I groan.
What the fuck am I doing here? Why am I using this poor girl to ease my conscience? Why is she letting me? She didn’t ask me to stay, but she also didn’t tell me to leave, either. What do I do?
How lonely must she be to allow me to be the one comforting her right now? In her anger, she said she wasn’t enough. That she can’t even make “him” happy anymore.
Did she mean Ranger? Is that why she’s in the city—are they separated?
I fish my phone out of my pocket. Alistair has called me three times, and I’d be surprised if he isn’t on his way over, so I call back.
“Thank fuck, Colt. I thought she’d killed you.”
I rest my elbows on my knees. “I’m fine. We’re both fine.”
“Okay, good, but where are you?”
“I’m in her room, but it isn’t—”
“No, that’s good,” he says. “We talked about that in California, didn’t we? Ranger is insecure. If you sleep with her—”
“Fucking hell, Alistair. That isn’t what I’m doing,” I say, exasperated.
I’m fucking exhausted. I’m cold. My conscience is being battered from all sides.
The last thing I need is someone suggesting I should be more of a bastard.
“Will you just let Finn know I’m okay? I don’t feel like a lecture right now. ”
“And if he asks why you’re in a hotel room with Denver Luxe in the early hours?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell him I’ll explain when I’m home, but it isn’t what he thinks it is.”
Once the call is over, I fire off some work texts that I missed. The shower is still running, but other than that, the suite is quiet. Painfully silent. I turn on the TV, flicking absentmindedly through channels. I almost drop the remote when Denver reappears at the door.
She’s dressed in cotton shorts and an oversized faded band T-shirt. Her hair is in a high ponytail, and she’s not wearing makeup, her freckles more prominent against her pale skin. Her appearance relaxes me, like she’s allowing me to glimpse beyond the armor, a silent way of waving a white flag.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks.
I go to stand. “I’ll make it—”
“No, I …” She flexes her fingers. “I’m beyond embarrassed right now, and I need to keep busy.”
I track her as she crosses the room to the bar.
“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about.”
She laughs, but it’s filled with anything but amusement. “Crying in front of my enemy? Yeah, I kinda do. Coffee? Tea? More whiskey? Arsenic?”
I laugh softly, and her returning smile is small. “Coffee is fine.”
I sit again, and she brings me a coffee. She takes the seat beside me, balancing a tea in her hand as she tucks her legs beneath her. Her teaspoon is balanced on the saucer, and she stirs her drink, her eyes down, sadness echoing from her. The television is playing an old movie, the sound low.
“Thank you for not leaving,” she says, her gaze fixed on her tea.
“I’m making a habit of that, aren’t I?” I smile when she meets my eye, and so does she.
I’m unsure what to do with this moment. We’ve stood on opposite ends of a battlefield for almost a year, and now we’ve met in the middle, and despite all I’ve done to protect my brother, it’s Denver who’s bloodied and bruised.
It’s her who’s fought harder than anyone to avenge people she cared about.
She’s waded through the hate to find peace, and now I’ve taken both from her.
“Please don’t say sorry again,” she whispers tearfully.
I nod, close to biting my tongue. “I won’t.”
We sit in an oddly comfortable silence, the old movie casting lights across the hotel room. Two enemies, side by side, grieving different things, finding common ground where we should have none.
“Do you know who died that night?” she asks.
“I know Ethan Defender did. And the manager of your club.”
“Do you know who Ethan was to me?”
No. There were rumors. Videos of him online hitting someone for touching Denver, a photograph of them sitting close at a beach restaurant, but not much else. I shake my head.
Her breath shakes, and she looks past me.
“When Wyatt died, I went away for a while. I was struggling with what I did, and I needed space, and while I was away, I met Ethan.” She takes a sip of her tea, and I wonder if she’s swallowing tears, too.
“He was … wonderful. A good man. Not like us. Nothing like us. And … I fell for him. It was hard not to. When you meet the embodiment of the life you wish you’d chosen, it’s hard not to want forever with him.
But I knew I had to be with Ranger. I’ve always loved Ranger.
Rightly or wrongly, I’m his, and he’s mine, and through the mess of those few weeks, I took things from Ethan I shouldn’t have.
He was at the wedding that night because we had to discuss something, and we were imagining a make-believe future when he was shot.
” I want to reach for her hand. I want to do something other than sit here and witness pain.
“He died quickly. And I knew it would happen to him, y’know?
I knew that proximity to me meant death, but I was selfish. ”
“You couldn’t know.”
“We all know it, don’t we? We’re like poison to the people around us.” She swallows more tea. “Harley died, too. She was my friend, my only friend, and she has a little boy. He’s ten now, and he doesn’t have a mom because your brother shot her in the head.”
I look at my coffee, the words hitting me hard.
“Ethan’s friends blame me. Harley’s son might blame me one day, too.
And Wilder gets to live because he has a daughter who needs him.
” She watches me, and I meet her eye. “Harley’s son doesn’t have his mom.
Sebastian doesn’t have his best friend or his brother.
But Wilder gets to carry on.” I can’t speak.
Can’t argue against her. “Is that fair?”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s not.”
Her lip trembles, but she nods. “Is he a good dad?”
The truth falls free. “He tries to be.”
“A good son? A good brother?”
“Yes.”
“Is he sorry?”
I search her eyes, hating that she’s clearly fighting tears because she doesn’t deserve the pain. I’m angrier at Wilder now than I was back then, hating that his decisions hurt us all. “He is.”
Her exhale says so much. About what she’s gone through, what she’s going through, and the weight on her shoulders. We’ve all been through it at some point, knowing a decision will make or break at least one person. Winning isn’t an option; we just don’t lose as much.
She gazes at the television. We listen to “Moon River,” and I watch her side profile, counting the freckles I can see.
“Is it freeing?” she asks. “Letting go of the hate?”
A lie would work better than the truth. Yes, it’s the best. It’ll change your world. It’ll work wonders for the darkness you’re carrying. But I find myself unable to lie to this version of Denver—to bare feet and pajamas, to ponytails and freckles.
So instead, I say, “Sometimes.”
She keeps her eyes on the television. “I love this movie.”
“I’m more of a Casablanca kinda guy.”
Her laugh is short. “Of course you are. That’s right up there with saying The Godfather really impacted you as a kid.”
“It did.”
She gives me a pointed look, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder, her smile knowing. In the soft light of the hotel room, her eyes are warmer, closer to blue than gray.
“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be, Deluxe,” I say quietly and immediately wonder why. I mean it as a compliment, but it feels like something I should have kept to myself.
Her smile softens. “Everybody says that.”
“Everybody is right.” A kind of peace settles over me, a smoothing of my heart where it had felt so jagged, and I wonder if it’s because of her. She hasn’t said she’ll let this go, but maybe it’s unfair to expect her to say it out loud.
“I should get some sleep.”
I nod and place my untouched coffee on the table, and we both rise. We stand at the door, the sound of the song drifting around us. This could be the last time we see each other without weapons drawn, without hate between us, with some kind of peace.
“What happens now?” I ask, and I dislike being the one unsure. I try to have the answers, the solutions, but right now, I’m coming up empty.
She shrugs gently. “Life goes on.”
“And my brother?”
Denver sighs so deeply I wish I could hold her again. “I have more important things to worry about right now.”