4. Denver
Chapter 4
Denver
T he bullet-battered door closes behind Ethan. I convinced him to check on his friends, but he seemed reluctant to leave. It was sweet that he thought he could do anything to help, and I appreciated the small but awkward squeeze of my shoulder as he’d promised to come back.
He won’t, and that’s fine.
I put my hands on my knees and breathe deeply. It isn’t fear that circles my gut but a dreadful realization.
They’ve found me.
I knew there would be retaliation at some point, but after three months of receiving nothing but a few threatening calls, I’d lulled myself into a false sense of security. Now, the illusion has shattered like the damn patio doors.
I round the couch, glass shifting beneath my sneakers as I crouch and search for my dropped phone. It’s already ringing.
Shaking glass from it, I answer. “I’m alive.”
Cal exhales. “Fucking Christ. You’re all right?” I grunt my response, gazing out the patio doors. “And the guy in your room?”
There’s no malice beneath the question, but the power behind it glows like unearthed embers. “You’re watching me?” Standing, I walk to the destroyed door. I turn quickly when I hear glass shifting. “Wesson, baby, stay in the bedroom.”
The dog sniffs some of the discarded glass but obeys.
“Of course. Did you think he wouldn’t be close?” Cal asks. “You left without a word.”
But I had said a word. Two, to be exact.
“Where is he, Cal?”
“On his way to the airport.”
My chest lurches violently. “You have to stop him.”
“How am I supposed to do that, exactly?” he asks, and I grip my dress so tightly my fingers ache. “If they’ve tried to kill you, Denver, he’ll want to protect you. Are you really going to deny him that?”
“If he comes here?—”
Black blasts across my face. It feels like I’ve slipped headfirst onto the patio floor and forgotten to throw my hands out to soften the blow. After the darkness, pain follows, a throb that pulses in time with my heart.
I fall backward, hip hitting the floor, blood spitting from my mouth and across cream tiles. Glass bites into my arms and tears through my dress as I scramble to get away from whoever hit me. I try to blink, try to do anything with my face, but nothing complies—my eyes feel too big, my lips have their own heartbeats, and my nose, God a-fucking-bove, my nose must be smashed into my skull; there’s no other explanation for the pain. Blood spills across my lips and tongue, the hot metallic taste making me gag.
Boots crunch over glass.
No. No, not like this, no?—
A gargled scream escapes my throat when the man grips my neck and lifts me. My vision is clearing, and the bald man dressed in black is staring like he hates me, probably because he does.
I know him. He was a guest at my wedding.
He squeezes, and oxygen ceases to exist. It’s maddening how quickly I forget how it feels to breathe, and pressure builds, hot air filling my head. Adam Ledger’s lip trembles as he leans close. His breath smells like whiskey and blueberry, and somewhere in my panicked brain, I note that his tongue is blue. Before his revenge, he’d had some kind of exciting beverage.
What a strange final thought to have.
“Murderer,” he whispers.
A furious growl fills the room, and paws skid across glass-strewn tiles. I try to call out to beg Wesson not to do it, but he must have already clamped his teeth around Adam’s leg because he screams and releases me. I hit the ground, shards biting my leg as I scramble over to the coffee table.
And then Wesson yelps.
The noise tears through me, stalling my movements, and panic collides with me harder than Adam’s fist had. I whirl on my knees as he kicks Wesson into the television stand.
I scream.
Adam can hurt me. He can get his twisted, pointless vengeance. He can take me from this place and cut me up, send pieces of me back to San Francisco. Hell, I probably deserve it.
But he cannot hurt my fucking dog.
I reach for the coffee table drawer, sweat-slicked palm grasping the gun, the one I’d never, ever wanted.
I whirl on my knees, gun aimed—but stop.
Memories lock my finger.
The noise. It would be so loud. My ears would ring. His blood would coat the walls. There was always so much blood.
Tears blur my vision. Blood stains my lips. My finger is on the trigger. Wesson tries to stand but wobbles before lying down again, whining softly.
“Do it, Deluxe.” The name has my gaze snapping back to Adam. “Kill another Ledger.”
My hand doesn’t tremble, but my fucking finger . It won’t pull the trigger.
“I didn’t kill him,” I whisper.
“Liar,” Adam says. “Shoot me, Deluxe. Because if you don’t, I’ll come back, and?—”
Someone places a hand on Adam’s shoulder. He turns. Something cracks. Adam is thrown, his back thudding into the wall. Another crack. Another.
Ethan pulls back his arm and hits Adam again, and I stare on, lips parted, eyes wide. Blood spritzes across the white walls and linen curtains, and Wesson crawls over to me on his belly, nudging my bloodied knee with his nose. I cling to him.
I hold my breath as the vet with the easy smile unleashes hell on the man trying to kill me. It’s like watching a dog discover it has teeth—and use them. With gusto.
Something clicks, and Ethan steps back, glass skittering beneath his feet. Adam’s face is a mishmash of purple and red, blood and spittle covering his mouth and chin, his hand shaking as he points the gun at Ethan’s face.
“He didn’t do anything!” I shout, and Adam shifts his rapidly purpling eyes to me. “He doesn’t even know who I am, Adam!”
Ethan has his hands up but looks nowhere close to surrender. He glares at Adam, shoulders rising and falling with breaths far too steady for a man who has half-broken a man’s skull with nothing but fists and half a story.
Sirens sing in the distance. Adam runs.
I release all the oxygen from my lungs, and Ethan kneels before me. His lips have spots of red on them. He’d put on a gray shirt, but it’s peppered with blood. He should have worn black. People should always wear black around me.
“Your face,” he says, examining it. “My friend is a doctor. I’ll?—”
“Check Wesson,” I say. “Adam kicked him twice, I think.”
Ethan closes his eyes for a heartbeat as if searching for patience. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have stopped hitting him.”
Humor bursts from beneath the terror, and I laugh, even though it sends vibrations of ache through my face. “You’ll avenge the dog more than me?”
Ethan stares at me like I’m bizarre for laughing at a time like this, and maybe I am. But if I don’t see the funny side, I’ll need more therapy than even I can afford.
The wail of sirens closes in, and so does reality. Soon, the questions will begin. I grip Ethan’s wrist. “You can’t repeat his name.”
It isn’t a threat. Not even close. But it isn’t a plea, either. I hope he can see the truth in my eyes—that giving Adam Ledger’s name to the police won’t end well.
“You’re asking me to lie,” he says, searching my face.
I swallow, selecting my words carefully. “I’m asking you to forget.” The sirens stop, and someone is already knocking on the door. My gaze darts to the sound, and I wet my lips. “Ethan. This is nothing compared to what they’ll do if you say his name to anyone with a badge.”
“They?” His eyes widen, but it isn’t fear I see. It’s disbelief. “Who the fuck are they?”
More bangs on the door and shouts from the police. I squeeze Ethan’s wrist gently. “It was loud. You didn’t hear his name. Okay?”
The door bursts open, and I drop the gun but keep my eyes on Ethan.
And to my surprise and relief, he nods.
I sit alone in the back of an ambulance, swinging my legs back and forth as I wait for the all-clear I don’t need. My face is cleaned up, my nose isn’t broken, thank god, and at most, I’ll have a nasty black eye. The police asked me questions, but as soon as they heard my name, they let me go. The other guests at the hotel have been in and out of questioning all evening, too, but it won’t yield any answers or lead to any arrests. I know that all too well.
My phone hums, and I glance at the lit-up screen.
DO NOT ANSWER is calling.
Guilt grips me, like snakes writhing in my belly. I should pick up. He’ll be worried. And maybe even on a plane.
Wesson leans against my legs and sighs, and I stroke his head. “Not long, pup.”
My phone stops ringing, and the missed calls from that number tick to seventy-eight. Instead of calling back, I fire off a text to Cal.
Me: I’m okay. Did he get on the plane?
He reads it immediately, and I chew my lip, watching the three dots as he types a response.
Cal: No.
He’d taken far too long to respond for such a simple answer. Dread curls around my throat and squeezes.
Me: What happened?
His response takes a few minutes, and each second robs me of more oxygen.
Cal: Work.
I run a hand through my hair. That could mean so many things, and I don’t dare fall down the rabbit hole of what. Wesson’s tail suddenly wags enthusiastically.
“Hey.”
I tuck the phone under my arm and meet Ethan’s eye. He’s changed out of his bloodstained clothes, a white t-shirt and jeans this time, and I hope he’ll remain clean, if only for housekeeping’s sake.
I think back to before the bullets started flying—the kiss, the argument. I’d been willing to give myself to him, to continue breaking my rules of this vacation.
Why had I even considered it? It’s one thing to kiss him, but to invite him back into my bed isn’t like me. I take what I need and walk away—it’s how I live my life. One guy shouldn’t change that.
But Ethan did, and it’s irking me. What the hell is so special about him?
“I forgot,” he says.
Relief floods me—he didn’t give Adam’s name to the police. It was a huge ask, so I meet his eye when I say, “Thank you.”
Ethan nods only once, and I inhale quietly when he moves closer and tilts my face up, examining the bruises. He frowns, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I should have hit him harder.”
I should have killed him.
Words I can’t, won’t, say.
“You hit him plenty,” I say, forcing a smile. My cheek twitches with the strain of it. “I guess those weights paid off.”
“Are you okay?”
I chuff and flash him a wider smile. “I’ve taken harder hits from a cabinet door.”
“Denver.” The shadows in his tone send a crack through my smile, but I hold onto it. He doesn’t know me and has no right to demand a truthful answer, but he likely saved my life. He’d also checked Wesson over, and despite a bruised ego, the pooch would be fine.
Still, I avoid answering. No, I’m not okay, but that doesn’t exactly matter.
My phone hums against my palm, and I ignore it. “Have they moved your room?”
He releases his light touch on my jaw and steps back. The distance feels strangely cold, and I shiver.
“Yeah. Yours?”
I hold up my new key, the numbered keyring with 308 dangling between my fingers. Ethan huffs out a laugh and shows me his—309.
“Neighbors again,” I say. “Lucky you.”
“Lucky me,” he says quietly, searching my gaze. I know he’s thinking about his mishap with my nickname earlier, but I won’t explain myself. I don’t know this guy. I certainly don’t like this guy. The fact I’ve now kissed him on two separate occasions is strange, sure, but irrelevant. Unimportant.
It means nothing.
“Thank you for protecting me and Wesson.” I run my hand over the dog’s head. “I appreciate you doing that. You didn’t have to.”
Ethan gains nothing from keeping me alive, and the seconds it had taken to grab me could have been his final ones.
“Maybe it’s the vet in me,” he says, his voice light. “Preserving life is important.”
My lips twitch. “Are you comparing me to a poodle?”
“More like a rottweiler. Or a lively sausage dog.” Now, I’m fully biting back a smile. “Since we’re being all warm and fuzzy, I should tell you that what happened in the gym isn’t something I do. Ever.”
I smile and focus on Wesson again. “Me neither.”
For good fucking reason, Denver.
“So… why did you kiss me?” He grins.
I roll my eyes. “You’re really fishing for compliments?”
“From you, yes,” he says, and I almost laugh at the admission. “Indulge me, Denver Luxe.”
I wet my lips and try to erase the memory of how he’d felt against me. His power, the urgency, the fire that hadn’t just flickered but almost devoured us both.
“Because I’m in love with you, Ethan.”
He erupts into laughter, and I can’t help it—I smile. He has such a beautiful laugh—light, real, carefree. I wonder how often he does it, what makes him laugh the most, and, more importantly, how I can make it happen again.
“Seriously,” I add. “Head over heels. Marry me?”
“Sure,” he says, tilting his head. “How’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works for me. Can I wear white?”
He snorts. “I think that ship has sailed.”
I give him the finger. “Prick.”
“And there’s that mouth again.”
My body heats rapidly, his words like sinking into hot coals. The hammering of my heart fills my ears, and I hope he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.
I’ve grown up around men who are hard lines and harder whiskey, cigars over territory talk, have unhappy wives, and impatient mistresses. My view of men and love is more than skewed; it’s torn-up paper promises, the pieces blown away in the wind. I’ve been careful only to be loved by two men in my life. The first was my father, who had showered me with adoration and a desperate need to keep me alive until the day he died.
The second drowned me in love. He’d gripped my hair and tilted my head back and poured his obsession into my willing mouth, and when I drank, I drank deep.
I wonder how Ethan would love. I imagine he’d be kind. Thoughtful. He’d remember shit that didn’t matter—dates of first kisses and songs that were ours. He’s probably the kind of man you bring home to your family and has you dreaming about Christmas morning proposals.
My family would’ve placed a gun on the dinner table and waited for Ethan to piss himself and leave. I would expect him to do just that.
But maybe I’m wrong. While I doubt that he’s anything like the men in my father’s office that I’d avoided when I’d developed curves and tits, Ethan isn’t exactly vanilla fucking pudding, either. The beautiful, perfect-dicked vet has layers—a tart aftertaste that has my cheeks tingling.
“So, where’d you learn to fight, Rocky?” I ask, reaching for his hand. A weak excuse to touch him, but one I’ll use tonight. I run a gentle thumb pad over pinkened knuckles. “Did you have to wrestle tigers in vet school?”
He smiles. “I took up boxing a few years ago.”
“Professionally?”
“Almost.”
“Is it a hobby now?”
He searches my eyes. “Something like that.” His stare climbs into me, like warm honey mixed with smooth cream, sweetness spilling down my throat.
I look away. “Should we head back? I’m tired of waiting.”
When we reach the hallway to our new rooms, an unexplainable itch starts at the back of my brain. My legs lock, my head spins, and as the walls seem to close in, my vision does, too.
Alone. I’ll be alone. And I’ve been alone for so damn long, it shouldn’t feel any different, right? But before this place, before the mess, before the ringing in my ears, he’d always been there. Every. Fucking. Day.
And then everything had exploded at our feet. Sticky blood on ivory Jimmy Choos and that horrible, awful stone floor, made uglier by brain matter and a gold casing.
I can’t be alone. Not tonight.
“Do you want to come inside?”
Ethan pauses his key in the door. “Um?—”
“No sex, no discussions of death, and no bullets, I hope.” I play with my necklace, twirling the chain in my fingers. Sweat dampens the nape of my neck, and I resist the urge to lift my heavy locks and fan my skin. “I’m just not tired.”
He stares at me, and heat floods my cheeks.
Of course he doesn’t want to come inside. The last time he’d been in a room with me, he’d almost died. He probably thinks I’m jinxed, or worse, might have guessed the truth.
“Sure.” Ethan withdraws the key and slips it back into his pocket.
Surprise jolts through me, and I pause the tug on my necklace. “Really?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Why not?”