Page 24 of Taking Denver

A memory hits me. As if crawling from the debris of what happened last night, I remember what she’d said to Adam.“He doesn’t even know who I am.”

The stranger blinks. “Isn’t this you?”

He holds out his phone, and I stop breathing. My lungs constrict almost painfully as the man scrolls through a social media account seemingly dedicated to Denver.

She doesn’t move. Staring at the screen with wide eyes, her usual bite disappears, and her confidence evaporates.

The stranger raises his phone and points it at Denver. “Can I take a picture of you?”

I’m on my feet, my hand closed over the phone. “No, you fucking can’t.”

“You can’t be serious, man. Do you know how much a picture would go for?”

What the fuck does that mean?

“Say another word and see how serious I am,” I say, searching the man’s face. “Get the fuck away from the table before I put your head through it.”

The stranger’s face twists into a scowl. “Fine. Jesus.”

I release the phone and sit, and Denver leans close to me and whispers, “Can we leave?”

“Of course?—”

The camera flashes.

I see red.

Blood pumps in my ears, and adrenaline blasts through my veins. I’m going to smash that fucking phone to pieces. I stand sorapidly that my chair falls, but there’s no time for me to seize the phone, the man, and deal with whatever the hell is happening.

Someone already has.

A second man has appeared. He seizes the stranger’s collar and slams him into a nearby beam, the wood shuddering, dust breaking free from the thatched roof and scattering across our table. The stranger grunts from the impact, and his eyes round as they raise and raise andraiseto the face of the man who holds him.

Even I almost take a step back. In my brief time boxing, I’d fought opponents who made cement seem like putty, and I’m fairly sure even they would second-guess challenging this man.

I’m six foot four, and it’s rare I meet men taller than me, but this guy is touching at least six foot six. That, paired with broad shoulders and muscles that strain against his white shirt, makes him seem enormous, like a brick wall of a man in a designer suit. He has a face that could sell that suit in magazines, either through charm or threat, and the deadly combination means that both women and men are gaping at the scene. He looks in his mid-thirties, with dark hair neatly cut and onyx eyes fixed entirely on the man whose neck he looks close to snapping.

“Holy fuck,” Ace whispers. “That’s Ranger Luxe.”

I don’t know how Ace knows this guy, and I don’t have time to ask. Denver is out of her chair and placing herself between the two men.

“Ranger, please.”

I watch as she grips Ranger’s shirt between her fingers, her voice soft, pleading, begging him to stop. Everyone in the restaurant has fallen silent, but beyond the fear is curiosity—and some have phones out, recording.

Ranger releases the man but leans closer to him, his voice an echo of darkness and threat, deep and promising violence. “You don’t want to eat here anymore. Leave.”

The stranger nods and darts away, throwing a terrified glance over his shoulder as he does.

The restaurant is quiet, guests glancing anxiously at one another, the staff frozen in place. I think music was playing when we arrived, but it isn’t anymore, and the quiet feels too quiet, like a bomb might go off at any moment.

Ranger takes Denver’s chin in his hand. He’s so much taller than her that he seems to swallow her up, his massive frame a shadow she could disappear in. “We need to talk, little bird.”

Her jaw tenses, the softness disappears, and she whispers something I can’t hear. The man Ace had called Ranger responds with equal annoyance before glancing at the table and then walking away.

Denver closes her eyes for a heartbeat before approaching me. She reaches for her bag. “I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

“Denver…” I take her hand gently, my heart beating furiously at the idea of her leaving with whoever the fuck that guy is. “You’re not seriously going with him?”

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