Page 80 of Taking Denver

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.

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