Page 81 of Taking Denver

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 sitsup 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.”

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