Page 44 of Finding Denver

“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 Wyattdied, 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.”