Wow. That was hardly discrete. If you had to award Denver emotional-sensitivity points out of ten, he would score a flat zero along with stones, walls, and the long dead.
I didn’t let him get to me this time. I realized that his lack of people skills had a lot to do with being defensive rather than being a class-one asshole.
Denver clearly had his problems, and his particular method of coping was to ignore them while snapping at everything that came in range.
In other words, he was a classic bloke.
“Fix you, Denver Scott? I’ve only got the weekend, and I have a feeling you would take a lifetime.”
Though my statement had been sharp and practically acerbic, he didn’t storm off in a huff. Instead, he offered a punctuated laugh. “Somehow I don’t think you could stand to hang around me that long. So why don’t we make a deal: you stop with the insights and the advice, and I’ll do what I can to get you out of this town in one piece.”
I was feeling queasy, nervy, and paranoid, but I still had the guts to flash him a grin. “No deal. I hand out insights and advice for a living. And though you aren’t going to pay me, that isn’t going to stop me from telling you how to get your life in order.”
His defenses dropped as concern flashed in his eyes. “I don’t need your help.”
“You do. And I need yours. So why don’t you help me pack my suitcase and take me to your friend’s house? I like being honest, Denver, and though you admittedly irritate the hell out of me, I want you by my side as I walk in my room in case a man with a chainsaw is waiting in the wardrobe.”
Denver didn’t reply immediately. In fact, he appeared to take a good long while to reassess me. I could see it in his eyes; that mix of weariness, concern, and confusion revealed that Denver Scott was starting to realize I had changed more than he’d accounted for.
He gulped slightly. Then he readjusted his jacket, pulling down hard on his sleeves as he shifted his neck uneasily. “Chainsaw?” he finally managed.
“Gun, ax, spike—you pick your weapon of choice. I think it’s important to know your limitations, and Denver, I’d be as useless in a fight as a one-legged dog. You,” I stood back and appraised him briefly, “look like you can handle yourself.”
He coughed awkwardly.
“When it comes to hand-to-hand combat at least,” I smiled around my words, my lips pulling up tight against my teeth. I turned and gestured for him to follow me.
He paused.
It took a long time, but eventually he added: “are you going to leave that statement just hanging there, begging for a caveat? You think I can handle myself in a fight, but not much else, right?” He strode up to me and matched my pace as we walked, side-by-side, up to the porch.
I flicked my gaze over to him, blinking as I did.
I didn’t say anything though.
He took one quick step ahead and then turned to face me. Walking backwards confidently, he nodded low. “I can handle a lot more than men with guns. I’m pretty good at handling self-help authors who are trying to flirt with me as a distraction from murder threats.”
Bam.
Denver was not a subtle man.
He took one more step backwards and reached my door. He held my gaze as he held out his hand for the key.
I’d been unashamedly playing with him up to that point, but now I ground my teeth as I reassessed the situation.
He’d called my bluff; I was flirting with him and quite probably as a distraction from the goddamn horrible things that were going on around here.
“You know, I think pointing out my faults makes you feel momentarily powerful in a situation that has robbed you of any sense of certainty and security. I also think flirting with me makes you feel more in control than you are.” He still had his hand held out for my keys.
I slowly got them out of my bag. I didn’t hand them over. Instead I stepped forward and grabbed the door handle, opening it myself. Though I had to press my arm up hard against his, I didn’t care, and he didn’t move.
Letting the door swing gently open, I looked up at him. “You’re right and you’re wrong.”
“What am I wrong about?”
“I’m not flirting with you—” I began.
He snorted.
“Because I want to feel in control,” I continued quickly.
Then I turned.
I didn’t add another word. I didn’t explain myself, and I sure as hell didn’t give him a chance to see my expression.
My cheeks were all hot, my jaw was deliberately set hard, and if you’d had a stethoscope, you would have heard how quick my heart beat.
He’d just gotten under my skin.
Snap. It had happened that quickly.
I didn’t go in for belligerent, and I certainly didn’t like my men to have as much emotional baggage as Denver appeared to be lugging around.
But you can’t help these things.
Taking long and deliberate breaths, I moved into the bathroom to get my toothbrush and shampoo.
I didn’t expect him to follow. I figured he would just hang out around the door, thinking moody thoughts and looking darkly emotional as usual.
I was wrong.
He was right behind me.
Suddenly aware of the sound of his breath, I compulsively hooked my hair behind my ears as I leaned into the bath to pluck up my soap.
I didn’t turn to face him. I felt a little like I was trying to hide from him, which was somewhat dumb considering he was right there. But I didn’t want to face him; I wanted to get a handle on my expression first.
I wanted to remain aloof here. I needed to put distance between us because the last thing I wanted was to make a move on Denver only to be rejected. Or worse—he could accept me with open arms and… complicate the hell out of my already complicated life.
“Are you checking for chainsaw-wielding men?” I tried as I faced the sink and grabbed up my toothbrush.
“No, I’m looking for confusing women who say exactly what they think, but try to hide exactly what they mean.”
I pursed my lips together and blew air out of them slowly.
“I’m pretty sure there isn’t one of those in here,” I managed as a quick flight of nerves rushed through my gut.
Realizing I could hardly keep my back to him forever as I pottered around the bathroom, I finally turned sharply to walk past.
He didn’t stop me.
But he sure as heck stared at me as I walked by.
He didn’t offer me a smoldering look, and neither did he appear ready to laugh at my silly attempts to flirt with him.
He looked… oh Christ, he looked all mixed up—confused and apprehensive and expectant and nervous and desirous all at once.
It sent another spike of nerves traveling like a bullet down my back.
I was no stranger to passion. I wrote about it for a living, after all.
Yet there’s something you have to distinguish between passion and romance. In one, you’re in control; in the other, you aren’t.
Hormones, imagination, lust, and simple fucking bad decisions combine to create a perfect storm.
I didn’t have the time or luxury of getting involved with Denver Scott. All you needed was to take a simple look at the guy to realize a long-term, fulfilling relationship was not on the cards.
He had issues, and he clearly didn’t intend to deal with them any time soon. He would spend his time pulling you close or pushing you away depending on his mood. There’d be no stability and reliability; there’d be volatile arguments, passionate make ups, multiple break ups, and a whole lot of up and down.
Yep. I knew my rules; I couldn’t get involved with a man like Denver.
Plus, I hated the guy, right? He was a jerk.
I patted my stomach as my nerves settled there like fire, sparking away as they sent tingles up my arms and down my legs.
For Christ’s sake, I was about to have dinner with his brother; I had to get out of this motel room before I did so
mething seriously indiscrete and mind-blowingly stupid.
He followed me into the main room.
Again I played the pathetic game of not looking at the guy and hiding behind my hair when I could.
So what if I’d spent all of high school idealizing the man? Who cared that I had begged and wished for the chance to be with him? That was all ancient history.
I had moved on. I now had the experience and wisdom to see Denver for what he was: just an ordinary guy with issues. One I knew better than to get involved with.
“Patti,” he said my name in a husky voice.
It sent shivers shooting through my stomach. I twitched back as I tried to chase them away.
No. No. No.
Get out of the room, I suddenly commanded myself.
“Patti?”
Turn around and leave, I begged my unresponsive legs.
“Patti?”
“Yes?”
I did something stupid, really stupid; I turned to face him.
“The room’s clear.” He was on the other side of the bed.
“I can see that,” I swallowed through my words.
“No ax men, no chainsaws, just the two of us.”
. . . .
Oh dear.
He was right.
Suddenly I was struck with the thought that chainsaws and suicidal nutters with axes and swords would be better than being stuck alone in a motel room with Denver Scott.
He didn’t move.
He kept standing there on the other side of the bed.
Denver Scott had changed. He wasn’t the dreamy kid from high school anymore. He had foils and problems, and he had lost a great deal of his shine.
He was gritty, a little broken around the edges, and he was standing in my motel room not making the first move.
I had my bag in my hand; I’d been stuffing clothes in it moments before, continuing my desperate attempt to ignore him.
Though his body was as stiff as a plank, his eyes drew me in.
There was no doubting what he was thinking and what he wanted.
But I had to the make the first move.
. . . .
Did I want him? Could I do this right now?
Yes, and yes.
I dropped the bag on the bed, and it bounced a little before falling on its side.
Denver didn’t drop his gaze to look at it, and neither did I.
I walked around the bed.
I can’t say it was the most coordinated of moves, but it didn’t need to be.
Despite my best attempts, it looked like I would have to call ahead and cancel Vietnamese.
I reached him, and he reached out to me.
At first it was slow, hesitant even.
He was obviously waiting until I made my intensions crystal clear.
So I did.
I pushed into him gradually, one hell of a trapped breath making my chest tight and hard.
If I’d been slow, he was fast. He ran his hands up my back with an electric energy that made me shiver.
I think I almost whimpered as I pulled him into a kiss.
Then someone knocked at the door.
Insistently.
Loudly.
And they did not go away.
He pulled away from me, though one of his hands lingered over my back, the most tantalizing of rushes escaping over my skin.
Then the person behind the door started to wail.
“Patti, Patti? Oh god, Patti, are you there?”
Nancy.
Shit. It was Nancy.
“Patti, you have to come quickly. Something’s happened. There’s been another murder.”
I had a moment where I looked at Denver.
Just a flicker of a second where our eyes met.
Cheeks pale, body stiff, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Patti?” Nancy beat my door again, probably kicking the bottom of it with one of her devilishly pointed heels.
Denver moved past me. He rushed up to the door and answered it quickly. Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he would be glancing every which way to insure there was no immediate danger.
“Denver?” Nancy’s voice pitched up with surprise. “Have you switched rooms with Patti?”
“No,” he answered simply. “Now what do you mean?”
“What are you doing in her room?”
“Nancy, who has been murdered? What’s happened?” Denver thrust the door further open, and I finally saw Nancy in full.
She saw me too.
In fact, she looked up with the quickest and most snapped of moves.
Something passed between us in that moment, and it wasn’t mutual appreciation or friendship.
For a second she just stood there, her lips locked into the stiffest of smiles. Then she turned her full attention back to Denver.
“Oh god,” her voice drew on in a nauseated drawl, “Denver, it’s horrible.”
“Nancy,” he took a step forward and faced her directly, his head darting down as his eyes widened in focused interest, “tell me what happened. Who’s dead?”
“At the school. They found the body on the steps. Oh god, I can’t believe this is happening to our reunion class.”
“Reunion class?” Denver kept his attention firmly locked on Nancy. For all his flaws, he sure as hell knew how to do his job. From the way he handled himself, to the look of his locked shoulders and tensed jaw, he appeared ready to take on anything.
It was distracting.
For all the wrong reasons. Because, hello, if Nancy was right, someone else had just been murdered. Though I wouldn’t put it past Nancy to lie just to get attention, storming in on Denver screaming about murder would be over-the-top even for her.
I swallowed, loudly and carefully. I didn’t know what to say or do.
Instead I watched Denver, intently. I wasn’t just checking out the line of his muscles under his shirt; I was getting deliberately lost in how calm he looked in the face of such a serious and horrendous situation.
“Do they know who was murdered?” Denver asked patiently, yet his voice had a strong edge to it. Firm enough to let Nancy know he needed her to answer, but not hard enough to scare the already hysterical woman into crying.
“Hank. Oh god. It was Hank Reaver,” Nancy managed through a sob.
Hank Reaver… ? Who the hell was that?
While I would freely admit that my memory wasn’t the best when it came to my high school classmates, I would have remembered a name like that. Hank Reaver sounded like he belonged in a movie or an action book.
Well, now he was dead.
I felt cold all over. It was a marked and obvious change from the hot itch that had escaped over my skin seconds before Nancy had interrupted me.
Those thoughts and that passion were miles away now.
Nausea pulling down at my gut and sending a frozen shiver tracking up my spine, I forced a breath and finally took a step forward.
My small move broke Denver’s fixed attention, and he flicked his gaze over to me. Though he remained where he was and didn’t turn around, I could see him staring at me out of the corner of his eyes.
He still looked confused. But it was barely a flicker, and a dying one too.
He was in control. Though he looked shocked and sickened, he also appeared ready to do whatever he had to do to make things right.
I started to suck on my teeth. An old habit from high school, I often did it when nerves beset me. Heck, in a couple of seconds I’d likely be cracking out the old thumbnails for some much needed chewing too.
“Okay,” Denver slowly turned his attention back to Nancy. As he did, he took a labored breath that pushed his chest hard against his jacket.
For a woman who prided herself on her ability to control her lust, I could not look away.
“Denver, god, I knew I had to come to see you. If anyone can deal with this, it’s you.” Nancy suddenly thrust herself forward and right at Denver.
Again she just force
d herself into his arms by barreling into his chest like a wrestler in mid throw.
Denver stumbled and held his arms out wide and stiff, never letting them close around the tight leopard print of her dress.
She hung off his neck, smooshing her chest into his and practically nuzzling his neck like a long-time lover.
Again I found myself prudishly eyeing them as I tutted under my breath. If I’d had a nana-cardigan on and pearls, I would be thumbing the beads as I neatened my sweater and shot them a disapproving look. Please, children, while this was a motel, it was always polite to close the door first.
“Ah, Nancy?” Denver still had his arms held out as wide as he could. The look on his face matched the frozen awkwardness of his move perfectly: peaked eyebrows, smooth, pale cheeks, and lips pressed tight over a clenched jaw. “Ah… ,” he swallowed, every neck muscle as tight as a coiled spring.
He clearly didn’t know how to tell her to fucking get off him, so I cleared my throat and took a step forward. I inserted myself right beside them, blinking up into Nancy’s eyes as her face was nestled on Denver’s chest. “Who is Hank Reaver? I don’t remember that name from class. Are they sure he went to Wetlake High?”
While I really wanted to insert a crowbar between Nancy and Denver to pry them apart, I settled for just standing there and blasting away with my questions like a nutter with a shotgun.
It half worked, and Nancy at least lifted her face off Denver’s chest. She turned her attention on me. Though she had tears streaking down her cheeks, that was the extent of her emotional display. There were no pools of mascara smearing underneath her eyes; god knows a girl like Nancy wore falsies. Neither was there any hint of true remorse or loss flickering through her gaze.
It was sure as hell cold though.
I took a moment to stare back at her and then unconsciously found myself stepping a little close to Denver.
I wasn’t the kind of girl who thought she needed a man to protect her. I believed women could do anything men could do. From hard labor to fighting, women were capable of everything, should they have the desire and resources to try.
Odette C. Bell - Ladies in Luck - An Unlucky Reunion Page 9
