Page 18 of Finding Denver
I resist tearing apart the coffee table between us. “It isn’t babysitting when it’s your fucking kid!”
He glares at me. “Don’t yell at me.”
“Can I trust you to take care of her? If not, Mom can move in, or Holly can go to her.”
He has the gall to look offended. “She’s mine. She isn’t living anywhere but with me,” He rests his elbows on his knees. “And don’t act all high and mighty like you’ve been away rescuing kittens. I might have had a drink, but her uncle still has blood on his hands.”
The legs of the coffee table groan as I use the sole of my shoe to shift it aside. Wilder sits up as I advance on him.
“You keep your fucking voice down when you say shit like that.” How I control myself is a fucking mystery. The only reason Wilder hasn’t had blood on his own hands in the last ten months is because I’ve kept him hidden from the Luxes. This is his fault, his fucking mess, yet he still feels like he can blame me every damn day.
Wilder keeps his head down. “Did you kill them?”
Them. The Luxes. The innocent party in all this.
“No. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”
He lifts his head to look at me, eyes bloodshot and wide. “They’ll keep looking for me, Colt. I can’t keep hiding in this house.”
“Then you should have fucking thought about that before you killed two people who meant something to her.”
We’ve torn through this argument a hundred times, and Wilder has found the regret, but not the patience it takes to fix this monumental fuck-up. I breathe deeply and roll my neck.
“The good news is that Dorian Eddards is dead.”
His eyes widen. “What? How the?—”
“He was getting his revenge for the finger-cutting incident. Tried to take Deluxe.”
Wilder might be fucking reckless sometimes—he’s cruel when he wants to be—but even he wouldn’t want someone going through the same hell Marnie might have. So when I say what I say, his expression softens into one of concern.
“She okay?”
I nod. “Ranger came and got her.”
He chews his lip. “They both saw you?”
“Luckily, no. He did. But it’s not like it matters anyway.” I sit beside him, and he says nothing. “Ranger said he’d let this go, but Denver won’t.”
Wilder focuses on his hands. Without the freedom to roam and exercise his ego, his confidence has wilted. He’s spent time thinking about what he did, who he killed, and the reasons he did it, and he isn’t dealing well.
Which is why I also know he’s paid more than Denver realizes.
“Keto was here earlier,” he says, referring to one of our other friends. Someone who was eager to meet the Luxesbut far too trigger happy to bring with me. “He told me about the Vince thing. You really broke his arm?”
I drop my head back against the couch. “Both arms. And a few fingers.”
“Good.” His smile is crooked. “I hate that guy.”
I return the smile, and it doesn’t feel as forced. Most of our conversations now are centered around Holly or the Luxes. It isn’t often we can sit and talk shit about work or hockey or anything, so I hold onto this, even if it’s just for a moment. “There aren’t many people you do like.” I stand and head to the door.
“I like you!” he calls out.
“Don’t be a kiss-ass.” I pause. “Why was Keto here, anyway?”
Wilder rubs his palms together. “There were problems at the border, our usual guy called off sick so the shipment was stuck.” I exhale. This is fucking typical. “I fixed it.”
I wish I could hide my surprise. “You did?”
