Holding Strong
Page 27
The third guy had a close-cropped Mohawk with the side of his head tattooed.
Taking his time, Denver looked over each of them, then raised a brow. “You ran from me.”
One man spit tobacco that came entirely too damn close to Denver’s foot. He waited without moving.
“Wasn’t running.”
“Looked like it to me.” They had their backs to a long, narrow alleyway that opened to a cross street behind the hotel. If he had to chase them, he’d catch at least one, probably two, no problem. “Why were you staring at me?”
“Check your ego, man. I wasn’t.”
Smiling, Denver took another step forward, ready to provoke if that’d get him some straight answers. “That’s a lie.”
The big guy—who, as Armie had said, was taller than Denver’s six-two—bunched up.
The one who had spit now laughed. “Chill, okay? We were jus’ tryin’ to figure out if you’re with Cherry Peyton. We heard she’s hangin’ with a fighter, and last night a different fighter caused a scene—”
“Which one of you got it in the balls?”
None of them were amused. Denver knew one of them had pulled a knife. He almost wished the chickenshits would try that now.
Pulling off a trucker’s cap, running a hand through his hair and then sticking the hat on his head again, the spitter glanced at the quietest of the three.
Taking that as his cue, the Mohawk wearer stepped forward. “That was Gene.” He gestured at the spitter.
“Still got a knife on you?” he asked Gene.
It was Mohawk who answered. “Yeah, he does.” The hand he offered showed tats on his knuckles, a few scars. “I’m Carver Nelson.”
Denver ignored his extended hand.
“Gene always carries his knife. It doesn’t mean anything.” Pulling his hand back, Carver said, “These are my brothers. Mitty and Gene.”
Mitty, the biggest, continued to glare. Gene, the knife carrier, spit yet again.
“That’s a nasty-ass habit you have.”
Gene bunched up.
“So,” Carver said. “Are you with Cherry?”
“And if I am?”
“We’re trying to find her, that’s all.”
No way could Denver reconcile the idea of Cherry with any of these men, but especially not the guy now talking to him. In the fight world, he saw every style there was; tattoos and crazy haircuts didn’t faze him.
But he knew a thug when he saw one. Carver was that—and more.
“Why?”
Mitty said, “She’s our little sis.”
No fucking way. Knowing his disdain and disbelief showed, Denver again looked them over.
Cherry was bubbly, all smiles, sweet and stacked, soft and sexy.
These men looked like low-life goons. “Seems to me you’d have her number and know a better way to contact her than skulking around hotels.”
The big guy fisted his hands. “Wasn’t skulking.”
“We got estranged a while back,” Carver said, speaking over his brother. “Had a family disagreement and lost touch. That’s all.”
“But now we wanna reunite,” Gene added with a tobacco-stained leer.
Hoping to get the truth, Denver fought to moderate his tone. “How did you know she’d be here, at the fights?”
Carver shrugged. “Knew she was a fight fan, knew she lived in these parts.” He folded his arms over his chest, putting muscular arms on display. “Just figured.”
He didn’t want to, but to be fair, Denver made an offer. “Give me a number where she can reach you, and I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“No good,” Gene told him. “She won’t call.”
More so than the others, Denver wanted to knock Gene on his ass, make him choke on his chew.
It seemed Carver attempted diplomacy, and Mitty was too stupid to do more than mutter incomplete sentences. He figured Carver for the leader, Mitty for the muscle when necessary.
But Gene had no problem inciting his rage. Denver would love to unleash it on him and a blade wouldn’t make any difference at all.
Instead, knowing it’d bug the man, he directed his answer to Carver. “Then I guess you’re out of luck, aren’t you?”
After giving both of his brothers a quelling scowl, Carver stepped in front of them. “There’s been a death in the family.”
“Who?”
“Our pops.”
If they were related, would Cherry be devastated? It wasn’t something he could keep from her. “Sorry to hear it. I’ll let her know.” Anxious to get back to her, he said, “So you want to give me a number or not?”
Taking his time, Denver looked over each of them, then raised a brow. “You ran from me.”
One man spit tobacco that came entirely too damn close to Denver’s foot. He waited without moving.
“Wasn’t running.”
“Looked like it to me.” They had their backs to a long, narrow alleyway that opened to a cross street behind the hotel. If he had to chase them, he’d catch at least one, probably two, no problem. “Why were you staring at me?”
“Check your ego, man. I wasn’t.”
Smiling, Denver took another step forward, ready to provoke if that’d get him some straight answers. “That’s a lie.”
The big guy—who, as Armie had said, was taller than Denver’s six-two—bunched up.
The one who had spit now laughed. “Chill, okay? We were jus’ tryin’ to figure out if you’re with Cherry Peyton. We heard she’s hangin’ with a fighter, and last night a different fighter caused a scene—”
“Which one of you got it in the balls?”
None of them were amused. Denver knew one of them had pulled a knife. He almost wished the chickenshits would try that now.
Pulling off a trucker’s cap, running a hand through his hair and then sticking the hat on his head again, the spitter glanced at the quietest of the three.
Taking that as his cue, the Mohawk wearer stepped forward. “That was Gene.” He gestured at the spitter.
“Still got a knife on you?” he asked Gene.
It was Mohawk who answered. “Yeah, he does.” The hand he offered showed tats on his knuckles, a few scars. “I’m Carver Nelson.”
Denver ignored his extended hand.
“Gene always carries his knife. It doesn’t mean anything.” Pulling his hand back, Carver said, “These are my brothers. Mitty and Gene.”
Mitty, the biggest, continued to glare. Gene, the knife carrier, spit yet again.
“That’s a nasty-ass habit you have.”
Gene bunched up.
“So,” Carver said. “Are you with Cherry?”
“And if I am?”
“We’re trying to find her, that’s all.”
No way could Denver reconcile the idea of Cherry with any of these men, but especially not the guy now talking to him. In the fight world, he saw every style there was; tattoos and crazy haircuts didn’t faze him.
But he knew a thug when he saw one. Carver was that—and more.
“Why?”
Mitty said, “She’s our little sis.”
No fucking way. Knowing his disdain and disbelief showed, Denver again looked them over.
Cherry was bubbly, all smiles, sweet and stacked, soft and sexy.
These men looked like low-life goons. “Seems to me you’d have her number and know a better way to contact her than skulking around hotels.”
The big guy fisted his hands. “Wasn’t skulking.”
“We got estranged a while back,” Carver said, speaking over his brother. “Had a family disagreement and lost touch. That’s all.”
“But now we wanna reunite,” Gene added with a tobacco-stained leer.
Hoping to get the truth, Denver fought to moderate his tone. “How did you know she’d be here, at the fights?”
Carver shrugged. “Knew she was a fight fan, knew she lived in these parts.” He folded his arms over his chest, putting muscular arms on display. “Just figured.”
He didn’t want to, but to be fair, Denver made an offer. “Give me a number where she can reach you, and I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“No good,” Gene told him. “She won’t call.”
More so than the others, Denver wanted to knock Gene on his ass, make him choke on his chew.
It seemed Carver attempted diplomacy, and Mitty was too stupid to do more than mutter incomplete sentences. He figured Carver for the leader, Mitty for the muscle when necessary.
But Gene had no problem inciting his rage. Denver would love to unleash it on him and a blade wouldn’t make any difference at all.
Instead, knowing it’d bug the man, he directed his answer to Carver. “Then I guess you’re out of luck, aren’t you?”
After giving both of his brothers a quelling scowl, Carver stepped in front of them. “There’s been a death in the family.”
“Who?”
“Our pops.”
If they were related, would Cherry be devastated? It wasn’t something he could keep from her. “Sorry to hear it. I’ll let her know.” Anxious to get back to her, he said, “So you want to give me a number or not?”
