Holding Strong

From across the lobby two men tracked his every move. Being unshaven, rough and in sloppy clothes didn’t conceal their bulky shoulders and probable strength.

Or their aura of danger.

Suspicion sharpened, while priorities left Denver divided.

He needed to get back to Cherry. But what if these two were part of the trio Armie had mentioned? They could be a threat to her.

Decision made, Denver turned and, never once breaking eye contact with the biggest guy, headed toward them.

Clearly that surprised them because the big guy lost the challenge in his gaze, straightening with new awareness. The smaller man—which didn’t make him small by any stretch—said something to the other and... Damn it.

Denver watched them go through the rotating doors and disappear. His jaw ticked. Should he go after them? In his experience, men only ran if they had a reason.

So hell yes, he needed to go after them.

He saw a couple of female fight fans eyeing him and, ready to take advantage, gave them a smile. “Could I ask a favor?”

A slim brunette returned his smile. “Sure.”

“Watch my food for a minute?”

“Oh...um...”

In a rush, he set everything on the top of her rolling suitcase. “Swear I’ll only be a couple of minutes.” He hoped.

A more petite blonde next to her bobbed her head. “Okay. Sure.”

“Thanks.” Jogging, he went out the same doors, looked left, turned right—and saw the two men duck around the side of the building.

He stalked forward and rounded the corner cautiously. Three hulking men now stood together, all openly belligerent. Idiots. Did they think being together somehow gave them an advantage?

And why would they need an advantage anyway? What were they up to?

If they were in any way related to Cherry, it didn’t show. Though two of them wore hats, Denver could see they were dark-haired, muscular but with signs of dissipation, eyes reddened from drugs or alcohol, maybe both.

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.”