Together they walked to the door.

"Lock up behind me."

"I will." Even before Carver resurfaced, she and Rissy kept the doors locked.

"Cherry?" He paused in the open doorway. "I can't imagine any male of any age not wanting you. Odds are every guy who played you for Carver did so with regrets. Know that, okay?" He pulled her in for one last, blistering taste of her mouth, then jogged down the walkway to his car.

After closing and locking the door, Cherry leaned back against it. As bad as things were right now, she realized she was smiling-because of Denver.

Now, if she could just figure out what Carver wanted, if she could deal with him and his perverse demands without drawing anyone else in as a victim, she could get back to the fantasy of finally having Denver Lewis's attention.

A SLASH OF sunlight warmed his face and caused him to flinch when he cracked his eyes open. He closed them again, went to stretch-and stilled with agonizing aches and pains.

What the hell?

A whisper drifted past his ear: "So he ain't dead?"

Pausing, Leese peeked his eyes open again. The sunlight blinded him, but he heard traffic and more whispers. Weird. Had he left a window open last night?

"Mister, do you need a hospital?"

That voice came entirely too close. He got one eye open and found a very dark face with wide, even darker eyes, close to his, blocking the morning sun. Startled, he sat up-and groaned. Jesus, it felt like a herd of buffalo had stampeded over him.

With another, more cautious peek, he saw that the dark face belonged to his neighbor's ten-year-old kid. Beyond her stood another girl wearing mismatched clothes, with red pigtails and freckles everywhere.

Disoriented, Leese looked around and realized he was on the steps to his apartment building. He had drool on his chin. A very bruised chin, judging by how it hurt to move his jaw.

"Can he talk?" the redhead asked.

"I'm okay, Mayla."

Even as she nodded to her friend, Mayla didn't move away. "Why'd you sleep outside?"

How could he tell a ten-year-old girl that he'd gotten stinking drunk and apparently... No, wait. That wasn't right. Memories tried to nudge in, but that sent his stomach roiling.

"He's gonna puke!" the redhead yelled with horrified excitement.

"No." At least, if she'd stop screeching he might not. "Shh..." Remembering something he'd heard Mayla's mother say, he told her, "Inside voice."

"But we're outside."

Yeah, there was that. Grabbing the iron railing at the side of the stairs, he dragged himself-slowly-up to his feet. "You know what time it is?"

She shrugged. "Play time."

He dug in his pocket for his phone, saw it was nearly nine, and swallowed back a curse. Another search of his pocket produced his keys, but no wallet. Son of a bitch.

He'd gotten played, big-time. How many people had seen him passed out? His neck burned thinking about it. "Does your mom know I was here?" Hard to imagine or she'd never have let the girls out to play.

"No. Want me to go tell her?"

He couldn't ask a kid to lie to her mother. Mayla's mom was the good sort, babysitting other kids, taking in laundry-including his own-and playing manager of the beat-up apartment building in order to stay at home with her daughter. She made ends meet, but Leese knew it wasn't always easy.

Ignoring the question since he didn't have an answer, he glanced around the neighborhood. In this neck of the woods, drunks sleeping on doorsteps weren't a totally uncommon thing.

That he'd fallen into that category shamed him.

The little redhead, who up 'til now had warily kept her distance, drew closer. She scrunched up her blue eyes and her nose, making her freckles more pronounced. "You're bleedin'."

He touched where she pointed and found dried blood near his ear. "I must've fallen." Glad for an excuse to escape their innocent curiosity-and doubly thrilled to still have his keys-he turned for the door. "I'll go get cleaned up right now." He half stumbled, realized his legs were shaky, and gripped the entry-door handle. Fuck him for living on the third floor.

At the last second, he turned back to the kids. "You stay right in front here, where your mama can see you."

All wide-eyed and watchful, Mayla nodded. "Mama says there could be bad people around."

"That's right." And last night he'd become one of them.

DENVER WALKED INTO Rowdy's bar, hoping to meet with the guys before he headed over to see Cherry. He figured if they put their collective brains together, they could come up with a way to draw out Carver and his brothers without upsetting Cherry in the bargain. She'd been as clear as she could be that she wanted to handle things on her own.

It was going to bother her enough that he wouldn't let her. If he cut her out completely, as he wanted to, she'd be majorly pissed. He didn't want that.

He wanted to get her under him again.

And he wanted to claim her in some way. Longer term than just here and now. The thought of any other man getting near her heated his blood with possessive rage. Again he popped his neck, but the tension had crawled in with a vengeance and sunk its claws deep, and short of a good fuck or a real fight, he didn't know how to shake it off.

He was making his way through the bar when he drew up short.

There, sitting at the bar and chatting up Vanity Baker, was none other than Leese Phelps. Was he here for Cherry? Working with Carver? The impulse to drag the bastard outside and get some answers the old-fashioned way got his feet moving forward.

Rowdy intercepted him. "Is there a reason you're looking bent on murder?"

As the owner of the bar and a certified hardass, Rowdy never missed a thing-especially not trouble.Because Cannon used to work with him, and many of the fighters considered the bar a favorite neighborhood hangout, they all knew him well.

And vice versa.

If he thought it necessary, Rowdy would go toe to toe with a heavyweight champion. Thing was, everyone respected him too much for that to ever be necessary.

With a nod of his head, Denver indicated Phelps. "What's he doing here?"

"Hitting on Vanity from what I can tell. That bothers you?"

"That he's here?" Looking beyond Rowdy, Denver stared daggers into Phelps's back. "Yes."

"Not because of Vanity?"

"What?" That sidetracked his attention. "No. Her life is her own."

"I ask," Rowdy said, still blocking his way, "because Stack has been bristling since he got here, too."

Denver searched the crowd and sure enough, Stack sat at a table with a couple of women, but his gaze continually went to Phelps. "He knows the douche." Maybe he had his own reason for wanting to take him apart.

He'd damn well have to get in line.

"Knows him how?"

Impatient, not that Rowdy gave a shit, Denver rolled a shoulder. "He was around at the after-party when Armie fought." Unsure of how much to tell him, Denver added, "He hit on Cherry a little too hard until Stack warned him off." By using Denver as a threat. But hey, whatever worked.

"Well, Vanity doesn't seem to mind his chitchat." Rowdy moved into Denver's line of vision to ensure he had his attention. "If there's going to be trouble, take it elsewhere."

Holding up his hands, Denver indicated compliance. "Got it."

"Thank you."

Denver didn't move. "You really think I'd-"

"Stir up trouble? No. But I've seen that look before, worn it a few times myself."

Denver snorted. Rowdy used to wear it more often than not. Since marrying, though, he'd mellowed. A little.

"You're itching for a fight or a fuck."

Damn, hadn't he just thought the same thing? "The first won't happen in here, you have my word."

Rowdy must've believed him because his frown eased and his mouth went into an amused smile. "And the second?"

"Since the right lady isn't around, that's not happening, either."

"Ah." The smile turned into a grin. "Hopefully later, then." Rowdy went about his business, collecting empties off tables, but Denver knew he'd see every little thing that went down.

Instead of heading to the bar, Denver headed for Stack.

When he reached the table, he hooked a chair with his foot, pulled it out and sat, then braced his forearms on the small round tabletop. With speculative smiles and suggestive body scans, the women welcomed him.

Stack barely acknowledged him. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Dark thoughts, given the expression on his face.

Watching his friend drink from a longneck, Denver said, "Got a favor to ask."

One of the women practically sat in Stack's lap, her hand on his chest, his free arm around her. Absently, as if he did it out of habit, Stack stroked her narrow hip, then down so that his hand encountered her thigh beneath the hem of a denim miniskirt. "Sure, what is it?"

Model-thin chicks never did it for Denver. Apparently Stack felt differently.

"Need you to lend me a hand with something." Or more like someone.

Still playing with the chick one-handed, Stack finished off his beer and set the empty aside. "Let's hear it."

Giving an apologetic glance to the ladies, Denver said, "Sorry, but it's best explained in private."

Nodding, Stack turned and planted a long wet one on the girl, gave her hip a pat and levered her away from him. "If you'll excuse me?"

She crossed her arms and struck a pissed-off pose.

The other chick sent a hopeful glance at Denver, but he held up his hands. "Sorry. I'm taken."

"Yeah?" Ignoring his angry lady, Stack grinned. "Cherry?"

Denver nodded.

It took some convincing, but Stack finally got the two pouting ladies to depart.

Never, not once, had Cherry been that tenacious. Whenever Denver had been less than inviting, which sadly had been most of the time, she'd accepted it and moved on.

Had to admit to himself, he respected that about her.

He was also damned grateful that she'd been persistent enough to try that one last time.

"So." Stack slouched back in the hard chair, the bottle held loosely against his abs. "What's up? And it better be important given you just chased off my entertainment for the night."

"Both of them?"

He shook his head. "That'd be one more piece of trouble than I wanted. I leave that headache to Armie." He glanced at his watch. "Miles is supposed to join me in an hour. The second was hanging around for him."

"Gotcha. Well, do this for me and then you can call them back."

"All right." He sipped at his beer. "Let's hear what it is."

"I need you to hit on Vanity."

CHAPTER TEN.

UNSURE IF HE'D heard that right or, if he had, whether Denver's suggestion was serious, Stack took his gaze from his friend to the killer lady at the bar.

Damn, but her ass looked sweet on that bar stool. Megasweet.

Maybe too sweet.

He'd never seen a woman so drop-dead gorgeous from head to toe, and God knew he'd known plenty of sexy women. To make it even more confusing, Vanity Baker was nice. And funny.

And while she had to know she was hot she didn't seem to care that much about it.