Five Weeks (Seven Series #3)(107)

“Denny! Now what animal am I?”
He peeked through his lashes and saw her swinging her arm in front of her face.
Denver pinched his chin and tapped his bare foot on the floor. “A duck.”
“I’m not a duck!” she complained. “You’re not even trying.” Maizy flapped her little arm up and down like an elephant moving its trunk.
“A moose.”
She dropped her arms and scowled. “I’m an elephant.”
Denver snorted and patted the top of her head. “Not until you eat your dinner. Now skedaddle!”
“Dinner’s ready!” Lexi shouted out.
Maizy walked slowly toward the dining room and glared over her shoulder at Denver.
He pointed upward, and his face brightened. “Aha! Now you’re a turtle!”
“Well, you’re a skunk,” she said, poking out her tongue and disappearing.
“Kids,” he murmured, raking his fingers through his hair.
“She looks up to you,” Jericho said.
Denver sighed. “You gonna sleep on the couch all day, dickhead?”
“No. We have a show later tonight.”
Denver stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bite-size piece of candy. He wadded up the wrapper and tossed it in a blue vase.
“I see,” he said with a mouthful of caramel. “Hot babe buffet. I’m not working tonight, so how about I come along?”
“I thought you didn’t like leftovers,” Jericho grumbled, finally sitting up. All he had on was a pair of black jeans and a leather belt. Jericho rubbed the tattoo on his left arm and watched Denver tuck his hands beneath his armpits, looking irritated, but not enough to blow his chance of scoring a date.
Not that Denver scored much.
“You don’t have to ask permission to come to my show.” Jericho rubbed his eyes and decided he was going to need eyeliner to camouflage his exhaustion.
“Look,” Denver began, pointing back and forth between them. “We both know panties may be flying in your direction, but that doesn’t mean the ladies won’t want to ride on the Denver carousel of love.”
“Seriously?” Jericho laughed and covered his face. “Look, I’ll hook you up if all you’re looking for is a one-night stand.”
“Maybe you could use one too, bro. Might do you some good to move on.” Denver quietly walked out of the room.
If the only way for Jericho to get out of this funk was to have sex with another woman, then he was in trouble. Celibacy was looking like a viable option. He couldn’t tear his thoughts away from Isabelle. The way she had spread her body out before him, how perfectly her breasts molded against his chest, and the floral fragrance that lingered on her sugary-sweet skin. Isabelle’s lips tasted of passion fruit, and just thinking about their tongues twining gave him an erection.
Everything about that girl wrecked him.
Wheeler joked that Isabelle could give him writing material for his next song. They didn’t get it. Christ, he couldn’t imagine what must have gone through her head when she’d walked in on him. Jericho felt blessed he wouldn’t have to go through his life with the expression on her face burned in his memory.
The last time he’d seen Isabelle in human form, she was lying in bed with the afterglow of their passion on her face. For a brief moment, he’d thought he might have a shot at something meaningful in his life.
He got off the couch and went upstairs, unclasping the silver chain that hung around his neck. He closed his bedroom door and knelt in front of his dresser, opening the bottom drawer. On top of the Pink Floyd shirt was the black box. He pulled out the ring and looped it on the chain, putting the necklace around his neck. It settled against his chest, right over his heart.
Where it would stay.
***
After dinner, Denver gave Jericho a ride to work in his yellow truck. It wasn’t one of the newer models, but an old classic that some of the boys called a jalopy. Denver kept it in good condition, even if it looked a little beat up.
“This isn’t the way,” Jericho said when Denver turned in the wrong direction.
Denver rolled down his window and let the warm wind ruffle his hair. “I promised Ivy I’d do her a solid and drop off something.”
“Where?”
Denver’s silence answered his question. Ivy had been to see Isabelle earlier that day but had said nothing to Jericho about the visit. He didn’t ask.
After grabbing a small plastic bag, Denver slammed the truck door and jogged up a flight of stairs at one of the most run-down motels Jericho had ever seen. It looked a hundred years old—painted yellow with bright blue doors. A couple of the letters had burned out on the sign, and most of the cars in the parking lot looked local based on their bumper stickers, which meant they were either using it for prostitution or a place to live.