Page 144 of Property of Whiskey

Beside.

His hand settles at the small of my back anyway.

I look down at it, then up at him. “Move it.”

His palm lifts immediately.

That surprises me enough that I almost forget to be annoyed.

“I’m not under arrest.”

“Never said you were.”

“You were touching a deputy in a room full of witnesses.”

Whiskey glances around at the men pretending not to listen. “Most of ‘em got records.”

A prospect near the door suddenly finds the floor real interesting, proving Whiskey’s point better than he could.

“That supposed to help?”

“Means their testimony’s questionable.”

I stare at him until one corner of his mouth threatens to move.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You’re sick.”

“Been told.”

The clubhouse looks different tonight.

Same barred cells and old booking desk turned into a bar. Same rusted county signs sharing wall space with club photographs and leather cuts. Same pool tables and enough alcohol behind the counter to pickle half of Kentucky.

But the joking edge is gone.

Rye has two prospects posted at the front entrance instead of drinking near it and another where the hall opens toward the back rooms. The sergeant-at-arms stands near the old booking desk where he can see every post without having to move. Every man I can see is armed, and not casually either. Cuts hang differently when there’s a gun beneath them. Men stand differently when they expect trouble to come through a door.

Ready.

Whiskey notices me cataloging the room.

“This ain’t the night to wander.”

I look at him. “Wasn’t planning to ask permission.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“Sounded close.”

“Twila.”

“Whiskey.”

His fingers flex once at his side, like some part of him still wants to put a hand on me and another part remembers I told him not to.