Page 198 of Property of Whiskey

“You stole my keys.”

“Trauma response.”

I turn far enough to look at her over my shoulder. “Blondie, you ain’t my hostage no more.”

She climbs slowly off the bike. “No?”

“No.”

“What am I?”

Fuck. There’s a question I don’t have an easy answer for.

I take my helmet off and set it on the seat while Twila waits, which somehow makes it worse. The smart move would be something crude. Dodge it, make her laugh, tell her she’s a pain in my ass with a badge.

Instead, I look at her too damn long.

“I ain’t figured that part out yet.” The smartass expression slips for half a second, leaving something softer underneath.

Then she ruins it.

“Well, figure it out faster.”

“Thought we were fixing to have a moment.”

“I don’t do moments.” She shoves my shoulder as I walk past.

I grin and head toward the porch.

She follows.

That’s what gets me. Not the arguing or the sex or even the fact she had every chance to go home tonight and climbed onto my motorcycle instead. It’s the way she follows me toward my front door like she’s done it before, like maybe she’ll do it again.

I don’t like how much I like that. I have rules. One says I don’t bring women I plan to fuck around Wren. Already broke that one.

The porch light is on, and Mama’s car sits beside the house. I called her after the Mercy text and told her to bring Wren back. If something tied to Pearly Gates knows enough to put that word in my kid’s mouth, I want her under my roof where I can see her.

I unlock the door quietly.

Twila steps in behind me.

“Shoes.”

She stops. “What?”

I point down. “Mud.”

She looks at her boots, then at me. “You worried about floors?”

“Got a kid.”

“You’re domesticated.”

“Tell anybody, I’ll deny it.”

“Kings’ treasurer secretly owns a mop.” She toes off her boots.

I watch.