Page 2 of Property of Whiskey

Then I look toward the back of the building and find my father standing beside the entrance with his arms crossed.

Sheriff Amos Dix doesn’t look proud.

He looks like he’s mentally drafting arrest warrants for all eighty people in the room, beginning with the man wearing a shirt that says I GOT TWISTED BY DIX and ending with the bartender currently accepting bets on whether Daddy’s left eye is going to start twitching.

It already is.

His uniform is still neat despite the late hour, tan shirt buttoned high, badge polished, gun belt riding low across his hips. Gray shows heavier through his dark hair than it did last year, though he’d blame me for every strand if asked.

He catches me looking and points toward the locker room. That’s Sheriff Dix for get dressed.

I smile and blow him a kiss. That’s Deputy Dix for absolutely not.

His jaw sets. The crowd laughs because everybody in three towns knows my father has been trying to stop me from wrestling since I first stepped into the ring two years ago. Not because it’s dangerous. He watched me tackle a meth head through a screen door during my first month on patrol and told me I had good form.

He hates the shorts.

He also hates that bikers watch me wear them. Which means he especially hates the man leaning against the bar twenty feet away from him.

Whiskey doesn’t cheer, clap, whistle, or shout anything filthy like the rest of the Kings scattered through the crowd. He just watches. He lifts his glass to his mouth without taking his eyes off me, slow enough to make the gesture feel deliberate.

That’s worse.

One boot is crossed casually over the other, and his thick forearms rest against the edge of the bar behind him. His black leather cut hangs open over a faded charcoal shirt stretched across his chest. The patch over his heart reads WHISKEY, and beneath it sits KING OF ANARCHY MC. The TREASURER rocker on the other side is smaller, but it explains why he always turns up whenever club property or money is involved.

His dark hair is pushed back from his face, though one piece has fallen forward near his temple. His beard is shorter than most of the Kings wear theirs, trimmed close enough to show the hard line of his mouth. Dark ink covers both arms, disappearing beneath his sleeves and curling over the backs of his hands.

One piece catches my eye every damn time anyway. A woman’s face worked into the black-and-gray ink along the inside of his left forearm. Dark hair. High cheekbones. Her face turned partly away like whoever tattooed her caught her in the middle of looking back.

I’ve never asked who she is.

Never cared enough to ask, I tell myself.

I’ve seen most of those tattoos before. Not because I’ve seen him naked.

I haven’t.

Not for lack of several regrettable dreams.

Whiskey handles the money for the Kings of Anarchy motorcycle club, which means he turns up anywhere property, taxes, or club business might cost somebody cash. County meetings when taxes are disputed. Auctions when land changes hands. Fundraisers when the Kings want everybody to remember they occasionally perform acts of public service between felonies.

He’s smart.

Too smart for a man who spends his free time wearing a patch and pretending laws are casual suggestions.

At the moment, he’s also looking directly at my sweaty thighs.

I hop down from the turnbuckle and bend to pick up the boxers, making damn sure he gets a better view.

His gaze doesn’t move. A slow smile pulls at one side of his mouth.

Damn him.

I toss the underwear back into the crowd, duck between the ropes, and drop to the floor. People reach for me as I pass, slapping my shoulders and offering drinks I can’t accept because I’m still technically on call.

Paradise County doesn’t have enough deputies for me to turn off my radio just because I’m wearing white-fringed boots and shorts my father refers to as probable cause.

I reach the bar and spot the bottle of water waiting for me.