Page 241 of Property of Whiskey

Smug little shit.

I change course. “You think walking into a public building full of people after somebody followed you onto my property is smart?”

“No.”

That catches me.

Twila gives her ponytail one last pull. “I think it’s stupid.”

“It is.”

“I think there are too many exits, too many people, and not enough control over who comes through the doors.”

“Then what exactly are you fighting me on?”

“Because I’m going.”

I fold my arms, then deliberately uncross them because apparently I’m practicing personal growth before coffee now.

“Explain it to me.”

That surprises her more than yelling would. Her gaze flicks toward the duffel, then comes back to me.

“If I don’t go because somebody scared me off, then they took it from me.”

My teeth come together. “Twila.”

“No. You asked.”

“I did.”

“So listen.”

I do.

“Paradise already belongs to Daddy,” she says. “The badge belongs to the county. Half the people who look at me still see Amos Dix’s daughter before they see me. Cal spent years telling me wrestling was stupid. Daddy spent years waiting for me to grow out of it. Everybody’s always got an opinion about what I should be doing instead.”

She jerks her chin toward the bag by the door. “That’s mine.”

I realize she packed her outfit and gear. Something settles hard beneath my ribs. Heck’s Kitchen. Twister Dix. The crowd, the ring, all those nights I watched her walk beneath the lights like somebody plugged her directly into the building.

I thought it was hot.

Thought she liked the attention. Never stopped to wonder why she looked freer there than anywhere else I’d ever seen her.

“Fine.”

Her eyes narrow immediately. “Fine?”

“Yeah.”

“That easy?”

“Nope.”

I grab my cut from the chair and shrug into it. “I’m coming.”

“No.”