Page 271 of Property of Whiskey

I lower the phone.

Whiskey stands. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need me there.”

“I know.”

“Then why am I going?”

I look at him. “Because I want you there.”

That shuts him up. Always satisfying.

He picks up his cut. “Okay.”

“That easy?”

“You said what you wanted. Ain’t scared of Sheriff Dix.” He reaches toward my jacket draped over the chair.

I snatch it first. “I can carry my own clothes.”

He looks at my hand, then at me. “Was handing it to you.”

“Oh.”

“Trauma response?”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.”

Daddy’s porch light is on when we pull into his driveway, and the kitchen glows through the blinds. Whiskey parks his Harley beside Daddy’s cruiser, and the sight is so wrong I almost laugh.

King of Anarchy beside Paradise County Sheriff. If either machine spontaneously catches fire, I’m blaming God. I climb off and pull off my helmet while Whiskey studies the ranch.

“Grew up here?”

“Yep.”

I look at the faded brick steps, old metal railing, and Mama’s empty flower hooks still screwed beneath the roof. “It does not.”

“Got sheriff energy.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Ain’t.”

“You’re making jokes.”

“Always make jokes.”

“More when you’re nervous.”

He looks at me. “You know too much.”

“Occupational hazard.”