Page 323 of Property of Whiskey

“It’s a split lip.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“So’s your friend.”

“Ain’t my friend.”

Sirens start in the distance. County units. Daddy. Probably half of Paradise, because hitting the emergency button on a deputy has a way of generating enthusiasm.

Whiskey reaches toward my face and stops with his fingers barely an inch from my skin. So gentle it hurts worse than the punch did.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Little.”

His hand drops.

“You told me to wait.”

“I did.”

“I waited.”

“You did.”

“Hated every fucking second.”

“I know.”

“You hit the button.”

“I did.”

“And I came.”

I look at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes hold mine.

“Always.”

Everything inside me trips over itself.

“Always?”

Whiskey hears what he said.

I can tell.

For once, he doesn’t joke his way out of it.

“Yeah.”

That sounds dangerously permanent.