Page 355 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey follows my stare. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He peers harder into the woods. “Prickle?”

I laugh. “Definitely.”

“Thought so.”

“Ugliest deer in Kentucky.”

“Still innocent until proven paranormal.”

I lean against him. Weeks ago, a quick internet search answered our question about the deformed deer. Apparently deer can get cutaneous fibromas, wart-like skin tumors caused by a papillomavirus. To a seven-year-old, I guess some ugly growths could look like spikes.

His arm settles around me.

His fingers find the edge of my cut. “You really wearing it?”

“Apparently.”

“That your favorite word now?”

“Apparently.”

He turns me toward him and studies the front before slipping his fingers beneath the collar until they find the hidden stitching.

WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA.

“I meant it,” I say. “Turns out I still make wishes.”

“What?”

“Equal ownership.”

“Ain’t how property works.”

“Then good thing I don’t give a shit.”

He laughs and kisses me slowly.

No urgency. No threat waiting in another room. Then his hand slides down my back. Finds the bottom edge of the cut. Stops there.

“You know what I keep thinking about?”

“That usually scares me.”

His fingers curl lightly into the leather.

“You wearing this.”

I look down. “I am wearing it.”

“Wasn’t finished.”

“Dangerous sentence.”

His mouth brushes mine.