Page 58 of Property of Whiskey

I point at him. “Not another word.”

Twila tries to move around me.

I catch her upper arm.

She jerks away. “Hands off.”

“Need you in the van.”

“I ain’t getting in a murder van.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Twila.”

“Whiskey.”

“Don’t make me carry you.”

She steps close enough that our boots nearly touch.

“Try.”

There she is.

Tall, furious, handcuffed, and still without one ounce of retreat in her. A sane man would admire that from a distance. I ain’t sane.

I lean closer. “You wrestle for sport.”

“And?”

“I fight men who shoot back.”

“So?”

“So quit mistaking my patience for inability.”

Her chin lifts. “My daddy says men only say shit like that when their dick’s small.”

She watches my face instead of my body, waiting to see whether the hit lands.

Behind me, Bullet coughs.

I look at her.

She smiles.

Mean.

Beautiful.

Completely fucking impossible.

“Your daddy talk about dicks with you often?”

“Only yours.”