Page 61 of Property of Whiskey

He saw it too.

Neither of us says a word.

Twila turns back from the window and looks at Kaylee beneath the blanket.

Then at me.

“You just kidnapped a deputy.”

“Yeah.”

“You know how fucking stupid that is?”

I settle against the wall beside her, keeping myself between Twila and the rear doors.

“Darlin’, I met you.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Apparently stupid’s contagious.”

Chapter Seven

Twila

Being kidnapped is mostly uncomfortable.

Nobody tells you that.

Movies make it look dramatic. Screaming tires. Blindfolds. Men in black masks. Maybe a warehouse if the budget’s decent.

My kidnapping smells like motor oil, cheap air freshener, blood, and sweaty biker.

And I’m pretty sure Bullet’s van has transported at least one dead deer.

Somewhere between old Pearly Gates and the county road, Whiskey decided cuffing my hands behind my back while I was buckled into a moving van was a good way to dislocate my shoulders. He moved the cuffs to the front without taking them off, cinched the seat belt over me, and acted like that qualified as kindness.

So now I’m sitting on a bench seat with my wrists cuffed in my lap, staring at him while Kaylee Quill lies curled beneath a blanket across from us, pale as death and breathing too shallow for my liking.

Bullet drives.

Whiskey watches everything.

Me. Kaylee. The road through the windshield. The side mirror. His phone every time it lights up. Whenever the van takes a curve, he braces one hand against the bench near Kaylee before she can slide, doing it without taking his attention off whatever threat he’s tracking next.

He looks like a man taking care of business.

Which is exactly the fucking problem.

“Where’s he taking her?”

Whiskey doesn’t look at me. “You asked already.”

“And I didn’t like your answer.”

“Not my problem.”

“Where is Bullet taking Kaylee?”