Page 75 of Property of Whiskey

Then quieter, “Yeah. Love you too, Mama.”

My fingers stop working against the cuffs.

That lands strangely.

I don’t know why.

Bikers can love their mothers. Criminals definitely have mothers. Serial killers probably call theirs on holidays.

Still.

The man who tackled me into the dirt, stole my cuffs, kidnapped me, dragged me into a basement, chained me to a post, and gagged me just told his mama he loves her in a voice so normal it feels obscene.

It doesn’t fit.

I fucking hate things that don’t fit.

The door opens upstairs.

Whiskey’s boots descend the basement steps.

He stops near the bottom and looks at me.

I stare back.

His gaze travels from the chain stretched to its limit, to the stairs I’ve clearly been trying to reach, then back to my face.

“You heard all that.”

I nod.

“Figures.”

He crouches in front of me. “My mama’s gotta swing by here for her medication and some clothes. That’s why you’re gagged. She knows I got Sheriff Dix’s daughter tied up in her basement, I’ll never hear the fucking end of it.”

I make a muffled noise.

“Actually, I’ll probably get shot.”

Another noise.

“Yeah, by her.”

He stands. “I’m gonna get her settled with Wren. Soon as she’s gone, I’ll come back. Thirty minutes, give or take.”

I tug against the restraints.

“Nope.”

“Mmmph.”

“Nope.”

“MMMPH!”

“I know.”

He heads upstairs again.