Page 107 of Property of Whiskey

“I’ll catch you.”

I climb three steps before she calls my name.

“Whiskey.”

I turn.

She’s standing beside the couch rubbing her wrists.

“Try kissing me again and I might deck you.”

My cock twitches.

I point at her. “Keep running that mouth, Blondie. See how long my good intentions last.”

“Coward.”

“Smart enough to retreat.”

“Thought Kings didn’t retreat.”

“We regroup.”

“Sounds cowardly.”

“Sounds like I ain’t fucking Sheriff Dix’s daughter in my mama’s basement after kidnapping her.”

She laughs.

I leave fighting the urge to go back.

Upstairs, I brace both hands against Mama’s kitchen counter until the laminate digs into my palms. Breathing don’t help. Neither does counting.

Twila Dix tried to seduce me for my keys. I knew exactly what she was doing, played along anyway, and then let her climb into my lap because apparently I qualify for some kind of mental evaluation.

I reach into my pocket. Nothing. My fingers sweep the inside once before I check again.

No keys.

“Motherfucker.”

I pat the other pocket.

Wallet and phone.

Still no keys.

A laugh nearly gets out.

I should go downstairs, take them back, and cuff her again. An hour ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

Instead, I lean against the counter and listen.

No basement door. No footsteps crossing Mama’s floor. No front door opening.

A minute passes, then another.

Five.