Page 140 of Property of Whiskey

“You’re a criminal.”

“Definitely.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Heard.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not jealous.”

“Bullshit.”

She points at me. “I will leave.”

“Then leave.”

That stops her. The front door is behind me. No cuffs. No basement chain. No locked room.

Nothing holding her here.

I reach past her, turn the dead bolt I locked after Beth left, and pull the door wide before stepping completely away from it.

“Go.”

Twila looks at the open doorway.

Then at me.

“You think I won’t?”

“Know you can.”

“Don’t test me.”

“Ain’t a test.”

The words land between us.

Twila looks toward the door again. Doesn’t move.

I don’t close it. Don’t touch her. Don’t block the way. “You ain’t my hostage anymore,” I say.

Her eyes lift slowly to mine. “You ain’t my kidnapper?”

Everything inside me goes quiet. That line lands someplace I ain’t ready to inspect.

I lift one hand, slow enough for her to stop me, and brush a strand of blonde hair away from her face. She lets me.

“That supposed to make this better?” she asks.

“No.”

“What does it make it?”

I don’t know. Something that belongs to both of us instead of something I took. All answers likely to get me fucked six ways from Sunday.