Page 175 of Property of Whiskey

Ten minutes later, I’m behind him again, helmet on, arms around his waist, thighs locked along his hips while the night air pushes against us.

Apparently kidnapping turns into carpooling if you give it enough time.

My house sits just outside Paradise proper, where Old Mill Road narrows and farmland starts pushing houses farther apart. The place is a white farmhouse with a green metal roof, two acres, and a detached two-bay garage set back toward the tree line. The porch swing Daddy built after I bought the place hangs slightly crooked because one chain needs adjusting and I’ve been ignoring it for three months.

I love the house.

That might be why I don’t like Whiskey seeing it.

He pulls into the drive and kills the engine. Neither of us moves immediately.

Then his attention shifts toward the garage.

“You got two bays.”

“So?”

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

“You answered too fast.”

“Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m definitely being nosy.”

I get off the Harley and hand him the helmet. “Stay out of my shit.”

“Thought we were getting your shit.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He follows me onto the porch, and I unlock the dead bolt.

The house smells stale when I open the door. Not bad, just closed up. I left the thermostat high, so warmth has settled into the old floors and furniture. The air carries a faint mix of dust, wood polish, and lavender cleaner, the ordinary smell of a house that’s been waiting since I left.

I stop just inside.

Whiskey nearly walks into my back. “What?”

“Checking.”

“For?”

I listen while my eyes move through the kitchen and living room. No footsteps. No open windows. No appliance humming that shouldn’t be. Nothing disturbed on the table, no fresh dirt near the back door, no sign somebody searched the place.

“For somebody who shouldn’t be here.”

The teasing leaves Whiskey’s face. He waits while I check the kitchen, living room, and the hallway before coming farther inside.

I turn on the kitchen light.

Whiskey looks around.

“What?”