Page 19 of Property of Whiskey

Her smile falters.

“What happened, then?”

“Club business.”

“That mean you ain’t gonna tell me?”

“That means you should quit asking.”

She watches me another second, still trying to decide whether I’m flirting.

I ain’t.

That don’t stop most women in Hell. The patch does half the work, and reputation handles the rest. Women see a King and start imagining leather, handcuffs, beard burn on their thighs, and somebody dangerous enough to make their bad choices feel romantic. Reality, though, usually involves dirty dishes, parole officers, somebody’s tits stuck to a leather couch in July, and a prospect cussing because he lost his keys.

The bunny reaches across the bar and runs one fingernail around the rim of my glass.

“You always this friendly?”

“Only before coffee.”

“You ain’t drinking coffee.”

“Exactly.”

A laugh comes from the other end of the bar.

Holler sits on a stool with his elbows spread wide and a plate piled with eggs, gravy, and enough bacon to stop his heart before lunch. He looks like he slept in his cut, mostly because he did. His beard is wild, his eyes are red, and a fresh bruise darkens one side of his jaw.

He points his fork at the bunny. “Darlin’, if Whiskey wanted company, he’d ask for a calculator.”

She frowns.

I look at Holler. “Numbers put out more reliably.”

“Numbers are the only things you trust.”

“Exactly. Numbers don’t ask stupid questions.”

My laptop sits open beside the bourbon with last night’s Fire Pit receipts, three dues envelopes, and a stack of club bills I was supposed to finish before Holler started running his mouth.

The bunny straightens. “I was just being friendly.”

Holler gives her a sympathetic look. “He don’t understand friendly.”

“I understand it.”

“Then show us.”

“Fuck off.”

Holler grins. “See.”

The bunny rolls her eyes and walks away, taking the bourbon bottle with her.

I glance at Holler’s plate. “You eating all that?”

“Yep.”