Page 20 of Property of Whiskey

“You know grease ain’t a food group.”

“It is in Kentucky.”

“You’re gonna die on that stool.”

“Better than dying sober.” He shovels another forkful of gravy into his mouth like cholesterol is a club challenge.

I take another drink.

Holler jerks his chin toward the empty space the bunny left beside me. “Asha your type?”

“Asha? No.”

“Big titties.”

“Got eyes.”

“Long legs.”

“Still got eyes.”

“Breathing.”

I look at him.

He grins around a mouthful of biscuit.

Holler ain’t subtle, but he’s useful. Good in a fight, better with a rifle, loyal enough to die for the club and dumb enough to volunteer before anybody asks. He’s also my daughter’s uncle, which means I tolerate more shit from him than I would most men. His grin fades when he catches my expression.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Speaking of blondes…”

I set my glass down. “You hear from your sister?”

The fork stops halfway to his mouth.

“Of course.”

“What?”

“The reason you’re sitting here drinking bourbon and pretending not to think.”

“I don’t pretend.”

“You do it all the damn time. The reason you don’t know that bunny’s name.”

“Holler.”

He lowers the fork to his plate. “Yeah. She called.”

“When?”

“Last night.”