Page 219 of Property of Whiskey

His eyes pause.

“Not now,” I whisper.

“I didn’t do a damn thing.”

I open the bedroom door.

Wren stands in the dim hallway clutching her blanket beneath her chin. Her hair sticks straight up on one side, and her bare toes curl against the wood floor. She looks sleepy enough to tip over and completely serious.

“Prickle’s back.”

Whiskey stops halfway through fastening his jeans. “Nope.”

Wren frowns. “Nope what?”

“No more Prickle after midnight.”

“He don’t know what time it is.”

“He’s a deer. He oughta know bedtime.”

I press my lips together.

Wren looks at me. “He’s outside.”

“Where?”

“Trees.”

Whiskey looks at me, and I look at him.

“Could be a deer,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“With orthopedic problems.”

“Never mind.”

Wren wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “He wants you to come.”

Whiskey’s hand stops on his waistband. “Who?”

Wren points at me.

I look behind myself despite knowing damn well nobody is there. “Me?”

She nods. “He likes your hair.”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Whiskey says.

I turn toward him. “Language.”

His eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “In my defense, an imaginary deer is trying to lure you into the woods.”

Wren sighs. “He’s not trying to lure her.”

“What’s he doing?”