Page 227 of Property of Whiskey

“You’ve heard it too? Sound scared.”

I grab a handful of mud and smear it across his shirt.

His mouth drops open. “You did not.”

“Apparently I did.”

He looks down at the streak, then slowly back at me. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

“Threat?”

“Promise.”

He grabs my wrist. I twist, use the direction of his pull against him, and roll until I’m straddling his hips. Whiskey looks up at me with mud tangled through his beard and leaves caught in his hair, and I start laughing.

“What?”

“You look like a swamp creature.”

“You’re sitting on me, so watch your mouth.”

“You always threaten law enforcement?”

“Only when they mount me.”

I plant both hands on his chest.

“Deputy.” His hands settle on my hips, warm even through wet denim.

“Abuse of authority,” he says.

“Skill issue.”

Whiskey narrows his eyes before he moves fast enough to remind me he didn’t survive this long by being slow. He catches one arm, turns his hips, and suddenly I’m beneath him.

“Cheater.”

“Winner.”

I hook my leg behind his knee and bridge hard.

He curses.

I roll us again.

Back on top.

“Wrestler.”

“Cocky.”

“Very.”

He reaches for my hip, but I trap his wrist. He slips free and catches mine, so I shift before he can roll me again and wedge my knee between us.

“Careful.”

“What?”