Page 246 of Property of Whiskey

“Any nausea?”

“Only around controlling men.”

I smile.

Cal doesn’t. He shines a penlight into her eyes and checks her pupils. When his fingers touch her face, my hand clamps around my own knee instead of around his throat.

Sheila notices.

“You always look like that?”

I don’t take my eyes off Cal. “Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding where to bury somebody.”

“Only paramedics.”

She laughs. Cal hears.

He checks Twila’s pupils again. “You’re good.”

“Knew that.”

“Twila,” he says her name like a plea.

“What?”

“Be careful.”

Her expression closes just enough that I know exactly where this is headed.

“I know how to wrestle.”

“I know.”

“You always say that right before telling me not to.”

His mouth hardens. “I’m not trying to start something.”

“Then don’t.”

Cal stands and looks at me.

I smile again.

He leaves.

Twila points at me. “You were thinking homicide.”

“Not a crime to think.”

“Planning can be.”

Sheila snorts.

Twila shakes her head. “Men.”

The music outside changes, bass shaking the walls as the crowd gets louder. Twila hears it too. Her whole energy changes again. She moves toward the curtain, rolls her shoulders once, then bounces lightly on the balls of her feet while the announcer’s voice booms through the building.