Page 248 of Property of Whiskey

It does.

Then Betty catches her with a forearm.

Twila’s head snaps sideways.

I move before I think.

A hand catches the back of my cut. “Easy.” Oaks, the bastard, stands beside me.

I look at his hand.

He lets go. “She’s working.”

“I got eyes.”

“Then use ‘em.”

Twila turns toward me from inside the ring.

Blood shines at the corner of her mouth. She sees exactly what I’m fixing to do. Instead of looking scared or asking me to help, she smiles, licks the blood away, and winks.

Jesus Christ.

I stop.

That’s what she wanted.

Not rescue.

Trust.

Even when I fucking hate it.

Betty comes again. Twila ducks, hooks her, and takes her down hard enough to bring half the crowd out of their seats.

Then Twila climbs the corner. She stands above everybody, sweaty and bloody and grinning beneath the lights like she was born there. Nothing held back. She launches, hits, covers, and gets the three-count.

The place loses its fucking mind.

I’m fucked because I love watching it now even more than before.

Twila rolls out of the ring and comes straight toward me, flushed and breathing hard, blood still bright on her lip.

She stops inches away. “What?”

I look at her. “Got no idea what watching you do that does to me.”

Her eyes drop to my jeans before coming back up. “Got a pretty good idea.”

Fuck.

“Backstage.”

She grins. “Bossy.”

“Now.”

“Jealous?”