Page 31 of Property of Whiskey

“Stay away from old Pearly Gates.”

My answer comes too fast.

Her expression changes immediately.

“Why?” she asks. “What happened now?”

She already knows enough to hear the difference. I should give her something useful. Instead, the same stupid instinct that made me think I could warn this woman off in the first place takes over. “Because I said so.”

She laughs right in my face.

“That line work better for you than it does for my daddy?”

“Probably not.”

“Then save your breath.”

I lower my voice. “This ain’t a road check, a Denny’s fight, or two drunk assholes fighting over a fence line. You already know Pearly Gates has dirty money, property, and rot attached to it. What you don’t know is how many people get nervous when somebody starts pulling at those threads.”

The humor fades from her expression. Then she leans into the warning instead of away from it. “Sounds like you know who the wrong people are.”

“I know enough.”

“So tell me.”

“No.”

“Then get out of my damn way.” She starts past me.

I catch her arm.

Her gaze drops immediately to my hand. Then comes back to my face. “You’ve got three seconds.”

“Or what?”

“You find out whether I can put a man your size on the pavement.”

“You probably can.”

“Then let go.”

Her shoulders stay loose, but her stance changes. One boot slides half a step back, hips turning just enough that I know she has already picked how she plans to dump me on my ass.

I should release her. I don’t. Not yet. Morning light catches the blue-gray in her eyes and turns them cold as creek water. “You think I’m trying to control you.”

“Ain’t you?”

“I’m trying to keep you breathing.”

That gets through for half a second. Then she leans closer. “Why?”

Because I keep picturing her walking through a gate she doesn’t come back out of. The club already knows Crowley and Pearly Gates have been moving girls through safe houses. What we don’t know is where the current trail leads, and Twila walking into it blind is exactly how somebody fucking disappears.

Twila knows enough about Pearly Gates to keep pulling on the thread without knowing what might be waiting on the other end. And because my thumb against her mouth has been stuck in my head since the second I touched her.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, thinking about it.

Her expression closes. “You don’t give a shit whether I live or die. All you bikers are the same.”