Page 320 of Property of Whiskey

Stars explode across my vision, and I stagger backward.

Crowley says, “Enough.”

For half a heartbeat, I think he means his man.

He doesn’t. He’s looking at me.

“You’re proving my point.”

I blink the parking lot back into focus. “What point?”

“Women like you mistake defiance for strength.”

Oh.

Fuck him twice.

I wipe blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “Women like me?”

“Difficult women.”

I smile. “Been called worse by better men.”

A Harley engine tears around the corner.

Every muscle in my body loosens and tightens at once.

Whiskey.

Crowley hears it too.

His expression changes. His man turns toward the sound.

Wrong move.

Whiskey brings the Harley into the lot too fast, kills the engine almost before the bike stops moving, and is off it in one motion.

He sees me first. Blood at my mouth. Broken body cam hanging crooked from my uniform.

Then he sees the man.

Whatever was on Whiskey’s face disappears.

Not rage. Worse. Nothing.

Cold enough to make my own pulse jump.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.

The man steps toward him.

Whiskey doesn’t say a word.

His first punch breaks the guy’s nose.

I hear it.

The man staggers, but Whiskey catches the front of his jacket before he falls and drives him backward into the Interceptor.