Page 335 of Property of Whiskey

Right now.

I’m getting real fucking tired of those two words.

I nod. “Mama takes Wren.”

Then I look at Twila.

Old Whiskey takes over before New Whiskey can catch the bastard.

“Twila goes with ‘em.”

Silence.

Fuck.

Twila slowly turns her head toward me. That look used to make me dig my heels in harder. Now it mostly tells me I’ve got about three seconds to fix whatever stupid shit just came outta my mouth.

I close my eyes. “Fuck.”

Royal smiles.

Becki whispers, “Shh.”

Twila folds her arms. “I’m listening.”

I look at her. “I want you somewhere safe.”

She waits. Doesn’t snap or immediately fight me just because I fucked up the first sentence.

That’s new too.

“But?” she asks.

I hate that word.

Really fucking hate it.

“But I know you ain’t going.”

Her mouth starts to curve. “Nope.”

I breathe out. “So tell me what you need.”

The clubhouse doesn’t actually go quiet. Somebody breaks a rack of pool balls near the front, a prospect drops something metal in the kitchen, and phones keep vibrating across the table.

But it feels quiet to me because I hear what I just said.

Twila studies me long enough that my skin starts feeling too tight. Then she walks closer.

“I need access to whatever the club finds.”

“Done.”

“I need you not to shove me behind you every time something moves.”

I grimace. “Working on it.”

“That ain’t done.”