Page 346 of Property of Whiskey

“Because I am one.”

I grab my keys.

He catches my hand before I can leave, not hard, just enough to make me turn.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Be careful.”

I wait.

No order follows. No argument about where I should go, who should be with me, or how long I’m allowed to stay.

Just concern.

I squeeze his fingers. “I will.”

He lets me go.

That might be the sexiest thing the man has learned to do.

Heck’s Kitchen is packed by eight that night.

I win.

Not gracefully, but I win.

Big Bone Licker gets me in a hold that leaves my shoulder screaming and my mouth running harder than necessary, but I break loose, throw her ass hard enough to shake the ring, and pin her. Wildcat drops beside us, slaps the mat three times, then gets the hell out of my way before I can celebrate into him. Half the crowd comes to its feet chanting Twister.

The lights are hot enough to cook me by the time I roll out, and sweat has glued loose strands of hair to the back of my neck.

Whiskey is waiting near the barricade.

On the correct side of it.

Not climbing over. His eyes travel over me, checking everything even while he pretends he’s only appreciating the view.

“You’re bleeding.”

I wipe the tiny cut near my hairline. “Tiny.”

“Still bleeding.”

“Did you enjoy the match?”

His eyes darken. “Violently.”

I grin.

He hooks one hand around my waist and draws me closer, not enough to interfere with where I’m going, just enough that every woman nearby notices exactly who is waiting for me.

“Clubhouse?”

“After I shower.”

“Could help.”