Page 348 of Property of Whiskey

Daddy points at Whiskey. “He started it.”

Daddy drinks his coffee while Wren begins tying a ribbon around Whiskey’s wrist for reasons known only to her.

Whiskey lets her.

No complaint. No macho bullshit. He just stands there while his daughter decorates a King of Anarchy like a county-fair prize.

Then Wren turns toward me.

“My ponytail’s crooked.”

“It’s always crooked.”

“Fix it.”

I give her a look.

“Please.”

That’s a trick I just taught her.

I kneel behind her, straighten the ponytail, and swipe a smear of icing from her cheek with my thumb.

When I stand, Daddy is still watching me. I brace for whatever fatherly observation is coming.

He gives me the smallest nod.

That’s it. No speech. No I approve. No reluctant blessing bestowed upon the biker relationship I did not ask him to approve in the first place.

Just a nod.

The tight place inside me loosens anyway. Later, when Royal drags Whiskey away to argue over whether somebody cheated at pool, Daddy catches me alone near the end of the bar.

“You still got your house?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

I wait for more.

Nothing comes.

“Just checking?”

“Just checking.”

I study his face. “Who are you and what did you do with my father?”

“Don’t push it.”

I smile. “I’m happy.”

Daddy’s gaze moves across the room toward Whiskey, who is arguing with Royal while Wren sits on the edge of the pool table eating cake like none of the adults in the building possess authority.

Daddy’s expression softens. “I see that.”

That matters more than I expected.