Page 349 of Property of Whiskey

He kisses my forehead, then walks away before either of us has to make it weird.

Perfect.

I’m halfway through my second beer when I realize everybody is looking at me.

Royal is smiling, which is never good. Becki looks excited. Glamaw looks way too excited. Wren is practically vibrating.

And Whiskey is standing in front of me holding a black box.

I point at it. “No.”

He laughs. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know that face.”

“What face?”

“The one you make right before doing something I’m gonna hate.”

Royal raises his beer. “She knows you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Whiskey holds the box toward me.

I don’t take it yet.

“Why is everybody staring?” That’s when I finally realize this is a party and it’s for me.

Royal says, “Because this is gonna be funny.”

Whiskey doesn’t even turn his head. “Shut the fuck up, Royal.”

I look from him to the box.

Two weeks ago, Whiskey asked whether I would let him have a cut made for me.

Not give me one. Not claim me. Have one made so I could decide whether I wanted it after I saw the finished thing.

I said yes on two conditions. I got final say, and whatever claim went on my back had to go both fucking ways.

He refused to show me the design after that.

Apparently this is why.

I take the box.

It’s heavy enough to be clothing.

Oh, no.

I open it.

Black leather lies folded inside.

My stomach does something strange.

Whiskey watches while I pull it free.