Page 350 of Property of Whiskey

A cut.

Smaller than his, shaped for a woman, with Kings colors already worked into the leather exactly where they’re supposed to be.

I turn it around.

And there it is.

Across the back:

PROPERTY OF WHISKEY

I stare at it before slowly looking up at him.

“You’ve lost your damn mind.”

“Probably.”

“I told you I ain’t property.”

“I know.”

“And I told you the claim had to go both ways.”

His mouth threatens to smile. “You did.”

“Then what the hell is this?”

He takes the cut gently from my hands.

For half a second, I’m still suspicious.

Then he turns the collar toward me.

Inside, hidden in small black stitching where nobody would ever see unless they knew exactly where to look:

WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA

I stop. Read it again. Then once more to make sure the bastard really did it.

I look up.

He ain’t laughing now. He takes his off and shows me the same phrase on his. Where no one can see it of course.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“You actually almost listened?”

“Equal ownership.”

Whiskey looks down at the cut, then back at me.

“You said you wanted final say.”

My laughter fades.

He holds the cut out instead of putting it around my shoulders.