Page 63 of Property of Whiskey

“You know enough to kidnap me.”

“Apparently.”

“You keep saying that like it’s funny.”

“It ain’t funny. It’s hilarious.”

His attention cuts toward Kaylee when she makes a small sound beneath the blanket.

Whiskey leans forward immediately. “Kaylee.”

Her eyelids flutter. “I’m awake.”

“Good.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You said I couldn’t sleep.”

“Still can’t.”

“That’s mean.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes drift shut again.

Whiskey reaches across the aisle and taps two fingers lightly against her ankle.

“Stay with me.”

They open.

“Trying.”

The gentleness in his voice bothers me. Not because there’s anything wrong with it. Because it doesn’t fit.

Whiskey Weller tackles deputies, steals their cuffs, and makes jokes while committing felonies. He shouldn’t also know exactly how softly to speak to a terrified nineteen-year-old.

I don’t like things that don’t fit.

The van slows, and I twist toward the nearest window.

The road outside isn’t the one leading toward the old jail.

“Where the hell are we going?”

Whiskey looks at me. “Different place.”

“No shit.”

Bullet glances into the rearview mirror. “Good luck.”

Whiskey cuts him a look. “Drive.”

“I am driving.”