Page 72 of Property of Whiskey

Not the stairs.

“Take it off.”

“No.”

“Whiskey.”

“I gotta make a call.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“I know.”

He pulls out his phone.

I start yelling. “HELP!”

His eyes close.

“HELP! I’M A DEPUTY! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A DIRTY BIKER. A KING OF ANARCHY!”

“Twila.”

“CALL THE SHERIFF!”

“Woman.”

“WHISKEY WELLER HAS ME CHAINED IN HIS MOTHER’S FUCKING BASEMENT!”

He looks at me.

I smile.

“What?”

“Need you quiet for five damn minutes.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Asked nice.”

“You kidnapped me!”

“And I’m starting to understand why.”

I draw enough air to make sure the entire neighborhood hears the next one.

His thumb rubs over his lower lip while he apparently talks himself into another felony.

Then he reaches into his back pocket.

Black bandanna.

I stop.

“No.”

“Don’t make me.”