Page 80 of Property of Whiskey

“Ain’t one.”

“Bullshit.”

“Probably. Ask anyway.”

I study him.

Without his cut, he looks less like a King and somehow no safer. Dark shirt. Jeans. Bruised knuckles. My teeth marks already reddening across one hand.

He settles his forearms across his thighs, loose enough to look relaxed but positioned to move if I do something he doesn’t like.

“Where’s Kaylee?”

“Clubhouse.”

“Alive?”

His expression hardens. “Yeah.”

“Who’s treating her?”

“Somebody who knows what they’re doing.”

“Name.”

“No.”

“You said ask anything.”

“I said ask. Didn’t say I’d hand you club information.”

“So there is a catch.”

“There’s a line.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope.”

I lean forward. “Did you hurt Kaylee?”

“No.”

“Did Bullet?”

“No.”

“Did any King?”

“No.”

Immediate.

No hesitation.

I watch for everything Daddy taught me to watch. Delay. Eye movement. A breath taken too deep before an answer. Hands changing position. Shoulders tightening.

Whiskey gives me nothing.