Chapter Seven
Twila
Being kidnapped is mostly uncomfortable.
Nobody tells you that.
Movies make it look dramatic. Screaming tires. Blindfolds. Men in black masks. Maybe a warehouse if the budget’s decent.
My kidnapping smells like motor oil, cheap air freshener, blood, and sweaty biker.
And I’m pretty sure Bullet’s van has transported at least one dead deer.
Somewhere between old Pearly Gates and the county road, Whiskey decided cuffing my hands behind my back while I was buckled into a moving van was a good way to dislocate my shoulders.
He moved the cuffs to the front without taking them off, cinched the seat belt over me, and acted like that qualified as kindness.
So now I’m sitting on a bench seat with my wrists cuffed in my lap, staring at him while Kaylee Quill lies curled beneath a blanket across from us, pale as death and breathing too shallow for my liking.
Bullet drives.
Whiskey watches everything.
Me. Kaylee. The road through the windshield. The side mirror. His phone every time it lights up. Whenever the van takes a curve, he braces one hand against the bench near Kaylee before she can slide, doing it without taking his attention off whatever threat he’s tracking next.
He looks like a man taking care of business.
Which is exactly the fucking problem.
“Where’s he taking her?”
Whiskey doesn’t look at me. “You asked already.”
“And I didn’t like your answer.”
“Not my problem.”
“Where is Bullet taking Kaylee?”
“The Lockup.”
“Your clubhouse.” I give one sharp laugh. “Fuck that.”
That gets his attention.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you found a missing woman at Pearly Gates, assaulted a deputy, stuffed us both into a van, and now you’re taking your witness back to the Kings’ clubhouse.”
“She ain’t our witness.”
“She is now.”
“No. She’s a girl bleeding through a fucking blanket.”
“Who you’re taking somewhere controlled by your club.”
Whiskey glances toward the dark stain spreading through Kaylee’s blanket. Whatever smartass answer he had dies before it reaches his mouth.
“For medical care.”
“You got a hospital in that old jail?”
“Got people who know how to keep their mouths shut.”
“That makes me feel so much better.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
I lean forward as far as the seat belt allows. “You expect me to believe you’re protecting her?”
His fingers tighten once around the edge of the bench before he forces them loose. “I don’t give a shit what you believe right now.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Twila.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
I look at him for a beat, then smile.
It ain’t a nice one.
He knows it too.
“You really still haven’t figured out that telling me to stop makes me wanna do it harder?”
“Yeah. That lesson’s starting to stick.”
“Good. Then tell me what the hell is happening.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know enough yet.”
“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.”
“Then do it quieter.”
Bullet’s mouth twitches.
I look between them. “Where are you taking me?”
Whiskey finally answers.
“My mama’s.”
I blink.
Bullet’s eyes meet mine in the mirror for half a second before sliding away like he wants absolutely nothing to do with this conversation.
“What?”
“My mama’s house.”
That catches me so completely off guard I forget to be furious for nearly three whole seconds.
Then I recover.
“You’re taking a kidnapped deputy to your mother’s house?”
“Yep.”
“Is she in on this?”
“No.”
“Does she know you use her place to hold women against their will?”
“First time for everything.”
I stare at him.
He looks serious. That makes it worse.
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Been covered.”
Bullet turns down a narrow road lined with hardwood trees and old mailboxes leaning at angles that suggest generations of lawn mower collisions.
The road rises gently before curving around a stand of maples, and a minute later the van pulls into the driveway of a small brick ranch with white shutters, flower baskets hanging from the porch, and enough wind chimes to alert the entire county if a squirrel sneezes.
Three ceramic frogs sit beside the front steps.
One is wearing a tiny straw hat.
I look at Whiskey.
“This is where you murder people?”
One corner of his mouth moves. “No.”
“Because the frog decor really lowers the threat level.”
“Wait till you see the basement.”
My cuffed hands stop moving in my lap.
“That was a joke.”
“Mine wasn’t.”
I stop smiling.
Bullet parks.
Whiskey opens the rear doors, and cooler air spills into the van.
Kaylee stirs.
Bullet comes around immediately and climbs inside, lowering himself beside her.
“Hey, Kaylee.”
Her eyes open.
“We’re splitting up.”
Her face tightens.
Whiskey sees it.
“Bullet’s taking you somewhere safe.”
Kaylee looks toward me.
I lean forward. “Where?”
Whiskey answers before Bullet can.
“Clubhouse.”
I glare at him.
Bullet ignores both of us. “We got somebody there who can look at that wound, and nobody’s getting near you without going through us.”
Kaylee studies him for a long moment.
Then whispers, “Okay.”
I turn toward her. “Kaylee, you don’t have to go with them.”
Her eyes find mine.
“I don’t wanna go back.”
“You’re not going back.”
“I don’t want police.”
A tightness forms beneath my ribs. “We can work that out.”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
Whiskey looks at me. Just watching while a missing woman refuses the very system I’m part of.
That annoys me more than if he smiled.
Bullet slides one arm carefully behind Kaylee and another beneath her knees. She flinches before he gets her fully lifted, and he stops immediately.
“Too fast?”
She nods.
“Sorry.”
He waits until her breathing settles, then tries again slower. I watch him carry her from the van like she weighs something precious. Another thing that doesn’t fit. I hate this whole fucking day.
Whiskey reaches for me.
I pull back. “Don’t.”
“Need you out.”
“I’m staying here.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“I can sit here all damn day.”
“So can I.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We stare at each other.
Bullet walks past carrying Kaylee.
“Y’all have fun.”
“Fuck off,” Whiskey says.
“Already leaving.”
Bullet transfers Kaylee to the front passenger seat, angles it back so she doesn’t have to sit upright, then secures the belt carefully around her before closing the door.
I glance toward Whiskey. “You’re letting her ride in front?”
“She’s hurt.”
“That don’t answer the question.”
“It does if you ain’t looking for shit that ain’t there.”
Whiskey jerks his chin toward the open rear doors. “There. Out.”
“No.”
He closes his eyes for a second. “Twila.”
“Whiskey.”
“Don’t make this harder.”
“I am actively trying to.”
“Yeah. Noticed.”
He reaches for me.
I kick. My boot catches his thigh.
“Son of a bitch.”
“You were warned.”
He grabs my ankle.
I kick with the other leg.
He catches that one too, leaving me half sprawled across the bench with both boots trapped in his hands.
We look at each other.
“This ain’t dignified,” he says.
“You kidnapped me. Dignity left at Pearly Gates.”
He releases one leg and reaches for my waist.
I twist and hook my boot around the edge of the van door.
He pulls.
I hold on.
“Let go.”
“No.”
“Twila.”
“No.”
“You’re gonna hurt your knee.”
“You’re gonna lose a testicle.”
“Again with my balls.”
“They’re convenient targets.”
“You think about ‘em a lot.”
“Only in relation to removing them.”
His mouth pulls at one corner. “Romantic.”
“Fuck you.”
“Keep saying that.”
I kick again.
He catches me around the waist. This time he commits. Whiskey hauls me forward while I lock both legs around the doorframe.
He grunts. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“I wrestle.”
“I know.”
“You watch.”
“I know that too.”
“You’re a pervert.”
“Yeah, probably.”
He gives one hard pull.
My grip slips.
The next thing I know, I’m over his shoulder with my hair hanging toward the ground and my ass in the air.
I test how much leverage the cuffs give me, decide his kidneys are easier to reach than his face, and swing both hands against his back.
Humiliation burns hotter than anger.
“You motherfucker!”
“Keep yelling. Maybe the frogs’ll save you.”
“Put me down!”
“You kick me again, I’m carrying you like a sack of concrete.”
“You’re already carrying me like one!”
“Nah. Concrete complains less.”
Bullet gets behind the wheel, and the van pulls out.
I watch it disappear down the road with Kaylee inside.
A missing girl.
Gone again with a King.
My stomach knots even though I saw her choose to go.
I smack Whiskey again.
He keeps walking.
“You hillbilly son of a bitch!”
“Ain’t a hillbilly.”
“You’re carrying a deputy into your mama’s basement!”
He pauses at the porch.
“Fair point.”
I kick him in the stomach.
He swears and keeps moving.
The inside of the house is worse. Not dangerous worse. Normal worse.