Chapter Eight
Twila
The cuff connecting my wrists to the chain has enough play for me to twist my hands and inspect the links.
Solid.
The post is solid too.
The workbench is bolted down.
The stairs might as well be in another county.
I sit on the concrete and use one boot to reach for a toolbox several feet past the limit of the chain.
Too far.
A broom leans beside the washing machine.
Closer.
I stretch my leg.
Miss.
Stretch again.
My toe catches the handle.
Yes.
I drag it toward me one inch at a time until the whole damn thing falls sideways with a crash loud enough to wake Kentucky.
I freeze.
Nothing happens.
Good.
I hook the broom more securely with my boot and drag it the rest of the way over.
The wooden handle is too light to break the chain.
Heavy enough to hurt Whiskey if he comes back stupid.
Five minutes later, I’ve managed to retrieve a broom, an old dustpan, and a Christmas wreath.
None are particularly useful.
The plastic Santa keeps smiling at me from his box.
“You shut the fuck up,” I mumble through the gag.
He remains smug.
I turn my attention to the shelves.
Boxes.
Old toys.
Photographs.
One cardboard box has JIMMY’S SCHOOL written across the side in thick black marker.
Interesting. Jimmy?
I use the broom handle to drag it toward me.
Inside are old yearbooks, notebooks, a baseball glove, three trophies, and a school photograph.
Whiskey.
Maybe sixteen.
No beard.
Longer hair.
Same eyes.
Same expression like somebody already pissed him off before breakfast.
I stare at the picture longer than I should.
He was cute.
Fuck.
No.
Not relevant.
I shove it back into the box. Another photograph slips loose.
Whiskey stands beside a woman I don’t recognize, both of them younger. He’s holding a little dark-haired girl who can’t be more than two.
I lean closer.
Before I can study it, footsteps sound upstairs.
Shit.
I use the broom to shove the box toward the shelf.
It stops halfway.
Perfect.
The basement door opens.
Whiskey comes downstairs.
His eyes move from me to the broom, the wreath, the box sitting several feet from where it started, then back to me.
“You behave?”
I stare at him.
He snorts. “Right. Stupid question.”
He walks over, crouches, and reaches behind my head.
I wait.
The second the gag loosens, I bite him.
Hard.
“Motherfucker!”
He jerks his hand away.
I spit the bandanna onto the floor.
“You put your hand near my mouth.”
Whiskey stares at the teeth marks across the meat of his hand, then at me.
“Hell, Twister. Usually buy a woman dinner before she gets that hungry for me.”
“I’ll bite something else next time.”
His gaze drops.
Straight down my body.
Then returns to my face.
“Careful what you threaten me with.”
Heat jumps into my cheeks.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Didn’t tell you to offer.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I meant your throat.”
“Sure.”
“Or your dick.”
His eyebrows lift. “There it is again.”
“I mean bite it clean off.”
“Still thinking about it, ain’t you.”
I hate him. Actually hate him.
He rubs his bitten hand. “You draw blood?”
“Hope so.”
“You got all your shots?”
I stare.
He smiles. “Rabies?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, we keep circling back.”
I lean against the support post. “Take these cuffs off.”
“No.”
“Then call my father.”
“No.”
“You said we were going to talk.”
“We are.”
“Hard to have a productive conversation while I’m chained to a post.”
“You seem productive.”
“I will kill you.”
“See? Communicating already.”
Whiskey drags an old wooden chair across the concrete and sits facing me, not close enough to touch and just far enough that I could kick him if the chain were six inches longer.
I test it.
He notices and moves his chair back another couple inches.
Coward.
“Ask,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“You got questions.”
“No shit.”
“You’ve been chasing this thing since Kaylee’s name landed in front of you. Ask.”
“What’s the catch?”
“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.
“Are the Kings disappearing those women?”
“No.”
“Selling them?”
“No.”
“Moving them?”
“No.”
“Protecting whoever is?”
“No.”
“Then why were you at Pearly Gates?”
“Looking for Kaylee.”
“How did you know she was there?”
“Tip.”
“From who?”
“Can’t tell you.”
I laugh. “There we go.”
“What?”
“Every answer that matters magically becomes club business.”
“That one does.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
That stops me.
“You don’t?”
“Would be fucking stupid if you did.”
“At least we agree on something.”
“I expect you to listen.”
“Worse.”
He leans back in the chair.
“The club ain’t taking those girls.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep asking.”
“And I keep not believing you.”
“That’s your problem.”
“It becomes yours when I arrest you.”
“You’re chained to my mama’s basement post.”
“Temporary setback.”
His mouth twitches.
I hate that too.
“Why all the secrecy if you’re innocent?”
“Because secrecy and guilt ain’t the same fucking thing.”
That sits between us.
I look away first. Not because he wins. Because the bastard has a point, and I resent it.
“Why kidnap me?”
“Already explained.”
“No. You said people knew I was asking questions.”
“They do.”
“So?”
The humor drains from his face. “So somebody watched you.”
I study him. “Who?”
“Don’t know.”
“Convenient.”
“Quit saying convenient like I built the fucking situation.”
“You expect me to believe Pearly Gates has people tracking county deputies?”
“I expect you to believe the man you questioned this morning wasn’t scared of me.”
My stomach tightens.
“You don’t know a lot for somebody kidnapping people over it.”
“Know enough.”
“What?”
“That your name got back to Pearly Gates after you started asking questions.”
“How?”
“Source.”
“Who?”
“No.”
I jerk the chain hard enough to make metal slap concrete.
“You said anything.”
“I said I’d answer what I can.”
“You said ask.”
“Same difference.”
“It is absolutely not the same difference.” I glare at him.
He continues before I can insult him. “You went to that old complex alone.”
“I’m a deputy. I had my weapon.”
“You had a weapon. I have it now.” His gaze drops deliberately toward the chain between us.
I follow it despite myself.
“I didn’t know Kaylee would be there.”
“But somebody knew you might.”
Cold works its way down my spine. I don’t show it. “I can protect myself.”
Whiskey looks at the cuffs.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck you.”
“See, that argument works better when you ain’t chained up.”
“I was outnumbered.”
“You were outsmarted.”
“I will bite you again.”
“There’s that hunger for me.”
I yank on the chain just to hear metal scrape.
His smile disappears. “Twila.”
“What?”
“This part ain’t funny.”
“Then stop making jokes.”
He leans forward.
“You showed up at a place where somebody had a bleeding girl restrained. You had no backup. Nobody at your department knew what you were walking into, but whoever followed your questions sure as hell knew you were digging.” Something changes in Whiskey’s posture at that.
Not much, but the argument eases out of him enough that I notice.
I straighten against the post.
“Take me to the sheriff’s department.”
“No.”
“My daddy ain’t dirty.”
“Never said he was.”
“You implied it.”
“I said I don’t know who’s safe.”
“He is.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because he’s my father.” My chin comes up when I say it, daring him to call that loyalty stupid even while some ugly, trained part of my brain whispers that it ain’t evidence.
Whiskey exhales through his nose. “That ain’t evidence, Deputy.”
“He’s been sheriff for…”
“Don’t care if he’s been sheriff since Moses came down the mountain.”
“He would never hurt those girls.”
“Didn’t say he would.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Could be dirty. Could be scared. Could be somebody under him feeding information. Could be somebody’s got something on him. Could be he knows more than he can say.”
“My daddy ain’t scared.”
“Everybody’s scared of something.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
The answer comes too easily.
I pause.
“What are you scared of?”
“Nice try.”
“You said ask anything.”
“Don’t mean I’m dumb enough to answer every damn thing.”
“Then you lied.”
“No. Changed my mind.”
“Criminal.”
“Deputy.”
“Asshole.”
“Blondie.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being blonde.”
“I can arrange for you to stop breathing.”
The old refrigerator clicks behind him, and somewhere overhead the house settles with a faint creak. The basement suddenly feels too quiet for two people who’ve spent the last hour trying to piss each other off.
My throat is dry from yelling through a bandanna.
Whiskey notices, because the man seems to notice everything.
“You want water?”
“No.”
“You’re thirsty.”
“No.”
He gets up anyway and crosses to an old refrigerator near the washer. He takes out a bottle, breaks the seal in front of me, and holds it up.
I eye it. “You expecting me to drink that?”
“Yeah.”
“You could’ve drugged it.”
He looks at the sealed bottle in his hand.
Then drinks half of it.
He holds the rest toward me.
“Woman, if I wanted you unconscious, we wouldn’t have spent thirty fucking minutes arguing.”
I hate that this is logical. I reach for the bottle.
Our fingers touch. Nothing dramatic. Just warm, rough skin against mine.
A stupid little current shoots through my hand anyway, and I pull back too fast.
Whiskey notices.
For once, he doesn’t say a damn thing.
I drink.
He sits again.