Chapter Nine
Whiskey
The first clue something’s wrong is that Twila smiles at me. Not bares her teeth or gives me that mean little deputy smirk she wears right before threatening bodily harm. She actually smiles, sweet enough that every alarm I got starts going off at once.
Blondie spent thirty minutes trying to break out of Mama’s basement with a broom earlier. When I got back from the Lockup she looked just as feral. Now she’s looking at me like she wants my dick.
Ain’t exactly subtle.
I stop halfway down the basement stairs with two barbecue sandwiches, fries, and a sweet tea balanced in my hands. “Oh, hell no.”
One boot stays planted on the stair while I tighten my grip before sweet tea becomes collateral damage.
Twila sits on the edge of the old sectional with her long legs crossed and blonde hair loose around her shoulders.
Before I went upstairs for food, I unhooked the second set of cuffs from the chain around the post, leaving her wrists cuffed together but she can move around the basement more now, just not get through the door without dealing with me first.
Apparently, she spent the time planning my murder.
Or whatever the fuck this is.
She tilts her head. “What?”
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile.”
“Not at me. Not like that.”
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Maybe I’m the fucking Mayor of Hell.”
Her mouth threatens to twitch. “Yeah, you’re a dog, all right.”
I finish coming downstairs and set the food on Mama’s old folding table. Twila watches me too closely, so I watch her right back.
She’s changed tactics. Has to be.
Blondie spent the last several hours threatening to arrest me, shoot me, bite off parts I’m emotionally attached to, and have her daddy bury me beneath the county courthouse. Now she’s looking at me like I’m dessert.
Subtle as a tornado siren.
“What’d you break?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“What’d you steal?”
“Nothing.”
“What’re you planning?”
Her eyebrows lift. “There has to be something wrong with me being nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you ain’t nice.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You bit me.”
“You gagged me.”
“Still got the mark.”
Her gaze drops to my hand before coming back to my face. “You want me to kiss it better?”
Every smartass answer I have lines up behind my teeth and dies there.
Twila catches it, because of course she fucking does, and her smile turns slower.
Plan found.
I grab one of the sandwiches and carry it over. “Eat.”
“That an order?”
“Suggestion.”
“You’re learning.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She studies the sandwich before looking up at me. “You poison it?”
“No.”
“Drug it?”
“No.”
“Spit in it?”
“Thought about jizzin’ in it.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Kidding.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“See? Knew that nice shit wouldn’t last.”
I set the plate beside her, but she doesn’t touch it. Instead, she raises her cuffed hands.
“These make eating awkward.”
“You’ve got fingers.”
“So do raccoons.” She lifts her wrists again. “Take them off.”
“Nope.”
“I’m still being held in your mama’s basement.”
“You ain’t chained very tight now.”
“I’m handcuffed, and there’s a lot of slack I could use to choke you.”
“You gonna run?”
“Yes.”
At least she’s honest.
I laugh. “Then cuffs stay.”
She glances at the sandwich, then back at me. “You worried you can’t handle me?”
There it is again. Different angle, same game.
I move closer. “I can handle you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Woman, I took you down while you had a gun.”
“You tackled me while I was watching Bullet.”
“Still counts.”
“You cheated.”
“Ain’t rules in a kidnapping.”
“Good to know.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my hands, then my belt, before returning to my face.
Fucking hell.
I clock the look, the angle of her body, and the distance between her cuffed hands and my pocket. Blondie might be subtle with a warrant, but when it comes to theft, she ain’t.
She’s trying for the keys.
I almost admire it.
“Twila.”
“What?”
“You’re terrible at this.”
Her expression flickers. “At what?”
“Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m sitting here.”
“You’re sitting there looking at me like I’m the last biscuit at Sunday dinner.”
She snorts. “That’s your idea of seduction?”
“No. Mine usually involves fewer biscuits.”
“Charming.”
“Ain’t a poet.”
I drag the wooden chair over and sit across from her. Twila studies me, and I let her, mostly because watching her pretend she ain’t calculating the distance to my pockets is entertaining as hell.
The black shirt she’s wearing fits close enough that I can see every breath she takes. Her jeans were already tight before she started sitting like that, one knee angled toward me, shoulders relaxed like she ain’t got a felony escape plan running behind those blue-gray eyes.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
Problem is, so do I, and I’ve wanted her long enough that knowing don’t help much.
“You gonna eat?”
“Maybe.”
“Food ain’t gonna seduce itself.”
“I’m not seducing you.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re bad at it.”
Her mouth falls open, and this time she looks genuinely offended. “I’m very good at flirting.”
“You flirt like you’re serving a warrant.”
“I don’t.”
“First time you flirted with me, you threatened handcuffs.”
“You liked that.”
“Yeah. And now you’re in ‘em.”
“Then apparently I’m doing something right.”
Fuck me.
I pick up my sandwich. “Eat.”
She glares while I take a bite.
For a minute, the only sounds in the basement are paper crinkling around the sandwiches, the low hum of Mama’s old refrigerator, and the occasional creak from the house above us.
Then Twila shifts closer to the edge of the couch.
“Whiskey.”
“Mmm?”
“How old are you?”
I stop chewing. “What?”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“Wasn’t what I asked.”
“You interviewing me?”
She waits me out.
“Forty.”
Her brows rise slightly. “You look good for forty.”
I point my sandwich at her, barbecue sauce threatening to drip onto Mama’s carpet. “How old did you think I was?”
“Old enough to know better.” She laughs, real this time, and damn if that sound doesn’t get me harder than it fucking should.
I set the sandwich down before my appetite turns into something else.
“You trying to get me to take those cuffs off?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You always this suspicious?”
“Only when deputies start batting their eyelashes.”
“I ain’t batting my eyelashes.”
“You damn near created wind.”
She rolls her eyes, picks up her sandwich, and takes a bite. Barbecue sauce catches at the corner of her mouth, and she licks it away so slowly there ain’t a chance in hell it’s accidental.
My eyes follow the movement anyway.
Twila catches me. “So.”
I lean back in the chair. “No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“Answer’s still no.”
She smiles. “You nervous?”
“Nope.”
“You look nervous.”
“I look hungry.”
“You stopped eating.”
“Lost my appetite.”
“Did you?”
Her voice drops enough to get every bit of my attention.
Twila sets her sandwich aside, uncrosses her legs, and stands. The cuffs are still around her wrists, but with the chain loose she has enough room to walk straight toward me.
I could stop her.
I don’t.
Instead, I plant both hands flat against my thighs. If she’s playing me, she gets to make every move.
She comes closer until my knees bracket her thighs.
“Whatever you’re doing,” I say, “ain’t gonna work.”
“What am I doing?”
“Trying to fuck me stupid, steal my keys, and run home to Daddy.”
Her eyes widen just enough to tell me I hit the target.
Got her.
I smile.
She recovers fast. “Would it work?”
“First part might.”
She laughs. “Arrogant bastard.”
“Accurate bastard.”
Her cuffed hands rise and settle against my chest, heat punching straight through my shirt. I don’t move as her palms slide a little higher and her fingers curl into the fabric.
“You sure you ain’t distracted?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re staring at my mouth.”
“I got eyes.”
“That your excuse?”
“Worked before.”
She leans closer, her hair falling over one shoulder and brushing my arm. She smells like clean hair and something faintly sweet I can’t name because I buy three-in-one soap and call personal care handled.
Nothing like cigarettes and clubhouse perfume. Nothing like anybody I usually let this close.
My hands stay on my thighs.
Barely.
“You’re playing with fire,” I tell her.
“Ain’t scared of fire.”
“Should be.”
“I’m not scared of you either.”
“I know.”
“That bother you?”
“More than it ought to.”
The game eases from her expression for a moment, leaving curiosity behind. Then she notices the bite mark on my hand. Her fingers leave my chest and circle my wrist, turning my hand over carefully.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I did get you good.”
“Proud?”
“Little.”
Her thumb drags lightly over the marks left by her teeth, and my fingers flex against my thigh before I can stop them.
She feels it.
Twila’s confidence comes roaring back. “You know, for a man who kidnapped me, you’re pretty easy to distract.”
I catch her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop her hand before it gets anywhere near my pocket. My thumb stays away from the pulse beating beneath her skin because touching that feels more dangerous than stopping her.
“Found your plan.”
She tries innocent. She’s terrible at that too. “What plan?”
“Keys.”
“I haven’t touched your keys.”
“Yet.”
“You think pretty highly of yourself.”
“I think highly enough to know you ain’t suddenly dying to climb into my lap because I brought barbecue.”
Her lips curve. “Maybe the sandwich did it for me.”
“Then marry it.”
“You jealous?”
“Of dinner?”
Her eyes stay on mine. “What if I am flirting?”
“Then you’re doing it for a reason.”
“What if the reason is I want to?”
That lands harder than it should. I release her wrist.
“Careful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep making dumb decisions.”
“Like you?”
“Especially me.”
She moves closer until her thigh brushes mine, and my cock notices immediately.
Fucking traitor.
Her gaze flicks down and comes back up with a smug little smile.
“You ain’t as unaffected as you pretend.”
“You noticed that?”
“Hard not to.”
“Never claimed I was unaffected.”
That surprises her. “You want me.”
“Hell, yeah.”