Chapter Twelve
Twila
When I walk into the Kings of Anarchy clubhouse voluntarily, nobody says a word.
That might be worse than if they’d laughed.
The old jail has gone quiet in that particular way a room does when everybody inside knows exactly who just walked through the door and none of them can decide whether shooting her would create more paperwork than it’s worth.
I stop two steps inside.
Whiskey stops beside me.
Not in front of me. Not behind me.
Beside.
His hand settles at the small of my back anyway.
I look down at it, then up at him. “Move it.”
His palm lifts immediately.
That surprises me enough that I almost forget to be annoyed.
“I’m not under arrest.”
“Never said you were.”
“You were touching a deputy in a room full of witnesses.”
Whiskey glances around at the men pretending not to listen. “Most of ‘em got records.”
A prospect near the door suddenly finds the floor real interesting, proving Whiskey’s point better than he could.
“That supposed to help?”
“Means their testimony’s questionable.”
I stare at him until one corner of his mouth threatens to move.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“You’re sick.”
“Been told.”
The clubhouse looks different tonight.
Same barred cells and old booking desk turned into a bar. Same rusted county signs sharing wall space with club photographs and leather cuts. Same pool tables and enough alcohol behind the counter to pickle half of Kentucky.
But the joking edge is gone.
Rye has two prospects posted at the front entrance instead of drinking near it and another where the hall opens toward the back rooms. The sergeant-at-arms stands near the old booking desk where he can see every post without having to move.
Every man I can see is armed, and not casually either.
Cuts hang differently when there’s a gun beneath them.
Men stand differently when they expect trouble to come through a door.
Ready.
Whiskey notices me cataloging the room.
“This ain’t the night to wander.”
I look at him. “Wasn’t planning to ask permission.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“Sounded close.”
“Twila.”
“Whiskey.”
His fingers flex once at his side, like some part of him still wants to put a hand on me and another part remembers I told him not to.
I smile.
There’s something deeply satisfying about irritating a man who spent the last twenty-four hours kidnapping me, chaining me in his mama’s basement, kissing me senseless, and getting his hand all the way into my panties before the universe developed a sense of humor.
I should be furious with him.
I am.
I should be gone.
I ain’t.
That’s becoming harder to explain.
Whiskey tips his head toward the back of the clubhouse and starts walking. I fall into step beside him without being guided there, which somehow feels more significant than it ought to.
A few brothers look up as we pass. Their attention goes from Whiskey to me, then back to the space between us where his hand ain’t anymore.
I can practically hear the conclusion forming.
“Oh, fuck,” somebody mutters.
Whiskey stops.
I turn.
Royal is leaning against the old bar with a beer in one hand and the kind of grin that makes me want to arrest him on principle. His dark eyes move from Whiskey to me with entirely too much interest.
“Didn’t realize we were bringing law enforcement home now.”
Whiskey gives him a flat look. “Keep talking.”
“Wasn’t complaining.”
“Royal.”
“What?”
The woman seated beside him reaches over and takes the beer from his hand.
“Stop.”
Royal looks offended. “I ain’t done anything.”
“You were about to.”
She smells his beer.
Royal watches her. “That’s mine. And you shouldn’t be drinking.”
“I ain’t. I’m pregnant, not dead.”
“That don’t make all beer yours.”
“It’s one sniff.” She sets it farther away from him, then looks at me with a smirk.
Becki.
I know who she is. Everybody does. Paradise County might be spread across enough land to qualify as its own country, but gossip travels faster than county radio.
She’s pretty in that way that makes you think sweetness right before you notice the expression saying she has already decided exactly how much bullshit she’s willing to tolerate.
Royal’s hand automatically settles over her rounded stomach.
Becki looks down at it.
Then at him. “You done?”
“Nope.”
“Thought so.”
I almost smile.
Royal catches it. “You laughing at me, Deputy?”
“Considering it.”
“Careful. I’m sensitive.”
Becki snorts. “Since when?”
“Since pregnancy.”
“You ain’t pregnant.”
“Emotionally, I am.”
Whiskey groans. “Why the fuck did we come here?”
“Because somebody tried breaking in,” I remind him.
The humor disappears from all three of them so fast it might as well have been shut off at a switch.
Royal straightens.
Becki’s hand closes around his wrist.
Whiskey’s attention goes toward the hallway.
“Where’s Kaylee?” I ask.
Royal studies me. “You interrogating?”
“I’m asking.”
“Same tone.”
Whiskey shifts closer but keeps his hands to himself. “She gets to see her.”
Royal’s brows lift. That gets everybody’s attention.
Including mine.
“She does?” Royal asks.
“Yeah.”
“Since when do deputies get access to girls we’re protecting in our clubhouse?”
“I’m standing right here.”
“I know.”
“Then quit talking about me like I’m a lamp.”
Royal looks at Whiskey. “I like her.”
Whiskey’s face goes hard. “No, you don’t.”
Royal laughs.
Becki elbows him. “Quit poking the bear.”
“Which one?”
She looks between Whiskey and me. “Both.”
A woman appears in the doorway beyond them.
Sophie.
I know her well enough by now. We’ve already spent more time than either of us wanted following questions that kept circling back to her father, Montgomery money, and Pearly Gates. Tonight she has a mug in one hand and looks tired enough that makeup wouldn’t have helped if she’d bothered.
Her gaze moves over me, then Whiskey, then whatever she sees between us.
One eyebrow rises slightly.
“Deputy Dix.”
“Sophie.”
“Why the fuck is Sheriff Dix’s daughter in my clubhouse?” Legend’s voice comes from behind her. He steps into the hall, and the room changes around him.
Not silence exactly.
Alignment.
Men who were leaning stand straighter. Conversations drop lower. Nobody has to be told to pay attention.
That’s what power looks like when nobody needs to announce it.
Legend’s gaze lands on me.
Then Whiskey.
Then me again.
Whiskey opens his mouth.
“He kidnapped me,” I say.
Legend doesn’t blink. “I asked why you’re here. Not how you got here.”
I stare at him.
Sophie closes her eyes briefly.
Royal starts laughing.
Becki smacks his arm.
Whiskey mutters.
Legend points toward the back hall. “Kaylee’s in the old office.”
I start walking.
Whiskey reaches toward my elbow, catches himself before making contact, and says, “Wait.”
I turn. “For?”
“Me.”
“I can walk ten feet without supervision.”
“Not here you can’t.”
“Keep it up and I’ll demonstrate.”
His mouth tilts. “You keep threatening me here, I’ll have to prove something to my brothers.”
Heat hits my face before I can stop it.
Royal hears.
“Oh.”
Whiskey turns toward him. “Don’t.”
Royal raises both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Sophie steps toward me. “I’ll take her.”
Whiskey looks at her.
Sophie raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then move.”
He does.
Interesting.
I follow Sophie down the hall.
Behind us, Becki says, “That went better than expected.”
Royal answers, “Nobody got shot.”
Whiskey mutters something about the night being young.
I keep walking.
This old office probably belonged to somebody important when the building was still a working jail. Sheriff, chief deputy, somebody who got a solid door instead of bars.
Now the room has been turned into something halfway between a bedroom and an improvised clinic.
A cot lies on the floor beneath the far wall with clean blankets and pillows piled on it.
A folding table holds gauze, bottled water, antibiotic ointment, disposable gloves, and the kind of basic medical supplies every rural department and biker club apparently keeps by the case.
Somebody left the overhead fluorescent light off and brought in a lamp instead, warming the ugly institutional walls without making the room feel like an interrogation box.
Kaylee sits propped against the pillows. Clean. Hair washed.
A fresh bandage wraps her side beneath an oversized shirt. There’s more color in her face than when I last saw her, though not enough for me to stop counting the seconds between breaths.
Bullet sits in a chair beside the cot with his boots stretched out and his arms folded. He looks like somebody told him he had to stay exactly there, and he plans to make that everybody else’s problem.
He looks up when I enter. His expression hardens.
Kaylee’s doesn’t. “Deputy.” Her voice is stronger.
I stop far enough inside the room not to crowd her. “Hi.”
Bullet looks between us. “You want me to go?”
Kaylee’s fingers immediately tighten around the blanket.
“No.”
He stays. No argument, no wounded pride, no reminding her that he’s the one who carried her out.
Just stays.
That tells me more than anything else could.
Sophie hands me the mug she’s carrying. “Coffee.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Why give it to me?”
“Misery loves company.”
I glance through the doorway toward Whiskey. He’s talking quietly to Legend in the hall.
“Apparently everybody around here believes suffering builds character.”
Sophie follows my gaze. “Yeah.”
There’s enough history packed into that one word that I leave it alone.
For now.
I look back at Kaylee. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Pain?”
“Some.”
“Headache?”
She nods.
“Dizzy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who checked the wound?”
Bullet answers. “Got somebody we trust who knows what he’s doing. Vitals are stable. Said she needs watching.”
Kaylee looks at me. “I still don’t want the hospital.”
I clock the bandage, her pupils, the color in her lips, how carefully she shifts her weight, and the water bottle beside the cot. The same field assessment drilled into me at the academy starts arranging itself automatically in my head.
Bullet leans forward. “She ate.”
Kaylee looks at him.
“Two crackers.”
“Counts.”
“It does not.”
“More than one.”