Chapter Thirteen #2
She studies him long enough to make sure the answer holds, then turns her attention to me. “Is she sleeping here too?”
I choke.
Glamaw becomes deeply interested in the refrigerator.
“Wren,” Whiskey says.
“What?”
“Bed.”
“She can use the couch.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Whiskey looks at me. “No.”
I smile.
Wren hugs him, and he catches her up like she weighs nothing. She whispers something in his ear that sends his eyes toward me.
Suspicious.
“What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
Wren giggles.
“Traitor.”
“I like you.”
“Good taste.”
Whiskey kisses the top of her head before handing her to Glamaw. His mother shifts Wren against one hip and looks toward the door.
“We can head back to my place.”
“You sure?” Whiskey asks immediately.
“Baby, I raised you. I can survive ten minutes on a county road.”
“What about Prickle?”
Glamaw glances toward the black windows. “I got a twelve gauge.”
Whiskey considers that, then nods.
Wren waves at me over Glamaw’s shoulder. “Bye, Miss Deputy.”
“Bye, Wren.”
“Prickle likes blondes.”
My smile disappears.
Whiskey turns slowly toward his daughter. “What?”
Wren shrugs like she just told us Prickle enjoys apples. “He does.”
Glamaw gets her out the door before either of us can ask what the hell that means.
I look at Whiskey.
He looks at the closed door.
Five minutes later, Glamaw’s taillights disappear down the road and the house settles into a strange quiet.
It isn’t empty because Wren is still everywhere.
Her crayons are on the table, shoes are by the door, and one purple hair tie sits beside the sink.
Without her voice, though, the refrigerator hum and wall clock suddenly seem louder.
Whiskey locks the front door, checks the back, then passes both windows without making it obvious he’s checking them too.
I notice anyway.
“You always this paranoid?”
“Got a seven-year-old.”
“Fair.”
He looks toward me. “Hungry?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“Yes.”
“Want a shower?”
“Yes.”
“Want my bed?”
I narrow my eyes. “For sleeping?”
His gaze travels slowly down my body. “Could be.”
I lean against the kitchen counter and finally register exactly how long I’ve been wearing the same clothes. “I need my shit.”
He frowns. “What shit?”
“My clothes. Charger. Toothbrush. Unless your grand kidnapping plan includes me wearing yesterday’s panties indefinitely.”
Whiskey’s entire expression changes.
I regret the sentence immediately, not because I’m embarrassed but because he looks delighted.
“Yesterday’s?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought up panties.”
“I brought up hygiene.”
“My brain stopped at panties.”
“Your brain is defective.”
“Probably.”
“I need clothes.”
“Could give you mine.”
“I’m not wearing your underwear.”
“Didn’t offer those.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Was thinking about you not wearing underwear.”
I point toward the key bowl. “Keys.”
His grin widens. “Bossy.”
“I live ten minutes from here.”
That catches him by surprise. “Where?”
“Paradise side. Old Mill Road.”
His eyebrows rise. “Little white farmhouse?”
Every cop instinct I own wakes up at once. I mentally retrace every time I might’ve seen his Harley on Old Mill Road and come up with nothing useful.
“How the hell do you know my house?”
“Rode past.”
“Why?”
“Road exists.”
“You’ve ridden past enough to remember my house.”
“Maybe.”
“That is stalker territory.”
“Observation.”
“Criminal observation.”
“Still counts.”
I reach toward the keys, but Whiskey picks up the Harley set first and holds them between two fingers.
I grab the spare helmet from the hook. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, I’m behind him again, helmet on, arms around his waist, thighs locked along his hips while the night air pushes against us.
Apparently kidnapping turns into carpooling if you give it enough time.
My house sits just outside Paradise proper, where Old Mill Road narrows and farmland starts pushing houses farther apart.
The place is a white farmhouse with a green metal roof, two acres, and a detached two-bay garage set back toward the tree line.
The porch swing Daddy built after I bought the place hangs slightly crooked because one chain needs adjusting and I’ve been ignoring it for three months.
I love the house.
That might be why I don’t like Whiskey seeing it.
He pulls into the drive and kills the engine. Neither of us moves immediately.
Then his attention shifts toward the garage.
“You got two bays.”
“So?”
“What’s in there?”
“Nothing.”
“You answered too fast.”
“Don’t be nosy.”
“I’m definitely being nosy.”
I get off the Harley and hand him the helmet. “Stay out of my shit.”
“Thought we were getting your shit.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He follows me onto the porch, and I unlock the dead bolt.
The house smells stale when I open the door. Not bad, just closed up. I left the thermostat high, so warmth has settled into the old floors and furniture. The air carries a faint mix of dust, wood polish, and lavender cleaner, the ordinary smell of a house that’s been waiting since I left.
I stop just inside.
Whiskey nearly walks into my back. “What?”
“Checking.”
“For?”
I listen while my eyes move through the kitchen and living room. No footsteps. No open windows. No appliance humming that shouldn’t be. Nothing disturbed on the table, no fresh dirt near the back door, no sign somebody searched the place.
“For somebody who shouldn’t be here.”
The teasing leaves Whiskey’s face. He waits while I check the kitchen, living room, and the hallway before coming farther inside.
I turn on the kitchen light.
Whiskey looks around.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Expected something else.”
“Like?”
“More pink.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
“You wrestle in sparkly tanks.”
“My ring gear is not my decorating philosophy.”
“Could be.”
“I hate pink.”
“You wore pink boots.”
“They were magenta.”
Whiskey smiles. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”