Chapter Fourteen
Twila
Fuck. I recognize that voice.
Whiskey looks at me.
I close my eyes. “Cal.”
His eyebrows rise. “Fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé.”
Cal appears in the hallway and stops dead. He’s still wearing station pants and a dark T-shirt with PARADISE FIRE across the chest, his brown hair slightly damp at the temples like he came straight from work.
Same clean jaw. Same familiar eyes that once made me feel safe.
Then those eyes land on Whiskey. Nothing about Cal looks safe anymore. “What the fuck?”
“Cal.”
He crosses the bedroom fast. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
His attention drops to my wrists.
The cuff marks have faded, but they’re still visible. I curl my hands toward my palms too late to hide them.
His face drains white before fury puts the color back.
“What did he do to you?”
Whiskey takes one step.
I put my palm against his chest. “No.”
“I ain’t doing anything.”
“He ain’t hurt me.”
Cal looks at my hand on Whiskey, then at me. “You’re protecting him?”
“No.”
“Sheriff said someone kidnapped you.” Cal’s eyes snap toward Whiskey.
Whiskey exhales. “Really wish everybody would quit leading with that.”
Cal swings.
Whiskey catches his wrist before the punch gets halfway there.
Fast.
Too damn fast.
He turns Cal’s arm only enough to stop the hit, not enough to wrench the joint.
“Don’t.”
“Let me go.”
“Happy to.”
Whiskey releases him immediately.
Cal steps toward me. “Come on.”
I don’t move.
His brow furrows. “What?”
“I’m not going with you.”
“I’m taking you to your dad.”
“No.”
He stops. “What?”
“I said no.”
“Twila, you’ve been missing.”
“I know.”
“The entire county’s looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Your dad is out of his damn mind.”
Cal plants his hands on his hips. That same stance he used during the last year of our relationship, the one that says he thinks the conversation has already been settled and I’m simply taking too long to understand the conclusion.
“I know.”
“He did this?”
He points at my wrists.
Behind me, Whiskey shifts one boot against the floor, then deliberately stops.
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Whiskey mutters, “Knew somebody was gonna say that eventually.”
I shoot him a look.
Cal looks between us. “Why are you here with him?”
“I came to get clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because I ain't coming home yet.”
“Twila, you are home.” His face empties. “You’re staying with him?”
“For now.”
“You can’t be serious. Twila, he abducted you.”
“I’m aware.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“Also aware.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Very aware.”
Whiskey looks far too pleased with that answer.
I point at him without turning. “Stay out of it.”
“No promises.”
Cal steps closer. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
“No.”
“Your dad…”
“Stop.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Then listen.”
His jaw works before he says, “This ain’t you.”
I laugh, but there ain’t anything funny in it.
“What ain’t me?”
“This.”
“What is this?”
“You running around with bikers. Ignoring your father. Acting like danger’s some fucking game.”
Behind me, Whiskey stops moving entirely. That’s how I know he’s listening harder.
Cal doesn’t notice.
“You think I’m playing?”
“I think you get stubborn when people tell you no.”
“Interesting.”
“You always have.”
“Keep going.”
“Twila.”
“No. Go ahead.”
“You turn everything into a fight.”
The bedroom doesn’t change, but something in me does. Same sentence. Same voice. Different year. Same fucking feeling of being told that refusing to shrink means I’m the problem.
Cal sees whatever happens on my face.
Regret flickers through his expression.
Then he pushes anyway. “You do. Everything has to be a battle. Your job. Wrestling. Your dad. Us.”
“Us?”
“You couldn’t just be happy.”
Something inside me closes. “You wanted me to quit wrestling.”
“I wanted you to stop getting hurt for fun.”
“You wanted me behind a desk.”
“I wanted you safe.”
“You wanted me pregnant.”
I yank another shirt from the closet hard enough to snap the plastic hanger. The broken hook hits the floor between us, and neither one of us looks down.
Cal’s face tightens. “I wanted a family.”
“You wanted a wife who came home at five, made dinner, and didn’t embarrass you by dropping men twice her size in public.”
“That ain’t fair.”
“You said you hated people knowing your fiancée wrestled in Hell.”
“I said I didn’t understand why you needed it.”
“I liked it.”
“You liked fighting.”
“I liked being good at something nobody expected me to be good at.”
“You’re good at plenty.”
“But not the things you wanted.”
Cal exhales through his nose. “See? Fight.”
My throat burns. I hate that. I hate Cal seeing it. I hate Whiskey seeing it more.
“Time’s up,” Whiskey announces.
Cal turns toward him. “This ain’t your business.”
Whiskey’s voice stays quiet. “You’re in her bedroom making her cry. Feels pretty fucking close.”
“I’m not crying.”
Both men look at me.
Whiskey lifts both hands and immediately shuts up.
Cal shakes his head. “This is exactly what I mean. You don’t need another man telling you what to do.”
Something in me finally snaps.
“Would every man in my life quit deciding what I fucking need?”
Silence takes the room.
I point at Cal. “You wanted to decide what kind of wife I should be.”
My finger swings toward Whiskey. “You decided kidnapping me was safer than letting me make my own damn choices.”
Whiskey doesn’t argue. Smart man.
“My father decides which cases I can work, where I can go, who I can date, and what kind of danger I’m allowed to face. Everybody loves me so fucking much they keep building walls.”
Cal’s expression softens.
Wrong move.
“Twila.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Get out.”
His face changes. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Your dad asked me to check the house.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ve been coming by every day.”
The words hit differently now. I look toward the hallway. Then toward the front of the house. The door I locked when I left.
“You still have a key?”
Cal hesitates.
Fury burns away everything else.
“Why the fuck do you still have a key?”
“You never asked for it back.”
“I forgot.”
“I wasn’t using it.”
“You just walked into my locked house.”
“Because you’re missing!”
“Give it to me.”
“Twila.”
“Key.”
Cal reaches into his pocket, takes out his key ring, and works mine loose.
He sets it on the dresser. I snatch it up immediately and close my fist around it until the teeth bite into my palm.
His gaze shifts toward Whiskey. “This is a mistake.”
I laugh. “My mistake.”
Cal heads toward the hallway but stops beside Whiskey.
“You hurt her…”
Whiskey cuts him off. “I won’t. But I’ll hurt you if you don’t skedaddle.”
Cal leaves.
A few seconds later, the front door closes. I wait until I hear his truck start and gravel spit beneath the tires before some of the pressure inside my chest loosens.
I look down at the key still clenched in my hand.
Whiskey stays beside the dresser, giving me enough room that I don’t have to ask for it. He doesn’t come closer and doesn’t touch me.
“Say it.”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“Got several things.”
“Pick one.”
He glances at the engagement picture, picks it up, and turns it facedown on the dresser.
“Man’s a fucking idiot.”
A laugh catches in my throat. “Original.”
“Want detailed?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
I turn toward him.
There’s no teasing in his face now. No dirty grin. Nothing easy.
“He make you feel like you were hard to love?”
Fuck him. “Whiskey.”
“He did.”
“I said drop it.”
He takes one step toward me, then stops before he enters my space.
“No.”
Anger saves me from whatever else is trying to crawl up my throat. “What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“You ain’t entitled to it.”
“Nope.”
“Then stop.”
“I will if you tell me to leave.”
I look at him.
He waits.
No grabbing my chin. No stepping in until I have nowhere to go. No deciding that because he wants an answer, I owe him one.
That matters more than I want it to.
I don’t tell him to leave.
Whiskey takes another slow step. “You think being loud makes you hard to love?”
“I never said that.”
“Being strong?”
“No.”
“Being taller than half the men in Paradise?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fuck you.”
“Later.”
I glare.
He keeps closing the distance, slow enough that I could stop him with one word.
“You think fighting makes you difficult?”
“I am difficult.”
“Yeah.”
That stops me.
He shrugs. “You’re a fucking pain in the ass.”
“Thanks.”
His smile flashes. “Bossy. Stubborn. Mean when you’re scared.” He counts them against his fingers instead of touching me.
“I ain’t scared.”
“See?”
He’s standing directly in front of me now but still hasn’t put a hand on me. “You know what else?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You’re brave.”
I look away.
His hand rises into my line of sight and stops before reaching my face.
A question.
I don’t move away.
His fingers settle lightly beneath my chin, and I look back at him.
“Loyal as hell.”
I swallow once.
He notices.
“Whiskey.”
“Good at your job.”
“You don’t think that.”
“I know.”
“Fuck you.”
“And you’re fucking gorgeous when you’re mad.”
Heat climbs into my cheeks.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody spent a lot of time teaching you that too much woman was a problem.”
His voice lowers, and something in the way he looks at me makes it hard to breathe normally.
“Man was a fucking idiot.”
Something tight pulls behind my ribs.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with too much woman.”
His thumb brushes once along my jaw.
“Problem was he wasn’t enough man.”
That does it.
I kiss him.
Hard.
Whiskey makes a rough sound against my mouth and catches my waist.
His hand slides into my hair and tightens just enough to tip my head back. “That what you needed, Blondie?”
“What?”
“A man who ain’t scared when you come at him full fucking force.”
I bite his lip. “You talk too much.”
“Then shut me up.”
This time there are no cuffs between us, no basement post, no escape plan running behind my eyes and no question whether I’m trying to buy freedom with my body. No baby mama interrupting us.
I shove him backward until the dresser catches his hips. Something falls over behind him, probably a bottle, and neither one of us gives a shit.
His hands settle over my hips.
“Still violent.”
“Shut up.”