Chapter Fifteen
Whiskey
Twila Dix ain’t kidnapped anymore.
I know it. She knows it. The front door knows it, considering she’s got access to the knob, the lock, her phone, her clothes, and enough stubbornness to walk barefoot to Paradise if the mood hits.
Still doesn’t stop her from calling me her kidnapper every chance she gets.
After the Mercy text, we get dressed, grab her bag, and head back to my place. Which is how we end up pulling into my driveway after midnight with her arms around my waist and her mouth near my ear saying, “You know, most men buy a woman dinner before they abduct her for multiple nights.”
I kill the Harley. “You ate barbecue.”
“That was prison food.”
“You liked it.”
“I was vulnerable.”
“You stole my keys.”
“Trauma response.”
I turn far enough to look at her over my shoulder. “Blondie, you ain’t my hostage no more.”
She climbs slowly off the bike. “No?”
“No.”
“What am I?”
Fuck. There’s a question I don’t have an easy answer for.
I take my helmet off and set it on the seat while Twila waits, which somehow makes it worse. The smart move would be something crude. Dodge it, make her laugh, tell her she’s a pain in my ass with a badge.
Instead, I look at her too damn long.
“I ain’t figured that part out yet.” The smartass expression slips for half a second, leaving something softer underneath.
Then she ruins it.
“Well, figure it out faster.”
“Thought we were fixing to have a moment.”
“I don’t do moments.” She shoves my shoulder as I walk past.
I grin and head toward the porch.
She follows.
That’s what gets me. Not the arguing or the sex or even the fact she had every chance to go home tonight and climbed onto my motorcycle instead. It’s the way she follows me toward my front door like she’s done it before, like maybe she’ll do it again.
I don’t like how much I like that. I have rules. One says I don’t bring women I plan to fuck around Wren. Already broke that one.
The porch light is on, and Mama’s car sits beside the house. I called her after the Mercy text and told her to bring Wren back. If something tied to Pearly Gates knows enough to put that word in my kid’s mouth, I want her under my roof where I can see her.
I unlock the door quietly.
Twila steps in behind me.
“Shoes.”
She stops. “What?”
I point down. “Mud.”
She looks at her boots, then at me. “You worried about floors?”
“Got a kid.”
“You’re domesticated.”
“Tell anybody, I’ll deny it.”
“Kings’ treasurer secretly owns a mop.” She toes off her boots.
I watch.
Bad habit.
A memory of her legs around me floods me. I warm up like a horny toaster.
Twila catches me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Got eyes.”
“You used that one already.”
“Still true.”
Her jeans fit too damn well. That’s also still true. I lock the door behind us wishing we were heading to my bed instead of investigating a child’s imagination.
The house is quiet except for the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and some cartoon murmuring low from the living room.
One lamp has been left on beside the couch, throwing warm light across Wren’s toys and the cardboard castle taking up half the floor.
The place smells faintly like popcorn and whatever floral shit Mama sprays on everything I own.
I frown. “Wren?”
No answer.
Twila looks toward the couch.
We find Wren curled into one corner beneath a blanket, asleep sitting up with a purple marker trapped in one hand and drawings scattered around her.
Mama is passed out in the recliner beside her, mouth open, glasses crooked, the remote balanced on her stomach like she lost a fight with late-night television.
Twila stops beside me. “Your mother snores.”
“She says she don’t.”
Mama snorts loud enough to challenge the accusation. Her eyes open, and she jerks awake so hard the remote nearly hits the floor.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Her gaze finds me, then Twila, then our shoes by the door before landing on the clock.
“Oh.”
“Mama.”
“I ain’t said anything.” Mama smiles at us. “She didn’t wanna sleep until you got home,” she says, nodding toward Wren.
I look at my daughter.
Something tight pulls under my ribs. Wren’s still got marker on two fingers, her cheek creased from the couch cushion, and one bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.
“She been up all night?”
“Fought it hard.”
“Why?”
Mama looks toward the drawings. “Prickle.”
I pick up the nearest sheet. More trees. Another crooked deer with too many jagged lines along its back. No creepy woman named Mercy this time.
Thank fuck.
Twila bends beside me. “This one’s got flowers.”
“Maybe Prickle’s landscaping.”
She elbows me.
Mama gets out of the recliner and reaches for her purse. “I’m going home.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s late.”
“Whiskey.”
“Mama.”
“I drove at night before you grew a beard.”
“That ain’t the point.”
“It’s four miles.”
“Still.”
Twila looks between us. “Stay.”
Both of us turn toward her.
“Who knows what else the night will bring.”
“She’s right.”
Mama asks, “Where will I sleep?”
Twila shrugs. “You have a couch.”
Mama’s eyes sharpen with amusement. “And where are you sleeping?”
Oh, hell.
Twila smiles sweetly. “I won’t.”
Mama looks at me.
I look at Twila.
Twila looks downright pleased with herself.
Mama grabs her purse. “Driving home suddenly sounds delightful.”
“Mama.”
“What? I raised you. My work is done.”
“You’re the least helpful person I know.”
“Yet you keep calling me.”
She kisses my cheek before passing Twila and patting her arm.
“Good luck.”
“With him?” Twila asks.
“With Wren.”
Twila’s smile softens. “Thanks.”
Mama pauses at the door. She leaves before anybody can make the moment weirder.
I lock up again and turn around to find Twila already crouched beside the coffee table gathering Wren’s drawings.
“Leave those.”
“She’ll step on them when she wakes up.”
“She drew them.”
“Exactly. She’ll blame you.”
I stare at her. “You got kids I don’t know about?”
“No.”
“Then how the fuck do you know that?”
“I have a father.”
“Right.”
She stacks the drawings neatly, caps the purple marker, then bends over Wren and pulls the blanket higher over one small shoulder. She doesn’t make a production out of it or look around to see if I noticed.
She just does it.
I should be the one cleaning up after my kid. Instead, I’m standing in my own living room watching Twila Dix move around it like caring for something here came naturally.
That’s dangerous.
The whole damn thing is dangerously close to getting my daughter too attached to a woman who may not stay around.
Twila looks up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s twice.”
“You keeping count?”
“Yes.”
“Deputy habit?”
“No. Woman habit.”
I step over and slide one arm beneath Wren’s knees, the other behind her back. She stirs the second I lift her.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes barely open. “You came back.”
“Told you I would.”
“Twila too?”
My gaze finds Twila. She’s standing right there with Wren’s marker still in one hand.
“Yeah.”
Wren smiles without really waking. “Knew it.”
Twila raises an eyebrow.
I carry Wren down the hall.
Twila follows. The fact that she keeps doing that is starting to do something stupid in my head.
Wren’s room looks like a glitter store got hit by a tornado.
Purple walls disappear beneath drawings, stickers, and enough glow-in-the-dark stars to map a second universe across the ceiling.
Stuffed animals have conquered half the bed, and the bottle-cap frog from her ecosystem project sits on the dresser beside a plastic dinosaur wearing one of Wren’s bracelets.
I lower her onto the mattress.
Wren immediately reaches for me. “Stay.”
“I’m here.”
“Till I sleep.”
“You are asleep.”
“No.”
Her eyes are closed.
Twila makes a tiny sound behind me.
I glance over.
She’s smiling, but there’s nothing mean or amused about it. It’s soft, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with soft Twila.
Angry Twila makes sense. Smartass Twila makes me hard. This version feels like somebody slid a knife somewhere important and told me not to move.
Wren cracks one eye open. “Twila?”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
Twila points at herself.
Wren nods.
She steps closer to the bed. “What?”
“Daddy thinks Prickle’s fake.”
I sigh. “Baby.”
“He does.”
Twila looks at me, then back at Wren. “I think your daddy’s scared of being wrong.”
I stare at her. “That ain’t what I said.”
Wren smiles. “See?”
“You two ganging up already?”
Twila crosses her arms. “Maybe Prickle needs legal representation.”
“Prickle trespasses.”
“Allegedly.”
“Lives in my woods.”
“According to a seven-year-old.”
“Who you’re representing.”
“Everyone deserves counsel.”
Wren starts giggling.
I point at Twila. “You’re encouraging this.”
“She’s funny.”
“She’s seven. She’s supposed to be sleeping.”
Wren yawns. “Twila?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you still stolen?”
Silence. I close my eyes. She means kidnapped. Kid hears too much.
Twila inhales slowly. “Apparently not.”
I open one eye.
Wren looks at me. “You let her go?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why’s she still here?”
Twila answers before I can. “Your daddy’s having trouble accepting his freedom.”
I stare at her.
Wren bursts out laughing. She reaches one hand toward Twila. “Can she sleep over?”
I choke on air.
Twila bites her lip.
Wren looks genuinely worried. “Daddy? She can use the couch.”
Twila nods. “See? We already discussed this.”
“No.”
Both of them look at me.
Twila turns slowly toward me. “No what?”
“No couch.”
Wren’s eyes get big.
I hear the mistake after it leaves my mouth.
Twila definitely does.
Her smile goes slow. “Where should I sleep, Whiskey?”
Fucking hell.
“In a bed.”
“Which bed?”
“Woman.”
Wren giggles under the blanket.
I stand. “Bedtime is over.”
“That ain’t how bedtime works,” Twila says.
“Is now.”
Wren catches my hand before I can move away.
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“Check under the bed.”
I stop.
That one ain’t funny.
Still, I crouch and look beneath the bed. Shoes, one abandoned doll, a single sock that’s probably been missing since Easter.
Nothing with spines.
“Clear.”
“Closet?”
I check that too, pushing aside dresses and a pink raincoat before shutting the door.
“Window?”
Locked.
Curtains closed.