Chapter Sixteen
Twila
I wake up with a biker’s arm across my stomach, one of his legs tangled with mine, and his beard scratching the back of my shoulder every time he breathes.
For about three seconds, I have no idea where the hell I am. Then Whiskey shifts behind me, his hand spreading over my bare stomach as he pulls me closer, and last night comes back in enough detail to send heat creeping straight up my neck.
Well, apparently I’m sleeping with my kidnapper now. Former kidnapper, which feels like an important legal distinction.
I stare into the dark bedroom and wonder exactly when my life went from writing tickets for loose livestock to voluntarily spending the night naked in an outlaw biker’s bed while his seven-year-old sleeps down the hall and a possibly imaginary spined deer stalks his property.
Probably should’ve taken that desk job Daddy kept suggesting.
Whiskey makes a rough sound behind me and drags me tighter against him. My ass settles directly against a very awake part of him.
I freeze. “Whiskey.”
Nothing.
“Asleep my ass.”
Still nothing.
I turn carefully beneath his arm until I can see him.
He’s flat on his back now, eyes closed, beard messy, dark hair pushed every damn direction.
I’ve never seen him look like this. Unguarded and quiet, not watching a door, checking a phone, or calculating how many ways the next five minutes could go wrong.
He looks younger asleep. Still rough, tattooed, and built like somebody designed him specifically to make crime seem reasonable, but softer around the edges.
I lift one finger and trace the edge of an old scar near his ribs.
His hand closes around my wrist so fast I nearly punch him.
His eyes stay shut. “Keep touching me like that and we’re waking the whole house.”
“You’re asleep.”
“Was.”
“You always wake up grabbing women?”
“Only deputies sneaking around my chest.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“Felt sneaky.”
His eyes finally open, dark and sleepy and immediately amused. “Morning.”
“It is absolutely not morning.”
“Feels morning-ish.”
I glance toward the clock.
4:17.
“It’s four in the damn morning.”
“Then quit fondling me at unreasonable hours.”
“I touched a scar.”
His hand loosens around my wrist, then slides down my back. His thumb finds the dandelion.
with:
“I touched a scar.”
His eyes open a little farther. He looks down at the pale line beneath my finger.
“You ever gonna tell me where you got it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me why they call you Whiskey.”
He groans. “Same story.”
That gets me up on one elbow. “Bullshit.”
“Wish it was.” He rubs one hand over his face. “I was prospecting. Got into a fight in an old bourbon rickhouse. Bottle got busted. Bourbon fucking everywhere. Piece of glass opened me up here.” He taps the scar near his ribs. “Then somebody cracked me across the head.”
“Jesus.”
“Wasn’t the embarrassing part.”
I already know I’m going to enjoy this. “What was?”
“I came out bleeding, soaked in bourbon, concussed enough I tried to fight an oak barrel.”
I stare at him.
“The barrel?”
“Looked aggressive.”
“It was a barrel.”
“Had it coming.”
A laugh escapes me. “Please tell me somebody saw this.”
“Whole fucking club saw it. Some asshole said the whiskey fought back.” His mouth tightens like he’s still offended twenty years later. “I told ‘em it was bourbon.”
“Oh, no.”
“Prez looked at me and said, ‘Whiskey it is.’”
I start laughing harder. “Anyone would be pissed somebody called bourbon whiskey?”
“Kentucky has standards.”
“You got named because you lost a fight with a barrel.”
“I did not lose.”
“Did the barrel have a scar?”
He gives me a look. “Fuck you.”
“I’m trying not to wake the kid.”
“Smartass.”
My laughter finally settles as his hand loosens around my wrist and slides down my back. His thumb catches on something low near my hip.
I know what he found without looking. The little dandelion sits low on my back, black seeds blowing off one side and disappearing toward my hip.
“Dandelion.”
“Got eyes.” His thumb traces beside it, careful not to turn the touch into a joke. “Why?”
I go still. “Mama.” The sleep leaves his face.
I look down at his chest instead of him. “I got it when I turned eighteen. First tattoo I could sign for myself. Mama used to tell me dandelions were only weeds if you forgot to make a wish.”
He looks like he wants to ask more. For once, he doesn’t. His thumb traces one of the little seeds.
“I knew wishing was bullshit.”
“Still made one?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you wish for?”
My throat tightens before I can stop it. “Her back.”
Whiskey doesn’t tell me he’s sorry. Doesn’t give me some pretty bullshit about wishes coming true in other ways. He just slides his arm around me and pulls me against his chest.
That’s better anyway.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
“There is no closer. I’m halfway on top of you.”
“Could improve.” His hand slides around my waist, and I let him pull me over him because apparently self-respect has also gone missing in Paradise County. His mouth brushes mine, slow and warm and not nearly enough, and my fingers slide into his hair.
Whiskey smiles against my mouth. “Oh, Deputy Dix.”
I kiss him before he can say more and ruin it.
His hand travels down my back and over my ass. I’m just starting to decide four in the morning ain’t nearly as unreasonable as I thought when something taps the bedroom window.
We both stop.
Another tap follows.
I lift my head. “What the fuck was that?”
“Tree.”
“There ain’t a tree touching this window.”
“Big moth.”
Tap. Tap.
I look toward the glass. Moonlight barely reaches through the curtains, leaving the window a dark rectangle against the wall.
“That moth got a hammer?”
Whiskey sighs. “Could.”
“You really committed to explaining creepy shit badly.”
“Worked with the raccoon.”
“It absolutely did not.”
He starts to sit up, but then the quietest voice comes from the hallway.
“Daddy?”
Whiskey is out of bed before I blink.
Everything soft disappears as Daddy Whiskey takes over. He grabs jeans off the floor and steps into them without bothering with underwear while I snatch his T-shirt from beside the bed and pull it over my head. The hem drops nearly to mid-thigh.
Whiskey looks.
His eyes pause.
“Not now,” I whisper.
“I didn’t do a damn thing.”
I open the bedroom door.
Wren stands in the dim hallway clutching her blanket beneath her chin. Her hair sticks straight up on one side, and her bare toes curl against the wood floor. She looks sleepy enough to tip over and completely serious.
“Prickle’s back.”
Whiskey stops halfway through fastening his jeans. “Nope.”
Wren frowns. “Nope what?”
“No more Prickle after midnight.”
“He don’t know what time it is.”
“He’s a deer. He oughta know bedtime.”
I press my lips together.
Wren looks at me. “He’s outside.”
“Where?”
“Trees.”
Whiskey looks at me, and I look at him.
“Could be a deer,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“With orthopedic problems.”
“Never mind.”
Wren wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “He wants you to come.”
Whiskey’s hand stops on his waistband. “Who?”
Wren points at me.
I look behind myself despite knowing damn well nobody is there. “Me?”
She nods. “He likes your hair.”
“Absolutely the fuck not,” Whiskey says.
I turn toward him. “Language.”
His eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “In my defense, an imaginary deer is trying to lure you into the woods.”
Wren sighs. “He’s not trying to lure her.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He wants to show her.”
A chill crawls between my shoulder blades, and Whiskey catches it immediately. I crouch in front of Wren until we’re eye level. “What does Prickle want to show me?”
She thinks about it hard enough that her nose wrinkles. “I don’t know.”
“Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
She shrugs beneath the blanket. “He waits.”
Whiskey mutters something suspiciously close to fuck this shit and walks toward the living room.
I straighten. “Where are you going?”
“To check every lock.”
Wren looks at me solemnly. “Daddy’s scared of Prickle.”
“I ain’t scared,” Whiskey calls from the living room.
Wren gives me a look that says we both know better.
I bite my lip.
A few seconds later, Whiskey reappears carrying his phone and a flashlight, already moving through the house with the same focused efficiency he uses when something club-related goes wrong.
“Baby, you’re staying inside.”
“I know.”
“Away from windows.”
“I know.”
“Don’t open the door.”
“I know.”
“Don’t…”
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“I know.”
He exhales through his nose and looks at her like he wants to wrap the entire house in steel, barbed wire, and armed Kings. Then he calls Holler.
I glance at the wall clock. “You’re calling him at four twenty in the morning?”
“Yep.”
“He’s gonna kill you.”
I can hear him through the phone. Holler eventually says, “You’re calling me at four in the morning over an imaginary deer?”
“Just come over.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Is Twila there?”
I lift my hand for some reason.
Whiskey looks at me. “Yeah.”
“Then ask the deputy to arrest the deer.”
I laugh harder.
“You’re her Uncle.”
“I’m getting dressed.”
“Bring your shotgun.”
Another pause.
“Now we’re talking.”
He hangs up.
Whiskey lowers the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Wren smiles sleepily. “Holler likes shooting.”
“Holler likes everything involving noise.”
Ten minutes later, headlights sweep across the front windows. Whiskey doesn’t relax until his brother walks through the door wearing a robe beneath an old hunting coat, rubber boots on his feet, and carrying a twelve gauge like this is a perfectly normal family gathering.
He takes one look at me wearing Whiskey’s shirt, then at Whiskey wearing jeans and nothing else. His eyes sharpen.
“Oh.”
Whiskey groans. “Just stop.”
“What?”
“Not one word.”
“I ain’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking loud.”
Holler looks at me. “You warm enough, Deputy?”
“I’m fine.”
Whiskey says, “She’s putting clothes on.”
I look at him. “I am?”
“You are if you’re going outside.”
Holler’s eyebrows rise. “Outside?”
I nod toward the trees. “We’re checking tracks.”
“Uh-huh.”
Whiskey heads toward the bedroom.