Chapter Twenty-Three #2
She waits. Doesn’t snap or immediately fight me just because I fucked up the first sentence.
That’s new too.
“But?” she asks.
I hate that word.
Really fucking hate it.
“But I know you ain’t going.”
Her mouth starts to curve. “Nope.”
I breathe out. “So tell me what you need.”
The clubhouse doesn’t actually go quiet. Somebody breaks a rack of pool balls near the front, a prospect drops something metal in the kitchen, and phones keep vibrating across the table.
But it feels quiet to me because I hear what I just said.
Twila studies me long enough that my skin starts feeling too tight. Then she walks closer.
“I need access to whatever the club finds.”
“Done.”
“I need you not to shove me behind you every time something moves.”
I grimace. “Working on it.”
“That ain’t done.”
“Woman, you’re asking for miracles.”
She almost smiles.
Then her expression changes. “And I need you alive.”
That catches me.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Bossy.”
“Learning from you.”
I look at her.
She takes another step until she’s close enough that I can see the faint swelling beneath the cut on her lip.
Then she gives me something I never thought Twila Dix would willingly hand over.
“You can protect me.”
Every muscle in my body locks. “That permission?”
Twila looks me dead in the eye. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Fuck me.
The woman just handed me trust like it ain’t the most dangerous thing in the room.
I start reaching for her, then catch myself before I touch.
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t need permission to touch my hand, Whiskey.”
“Getting mixed signals.” I take her hand.
“I protect.”
“Beside me.”
“Mostly.”
Her eyes narrow. “Whiskey.”
“Beside.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
Too late.
A small voice appears beside my elbow. “Why’s Twila’s mouth purple?”
Twila looks down.
Wren stands between us with crayons still clutched in one fist.
“Battle damage.”
Her eyes get huge. “You fought somebody?”
“Yep.”
“Did you win?”
Twila glances at me. “Mostly.”
I snort. “She won.”
Wren looks up at me. “Did Daddy help?”
Twila’s expression changes.
So does mine.
She lets go of my hand and kneels until she’s eye level with Wren.
“When I asked him to.”
Wren nods like that is obviously the correct answer. “That’s good.”
Then she looks at me. “Daddy helps too much sometimes.”
From across the room, Mama says, “Been telling him that forty years.”
I turn.
Wren grabs Twila’s hand. “Come see Prickle.”
I close my eyes. “No.”
She looks at me. “What?”
“No more Prickle.”
“You can’t ban him.”
“I can ban anything in my house.”
“He don’t live in the house.”
“That somehow makes this harder.”
Twila smiles. “I’ll look.”
“Of course you will.”
Wren pulls her toward the coloring table.
I watch them go.
Twila sits in the chair beside Wren while Mama drifts toward the coffee pot, leaving the two of them together with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast.
The new drawing shows Prickle again with long skinny legs, crooked antlers, and those jagged spines down his back. This time there’s a small black figure near the edge of the trees.
Twila points toward it. “Who’s that?”
Wren shrugs without stopping her coloring.
Every adult close enough to hear finds a reason not to move.
I walk over. “What?”
Wren switches to a green crayon. “He yells.”
“Who?”
Wren shrugs. “I don’t know him.”
Nope.
Absolutely fucking nope.
Mama sets her coffee down hard enough to splash some onto the table.
“Wren.”
“What?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“He scares the deer.”
“What deer?”
“All of them.”
Then she goes straight back to coloring.
That’s it.
No map to the missing girls. No confession from the woodland monster. No explanation for why my seven-year-old knows exactly the kind of shit guaranteed to keep me awake at night.
Just creepy little kid shit at the exact wrong time.
Twila looks at me.
Later, Mama leaves with Wren while Amelia takes August home.
Lottie has packed enough food into both vehicles to survive a natural disaster, Holler bitching the whole time about her stealing every decent snack from the Lockup.
Rye handles the security, Vandal drops in behind Mama’s vehicle, and I stand near the old front doors until every taillight disappears through the gate.
Only then does some of the pressure between my shoulders ease.
Not gone.
Ain’t gonna be gone until Crowley’s in the ground or a cage.
But enough.
The clubhouse settles into a different rhythm after they leave.
Phones still ring and brothers still rotate through security, but the first burst of panic has burned itself down into work.
Somebody turns the television low behind the bar.
Coffee gets replaced with beer for the men not on watch, and late-afternoon light stripes the old brick through barred windows.
Twila sits at one end of the old booking desk cleaning her pistol beneath the yellow overhead light.
I watch from across the room.
She notices after about thirty seconds. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“Quit staring.”
“Can’t.”
“You said that earlier.”
“Still true.”
She slides the recoil spring into place and reassembles the weapon with quick, practiced movements. The pieces click together beneath her hands before she checks the chamber and sets the pistol down.
Efficient.
Pretty.
Dangerous.
Mine.
No.
Not mine.
Herself.
That’s the lesson, apparently.
I walk over and lean one hip against the desk. “You scared me today.”
“You said that.”
“Still true.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
She smiles.
I rub a hand over my beard. “I wanted to put you in a car with Mama and Wren.”
“I know.”
“Wanted to lock the fucking doors.”
“I know.”
“Still do.”
Her eyebrows rise. “But?”
There’s that fucking word again.
I look down at the old scratches carved into the booking desk, thinking about handcuffs, basement doors, and every time I told myself I was protecting her when what I really meant was I couldn’t stand not controlling the outcome.
“But loving you ain’t supposed to feel like handcuffs.”
Silence.
Well.
Fuck.
Twila doesn’t move.
I become extremely interested in a gouge somebody carved into the desktop about thirty years ago.
Could lie. Could pretend I meant something else. Could walk directly into traffic. All respectable options.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You absolutely said something.”
“Was talking about handcuffs.”
“Whiskey.”
“Twila.”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“Yep.”
“You said loving me.”
“I know what I said.”
“So say it.”
I finally look at her.
She’s smiling, but not the smartass smile she gives me when she knows she’s won. This one is nervous.
Twila nervous.
I don’t see that often, and it gives me just enough courage to ruin my life properly.
“I love you.”
Her whole face changes.
“Jesus Christ.”
“That a no?”
She laughs, but her eyes shine. “Of course you pick now.”
“Ain’t good with timing.” I catch her hand. “I’m trying to have a moment.”
“You’re terrible at moments.”
“Know.”
She steps between my knees after I sit on the edge of the desk, setting both hands on my shoulders.
“You really love me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
I think about her in a wrestling ring before any of this got complicated. About blood at her mouth and that stubborn look she gave me every time I told her to stay out of something.
“Somewhere between you biting me and not stealing my bike. Woman, first time I watched you wrestle, I damn near fell in love.”
She points at me. “You said that already.”
“Still true.”
Then she looks at me differently. No badge. No Deputy Dix. No Twister smile. No joke waiting between us in case things get too close.
Just Twila.
Open in a way she almost never lets herself be.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, I forget every word I’ve ever learned.
She keeps going before I can embarrass myself.
“You controlling, kidnapping, irritating son of a bitch.”
I grin. “Former kidnapper.”
I slide my hands around her waist and pull only after she leans into me.
She comes willingly. Her forehead rests against mine. For a few seconds, we just breathe together while the clubhouse keeps moving around us, phones ringing and boots crossing old tile like the world didn’t just rearrange itself beside a booking desk.
Then Twila says, “I got one condition.”
“Course you do.”
“You don’t ever lock me down again because you’re scared.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Unless you’re trying to get me naked.” Her eyes narrow.
“You’d like that?” I ask. “For me to cuff you?”
“Just clarifying.” She kisses me. Soft. Somehow those are getting more dangerous than the rough ones.
I let it happen because apparently I’m embracing bad judgment now.
When we separate, Twila glances over my shoulder. “Everybody’s watching.”
I look.
Royal immediately finds something fascinating on the opposite wall.
Becki doesn’t bother pretending.
Sophie smiles into her drink.
Legend looks like he’d rather be shot than discuss another man’s feelings.
Bullet is with Kaylee near the other end of the clubhouse and genuinely ain’t paying attention.
Good man.
I turn back to Twila. “Let ‘em.”
She studies me. “You gonna start calling me yours now?”
“Already do in my head.”
“I knew it.”
“Club’s gonna too.”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna correct them?”
I look at her. “No.”
She smiles. “Thought so.”
I slide my hands around her waist again. “Got another problem.”
“What?”
“Property.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”
I laugh. “Didn’t say shit.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Maybe.”
“Do not put Property of Whiskey on anything without asking.”
I raise both hands. “Noted.”
“I mean it.”
“Noted.”
“Whiskey.”
“What?”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“You don’t?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Got ideas.”
“That worries me.”
“Should.”
She points one finger at my face. “If you have a cut made without asking…” She shakes her head, but there’s a smile fighting its way onto her mouth.