Epilogue
Twila
Three weeks later, I wake up in Whiskey’s bed because apparently that is my life now.
Not every night. I still have a house, still pay the mortgage on it, and still own my furniture, driveway, front porch, and enough stubborn pride to correct anybody who suggests I’ve moved in here.
But my phone charger is plugged into Whiskey’s wall.
My uniform hangs over his chair, two pairs of my boots sit beside his bedroom door, and my shampoo has somehow earned permanent real estate in his shower.
Sometime last week, three pairs of jeans, five shirts, two bras, underwear, socks, and one very expensive black dress also migrated from my overnight bag into his closet.
I did not move them.
He claims he did not move them.
Apparently the clothes developed legs.
I’m considering opening an investigation.
Three weeks of searches, warrants, dead addresses, and bad leads still haven’t found Crowley or the girls Pearly Gates moved, but nobody has stopped looking.
Daddy reopened the other disappearances and put me on the investigation instead of ordering me off it.
I finally got the real case I’d been asking for.
I just wish there weren’t still missing girls at the center of it.
The smell of pancakes eventually pulls me out of bed. I drag on Whiskey’s shirt, button it wrong on purpose because I’m not awake enough to care, and walk down the hall barefoot.
Morning light pours through the kitchen windows, bright enough to catch every crumb on the table and the syrup already shining on Wren’s chin.
She’s sitting there in pajamas covered with little frogs, dark hair sticking straight up on one side while Whiskey stands at the stove flipping pancakes with the concentration of a man defusing explosives.
He glances over his shoulder.
His eyes immediately travel down my bare legs.
“Morning.”
“Eyes up.”
“Were.”
“Liar.”
“Morning,” Wren says around a mouthful of pancake.
“Morning.”
I cross to the coffeepot while she watches me pour a cup.
“Are you sleeping over again?”
I take a drink. “Apparently.”
Wren frowns like I’ve given her an incomplete answer. “You should keep clothes here.”
Behind her, Whiskey silently points toward the hallway with his spatula.
I look at him.
He points again.
Toward his bedroom.
Toward his closet.
I stop in the doorway. “You moved my clothes.”
“Nope.”
“You absolutely moved my clothes.”
“Organized.”
“Without asking.”
“You left ‘em everywhere.”
“They were in a bag.”
“In my room.”
“That don’t make them yours.”
Wren calmly cuts another piece of pancake. “That means they live here.”
I look at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Daddy’s.”
“Why?”
“He makes pancakes.”
Whiskey looks smug. “Smart kid.”
“Traitor.”
Wren shrugs. “Want one?”
I look at the pancake, then at her.
“Yes.”
“See?”
Apparently bribery works.
Beth filed for a visitation review like she threatened. Nothing’s changed with custody yet, and Whiskey says if she proves she can be safe and sober long enough to earn supervised time with Wren, they’ll deal with it then.
The front door opens without knocking. Glamaw walks in carrying a grocery bag and enough confidence to suggest locks are mostly decorative. She takes in me wearing Whiskey’s shirt, my coffee, Wren at the table, and her son cooking breakfast.
Her entire face lights up. She sets the grocery bag on the counter. “Girl’s practically moved in.”
“I have a house.”
“And yet here you stand without pants.”
I look at Whiskey.
He has become deeply fascinated by the pancake in his skillet.
Coward.
“I ain’t moved in.”
Wren raises one syrupy hand. “You have seven shirts here.”
I turn toward her. “How do you know that?”
“I counted.”
Whiskey starts laughing.
“You encouraged this.”
Wren slides a pancake toward the empty chair beside her. “Eat.”
I sit, and Whiskey brings me a plate without asking how I want anything because he already knows. Butter, not too much syrup, bacon on the side.
That should not feel as intimate as it does.
He bends and kisses the top of my head like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Like I live here.
I don’t live here.
After breakfast, I shower and put my uniform on for work.
Whiskey watches from the bedroom while I button my shirt, but the tension in his face isn’t what it was three weeks ago. There’s still some because he’s Whiskey and the man may die with some, but he doesn’t look at the badge like he’s competing with it anymore.
“You wrestling tonight?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Need me there?”
I pause with my hand on my duty belt and look at him. “Want you there.”
His eyebrows lift. “Different question.”
“Then yes.”
He smiles. “Better.”
“And no climbing in the ring.”
“No promises.”
“Whiskey.”
“Fine.”
“You said that like a liar.”
“Because I am one.”
I grab my keys.
He catches my hand before I can leave, not hard, just enough to make me turn.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
I wait.
No order follows. No argument about where I should go, who should be with me, or how long I’m allowed to stay.
Just concern.
I squeeze his fingers. “I will.”
He lets me go.
That might be the sexiest thing the man has learned to do.
Heck’s Kitchen is packed by eight that night.
I win.
Not gracefully, but I win.
Big Bone Licker gets me in a hold that leaves my shoulder screaming and my mouth running harder than necessary, but I break loose, throw her ass hard enough to shake the ring, and pin her.
Wildcat drops beside us, slaps the mat three times, then gets the hell out of my way before I can celebrate into him.
Half the crowd comes to its feet chanting Twister.
The lights are hot enough to cook me by the time I roll out, and sweat has glued loose strands of hair to the back of my neck.
Whiskey is waiting near the barricade.
On the correct side of it.
Not climbing over. His eyes travel over me, checking everything even while he pretends he’s only appreciating the view.
“You’re bleeding.”
I wipe the tiny cut near my hairline. “Tiny.”
“Still bleeding.”
“Did you enjoy the match?”
His eyes darken. “Violently.”
I grin.
He hooks one hand around my waist and draws me closer, not enough to interfere with where I’m going, just enough that every woman nearby notices exactly who is waiting for me.
“Clubhouse?”
“After I shower.”
“Could help.”
“No.”
“Mean.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
He kisses me anyway.
By the time we reach the clubhouse, the party is loud enough to hear from the parking lot.
Music rolls through the old jail, mixing with laughter, pool balls cracking, and the low rumble of Kings talking over one another.
Food covers half the bar, beer covers the other half, and club girls, old ladies, brothers, prospects, and friends have somehow filled every room.
For once, nobody is bleeding.
That alone feels suspicious.
Legend is near the bar with Sophie tucked against his side, the top of her head barely reaching his chest and making the two of them look ridiculous together in a way that somehow works.
Oaks has Brittany pulled between his knees on a barstool while she argues with Lottie about something involving potato salad.
Holler stands behind his ol’ lady drinking beer and wisely staying out of it.
Royal is beside Becki with one hand permanently hovering near her stomach like the baby might attempt a prison break.
Derby has August sitting on the edge of the pool table beside Wren, Blue Rex in the kid’s lap, while Amelia leans against Derby’s shoulder. Cider is talking quietly with Glamaw.
That’s when I notice there are kids here. Very unusual. Wren spots us and launches herself at Whiskey.
He catches her without missing a step.
“Twila won!”
“I know.”
“She threw the lady!”
“Saw it.”
“Hard.”
“Definitely saw that.”
Wren looks at me. “You should throw Daddy.”
“I have.”
Whiskey looks offended. “Different circumstances.”
Wren squints between us.
I cough. “Want cake?”
“Cake?”
Daddy is standing near the old bar holding coffee. Why is the Sheriff here? In a room filled with enough liquor to float a boat, Amos Dix has somehow located coffee.
He watches Whiskey put Wren down, then watches Wren take one of my hands while Whiskey takes the other because apparently I’m being escorted through the clubhouse by a seven-year-old and a criminal.
Daddy’s mouth tightens slightly. Not anger this time. Thinking.
We reach him.
He looks at Whiskey. “Still not approving.”
Whiskey nods. “Wasn’t asking.”
I close my eyes. “You two are exhausting.”
Daddy points at Whiskey. “He started it.”
Daddy drinks his coffee while Wren begins tying a ribbon around Whiskey’s wrist for reasons known only to her.
Whiskey lets her.
No complaint. No macho bullshit. He just stands there while his daughter decorates a King of Anarchy like a county-fair prize.
Then Wren turns toward me.
“My ponytail’s crooked.”
“It’s always crooked.”
“Fix it.”
I give her a look.
“Please.”
That’s a trick I just taught her.
I kneel behind her, straighten the ponytail, and swipe a smear of icing from her cheek with my thumb.
When I stand, Daddy is still watching me. I brace for whatever fatherly observation is coming.
He gives me the smallest nod.
That’s it. No speech. No I approve. No reluctant blessing bestowed upon the biker relationship I did not ask him to approve in the first place.
Just a nod.
The tight place inside me loosens anyway. Later, when Royal drags Whiskey away to argue over whether somebody cheated at pool, Daddy catches me alone near the end of the bar.
“You still got your house?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good.”
I wait for more.
Nothing comes.
“Just checking?”
“Just checking.”
I study his face. “Who are you and what did you do with my father?”
“Don’t push it.”
I smile. “I’m happy.”
Daddy’s gaze moves across the room toward Whiskey, who is arguing with Royal while Wren sits on the edge of the pool table eating cake like none of the adults in the building possess authority.
Daddy’s expression softens. “I see that.”
That matters more than I expected.
He kisses my forehead, then walks away before either of us has to make it weird.