Epilogue #2
Perfect.
I’m halfway through my second beer when I realize everybody is looking at me.
Royal is smiling, which is never good. Becki looks excited. Glamaw looks way too excited. Wren is practically vibrating.
And Whiskey is standing in front of me holding a black box.
I point at it. “No.”
He laughs. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know that face.”
“What face?”
“The one you make right before doing something I’m gonna hate.”
Royal raises his beer. “She knows you.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Whiskey holds the box toward me.
I don’t take it yet.
“Why is everybody staring?” That’s when I finally realize this is a party and it’s for me.
Royal says, “Because this is gonna be funny.”
Whiskey doesn’t even turn his head. “Shut the fuck up, Royal.”
I look from him to the box.
Two weeks ago, Whiskey asked whether I would let him have a cut made for me.
Not give me one. Not claim me. Have one made so I could decide whether I wanted it after I saw the finished thing.
I said yes on two conditions. I got final say, and whatever claim went on my back had to go both fucking ways.
He refused to show me the design after that.
Apparently this is why.
I take the box.
It’s heavy enough to be clothing.
Oh, no.
I open it.
Black leather lies folded inside.
My stomach does something strange.
Whiskey watches while I pull it free.
A cut.
Smaller than his, shaped for a woman, with Kings colors already worked into the leather exactly where they’re supposed to be.
I turn it around.
And there it is.
Across the back:
PROPERTY OF WHISKEY
I stare at it before slowly looking up at him.
“You’ve lost your damn mind.”
“Probably.”
“I told you I ain’t property.”
“I know.”
“And I told you the claim had to go both ways.”
His mouth threatens to smile. “You did.”
“Then what the hell is this?”
He takes the cut gently from my hands.
For half a second, I’m still suspicious.
Then he turns the collar toward me.
Inside, hidden in small black stitching where nobody would ever see unless they knew exactly where to look:
WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA
I stop. Read it again. Then once more to make sure the bastard really did it.
I look up.
He ain’t laughing now. He takes his off and shows me the same phrase on his. Where no one can see it of course.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“You actually almost listened?”
“Equal ownership.”
Whiskey looks down at the cut, then back at me.
“You said you wanted final say.”
My laughter fades.
He holds the cut out instead of putting it around my shoulders.
“So this is me asking. You ain’t gotta wear it. You don’t even gotta keep it. Up to you.” And he means it.
No pressure hiding beneath the joke. No club ritual forcing my hand. No assumptions.
I look at the back again.
PROPERTY OF WHISKEY.
Then the hidden stitching.
WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA.
For one stupid second, I think about the dandelion low on my back and Mama telling me dandelions were only weeds if you forgot to make a wish.
The first wish I made after she died was impossible. Nothing about this changes that. Nothing ever will.
But maybe I never stopped wishing.
Maybe I just learned to wish for things that could choose me back.
My name inside his cut. His name on mine. Neither one of us trapped. Both of us choosing.
My smile comes back.
“Help me.”
His expression changes immediately. “Sure?”
“Yeah.”
He opens the cut and holds it behind me.
I slide my arms into the leather. He slides his back on.
We claim each other.
Whiskey settles the collar against my neck, his thumb brushing once across the hidden stitching.
I turn my head toward him. “Equal ownership.” I kiss him.
The clubhouse explodes.
Royal whistles. Oaks bangs one hand against the table while Brittany laughs beside him.
Lottie shouts, “About damn time,” louder than Glamaw, which I would’ve thought physically impossible.
Amelia is clapping while Derby pretends he isn’t smiling.
August asks Wren what property means, and Wren tells him, “It means they in love,” with enough authority to rewrite Kentucky law.
Daddy mutters, “Jesus Christ,” into his coffee.
When I pull away, Wren is staring at the back of my cut.
“Property of Whiskey.”
“Yes.”
She looks at Whiskey. “But Daddy belongs to you too?”
“Apparently.”
Wren considers this with the seriousness of a judge. “Okay.”
Then she looks at me again.
“Does that mean you live with us now?”
I choke.
Whiskey grins.
“Not exactly,” I say quickly.
Wren looks at my cut, then back at me. “You’re wearing Daddy’s name.”
“Road name.”
“Same thing.”
From behind us Glamaw calls, “Girl’s got a point.”
I look around at all of them.
Whiskey kisses my temple.
Later, Sophie is sitting at one of the side tables with financial records spread around her despite the fact everybody else is supposed to be celebrating. Legend walks over carrying another printout and sets it beside her.
Sophie looks up. “What’s this?”
“Something tech pulled off the Mercy House SIM.”
Her attention snaps to the page. “You’re giving it to me?”
Legend looks uncomfortable enough that I almost laugh. “You’re seeing this.”
Sophie studies him.
Their problems aren’t fixed. She still isn’t wearing a ring. Time hasn’t erased everything between them. But Legend sits beside her without taking the paper back or deciding what she can handle.
“Okay,” Sophie says.
Sophie’s phone lights up on the table.
I’m close enough to see the screen.
DAD
She looks at it.
Legend sees it too.
He doesn’t reach for the phone, tell her to answer, or tell her not to.
Sophie lets it ring until the last second, then declines the call.
The screen goes dark. Nothing solved. Not even close.
But at least nobody is pretending anymore. Sophie hasn’t been back home. She’s living at the clubhouse now. Legend takes her hand and kisses her knuckles.
I’m looking for Whiskey when I notice Bullet’s chair is empty. So is Kaylee’s. I find them outside on the clubhouse steps.
The night air has cooled enough that Kaylee has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, though I suspect it has less to do with temperature than with feeling covered.
Bullet sits beside her. Not touching her. Just there like he has been since they found her.
I stop in the doorway. “You okay?”
Kaylee nods. Then shakes her head.
Bullet looks at her but doesn’t answer for her.
She takes a breath. “I remembered another girl.”
My attention sharpens immediately.
I step closer. “Who?”
Kaylee rubs her hands together beneath the blanket. “I don’t know her name.”
“Okay.”
“But…”
Her gaze moves toward Bullet. Not me. Him.
“But I know where they took her.”
Bullet’s posture changes beside her.
Behind me, the music from the clubhouse suddenly feels very far away.
I crouch a few feet in front of her. “Can you tell me?”
Kaylee’s hand moves across the step until it finds Bullet’s.
His fingers close around hers carefully.
She looks at me. “I can tell him.”
I don’t take it personally.
Three weeks ago, I might have. Now I understand something about choosing who gets close enough to hear the ugly parts.
“Then tell him.”
Relief moves across her face.
Bullet looks at me, then past me through the open doorway.
Whiskey is standing inside.
He caught enough. His gaze shifts toward Legend.
Legend sees him.
Nobody moves.
Not tonight.
Kaylee has spent enough time having other people decide when she has to speak.
Tomorrow can belong to the missing girls.
Tonight, she gets to choose.
I stand. “Get some rest.”
Kaylee gives me a tiny smile. “Congratulations.”
I glance down at my cut. “Thanks.”
Bullet’s gaze lands on the back. “Never thought I’d see the day one of us gets in bed with the law.”
“Shut up.” I go back inside.
Whiskey catches my hand as I pass. “What?”
“Later.”
By the time we leave, Wren has fallen asleep so thoroughly she doesn’t wake when Whiskey carries her out.
At home, her head rests against his shoulder while one arm hangs limp down his back. I follow them through the quiet house, my new cut creaking faintly whenever I move.
Whiskey carries her to bed and lowers her onto the mattress. I stand in the doorway while he pulls the blanket beneath her chin.
She wakes just enough to mumble, “Twila?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay.”
That one word nearly kills me.
Whiskey looks back and sees it.
Smart enough not to comment.
We tuck her in and leave the door cracked.
Outside, the night is warm and quiet. Crickets work somewhere beyond the porch light, and the woods sit dark at the edge of Whiskey’s yard.
I step onto the back porch still wearing the cut.
Whiskey follows with two beers and hands me one.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
Then something moves near the tree line.
Deer.
Two of them for sure.
Maybe three.
I squint into the dark.
One shape stands farther back than the others, too thin through the body, legs longer than they should look at this distance.
Something jagged interrupts the line of its back.
My heart skips.
Then it slips between the trees and disappears.
Whiskey follows my stare. “What?”
“Nothing.”