Page 131 of Property of Whiskey

“Fine.”

Another knock rattles the front door.

“Whiskey, open the goddamn door!”

Twila yanks open one of my drawers, grabs a T-shirt, and jerks it over her head. “Who is that?”

“Wren’s mama.”

Silence.

Then, “Oh.”

That one syllable has enough ice in it to keep bourbon cold all summer.

I point at her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re fixing to do.”

She jerks the hem of my shirt farther down over her panties. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re doing nothing angrily.”

She jerks the hem down hard enough to nearly rip the damn thing. “I always dress angry.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go answer your damn door.”

I leave before I say something stupid.

Already said I like her.

Quota reached.

The knocking keeps coming.

I pull my shirt on before I open the door.

Holler’s sister stands on my porch. Wren’s mother.

Beth.

She looks better than the last time I saw her. That don’t mean good.

Her dark hair is done, makeup careful, jeans too expensive for somebody who keeps claiming she ain’t got money. Same high cheekbones she had three years ago, though life has sharpened the rest of her.

Her eyes sweep over me and stop at my half-fastened belt.

Then my neck.

Twila bit me.

Beth’s expression changes. “You got someone here.”

“Why’re you here?”