Page 145 of Property of Whiskey

I smile.

There’s something deeply satisfying about irritating a man who spent the last twenty-four hours kidnapping me, chaining me in his mama’s basement, kissing me senseless, and getting his hand all the way into my panties before the universe developed a sense of humor.

I should be furious with him.

I am.

I should be gone.

I ain’t.

That’s becoming harder to explain.

Whiskey tips his head toward the back of the clubhouse and starts walking. I fall into step beside him without being guided there, which somehow feels more significant than it ought to.

A few brothers look up as we pass. Their attention goes from Whiskey to me, then back to the space between us where his hand ain’t anymore.

I can practically hear the conclusion forming.

“Oh, fuck,” somebody mutters.

Whiskey stops.

I turn.

Royal is leaning against the old bar with a beer in one hand and the kind of grin that makes me want to arrest him on principle. His dark eyes move from Whiskey to me with entirely too much interest.

“Didn’t realize we were bringing law enforcement home now.”

Whiskey gives him a flat look. “Keep talking.”

“Wasn’t complaining.”

“Royal.”

“What?”

The woman seated beside him reaches over and takes the beer from his hand.

“Stop.”

Royal looks offended. “I ain’t done anything.”

“You were about to.”

She smells his beer.

Royal watches her. “That’s mine. And you shouldn’t be drinking.”

“I ain’t. I’m pregnant, not dead.”

“That don’t make all beer yours.”

“It’s one sniff.” She sets it farther away from him, then looks at me with a smirk.

Becki.

I know who she is. Everybody does. Paradise County might be spread across enough land to qualify as its own country, but gossip travels faster than county radio.