Page 199 of Property of Whiskey

Bad habit.

A memory of her legs around me floods me. I warm up like a horny toaster.

Twila catches me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“Got eyes.”

“You used that one already.”

“Still true.”

Her jeans fit too damn well. That’s also still true. I lock the door behind us wishing we were heading to my bed instead of investigating a child’s imagination.

The house is quiet except for the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and some cartoon murmuring low from the living room. One lamp has been left on beside the couch, throwing warm light across Wren’s toys and the cardboard castle taking up half the floor. The place smells faintly like popcorn and whatever floral shit Mama sprays on everything I own.

I frown. “Wren?”

No answer.

Twila looks toward the couch.

We find Wren curled into one corner beneath a blanket, asleep sitting up with a purple marker trapped in one hand and drawings scattered around her. Mama is passed out in the recliner beside her, mouth open, glasses crooked, the remote balanced on her stomach like she lost a fight with late-night television.

Twila stops beside me. “Your mother snores.”

“She says she don’t.”

Mama snorts loud enough to challenge the accusation. Her eyes open, and she jerks awake so hard the remote nearly hits the floor.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Her gaze finds me, then Twila, then our shoes by the door before landing on the clock.

“Oh.”

“Mama.”

“I ain’t said anything.” Mama smiles at us. “She didn’t wanna sleep until you got home,” she says, nodding toward Wren.

I look at my daughter.

Something tight pulls under my ribs. Wren’s still got marker on two fingers, her cheek creased from the couch cushion, and one bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

“She been up all night?”

“Fought it hard.”

“Why?”

Mama looks toward the drawings. “Prickle.”

I pick up the nearest sheet. More trees. Another crooked deer with too many jagged lines along its back. No creepy woman named Mercy this time.