Page 216 of Property of Whiskey

He looks younger asleep. Still rough, tattooed, and built like somebody designed him specifically to make crime seem reasonable, but softer around the edges.

I lift one finger and trace the edge of an old scar near his ribs.

His hand closes around my wrist so fast I nearly punch him.

His eyes stay shut. “Keep touching me like that and we’re waking the whole house.”

“You’re asleep.”

“Was.”

“You always wake up grabbing women?”

“Only deputies sneaking around my chest.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Felt sneaky.”

His eyes finally open, dark and sleepy and immediately amused. “Morning.”

“It is absolutely not morning.”

“Feels morning-ish.”

I glance toward the clock.

4:17.

“It’s four in the damn morning.”

“Then quit fondling me at unreasonable hours.”

“I touched a scar.”

His hand loosens around my wrist, then slides down my back. His thumb finds the dandelion.

with:

“I touched a scar.”

His eyes open a little farther. He looks down at the pale line beneath my finger.

“You ever gonna tell me where you got it?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why they call you Whiskey.”

He groans. “Same story.”

That gets me up on one elbow. “Bullshit.”

“Wish it was.” He rubs one hand over his face. “I was prospecting. Got into a fight in an old bourbon rickhouse. Bottle got busted. Bourbon fucking everywhere. Piece of glass opened me up here.” He taps the scar near his ribs. “Then somebody cracked me across the head.”

“Jesus.”

“Wasn’t the embarrassing part.”