Page 251 of Property of Whiskey

Rhett looks at me. “What?”

I look down at where he’s still touching Twila. “Move it.”

Twila sighs. “Whiskey.”

I don’t take my eyes off him. If I didn’t have custody of my daughter, I’d put him through the wall.

Rhett’s eyebrows rise. “You her boyfriend?”

Twila answers, “No.”

Too fast. I look at her.

She looks back.

Interesting.

Rhett removes his hand.

Smartest thing he’s done.

“Later, Twister.”

“Later.”

He walks away.

I watch him go.

Her eyes darken.

“There’s a storage room down the hall.”

I stare. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I definitely did.” I know where it is.

Twila grabs the front of my cut and drags me with her.

Not that she needs to. I’d follow her into traffic right now.

The storage room smells like cardboard and industrial cleaner. A bare bulb hums overhead while stacks of boxes and folded ring equipment turn the narrow room into the least romantic place anybody has ever decided to make out.

Twila shuts the door.

I lock it.

She points toward the lock. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“Pissing on my leg.”

I laugh. “What?”

“You wanna mark territory so bad you’re practically feral.”