Page 312 of Property of Whiskey

“If Crowley so much as puts a fucking finger on you, I’m gonna have charges.”

“You always have charges.”

“Violent ones.”

I step closer and put my palm against his chest. The muscle beneath my hand is already hard, and I know exactly what part of this plan is eating at him.

Not violence.

Whiskey understands violence just fine.

Waiting is harder. Trusting me to handle myself is harder. Trusting me to decide when I need him might be the hardest thing I’ve asked of him yet.

“You promised.”

“I said I’d try.”

“Same thing today.”

“Ain’t.”

“Whiskey.”

He breathes out through his nose. “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“I wait.”

“Until?”

“You call.”

“There we go.”

“Still hate it.”

“You can hate things and survive them.”

“Been surviving you.”

“Barely.”

He catches my waist before I can walk away and draws me against him. His mouth brushes mine slowly enough that I lean after him when he tries to stop.

Too slow.

“You wearing the body cam?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Phone recording too?”

“Soon as I’m outside.”

“Emergency button?”

“On my portable. Hits dispatch and county radio. Club tech patched the county scanner to your burner, so if I hit it, you’ll hear the call.”