Page 347 of Property of Whiskey

“No.”

“Mean.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

He kisses me anyway.

By the time we reach the clubhouse, the party is loud enough to hear from the parking lot. Music rolls through the old jail, mixing with laughter, pool balls cracking, and the low rumble of Kings talking over one another. Food covers half the bar, beer covers the other half, and club girls, old ladies, brothers, prospects, and friends have somehow filled every room.

For once, nobody is bleeding.

That alone feels suspicious.

Legend is near the bar with Sophie tucked against his side, the top of her head barely reaching his chest and making the two of them look ridiculous together in a way that somehow works. Oaks has Brittany pulled between his knees on a barstool while she argues with Lottie about something involving potato salad. Holler stands behind his ol’ lady drinking beer and wisely staying out of it. Royal is beside Becki with one hand permanently hovering near her stomach like the baby might attempt a prison break. Derby has August sitting on the edge of the pool table beside Wren, Blue Rex in the kid’s lap, while Amelia leans against Derby’s shoulder. Cider is talking quietly with Glamaw.

That’s when I notice there are kids here. Very unusual. Wren spots us and launches herself at Whiskey.

He catches her without missing a step.

“Twila won!”

“I know.”

“She threw the lady!”

“Saw it.”

“Hard.”

“Definitely saw that.”

Wren looks at me. “You should throw Daddy.”

“I have.”

Whiskey looks offended. “Different circumstances.”

Wren squints between us.

I cough. “Want cake?”

“Cake?”

Daddy is standing near the old bar holding coffee. Why is the Sheriff here? In a room filled with enough liquor to float a boat, Amos Dix has somehow located coffee.

He watches Whiskey put Wren down, then watches Wren take one of my hands while Whiskey takes the other because apparently I’m being escorted through the clubhouse by a seven-year-old and a criminal.

Daddy’s mouth tightens slightly. Not anger this time. Thinking.

We reach him.

He looks at Whiskey. “Still not approving.”

Whiskey nods. “Wasn’t asking.”

I close my eyes. “You two are exhausting.”