Page 351 of Property of Whiskey

“So this is me asking. You ain’t gotta wear it. You don’t even gotta keep it. Up to you.” And he means it.

No pressure hiding beneath the joke. No club ritual forcing my hand. No assumptions.

I look at the back again.

PROPERTY OF WHISKEY.

Then the hidden stitching.

WHISKEY, PROPERTY OF TWILA.

For one stupid second, I think about the dandelion low on my back and Mama telling me dandelions were only weeds if you forgot to make a wish.

The first wish I made after she died was impossible. Nothing about this changes that. Nothing ever will.

But maybe I never stopped wishing.

Maybe I just learned to wish for things that could choose me back.

My name inside his cut. His name on mine. Neither one of us trapped. Both of us choosing.

My smile comes back.

“Help me.”

His expression changes immediately. “Sure?”

“Yeah.”

He opens the cut and holds it behind me.

I slide my arms into the leather. He slides his back on.

We claim each other.

Whiskey settles the collar against my neck, his thumb brushing once across the hidden stitching.

I turn my head toward him. “Equal ownership.” I kiss him.

The clubhouse explodes.

Royal whistles. Oaks bangs one hand against the table while Brittany laughs beside him. Lottie shouts, “About damn time,” louder than Glamaw, which I would’ve thought physically impossible. Amelia is clapping while Derby pretends he isn’t smiling. August asks Wren what property means, and Wren tells him, “It means they in love,” with enough authority to rewrite Kentucky law.

Daddy mutters, “Jesus Christ,” into his coffee.

When I pull away, Wren is staring at the back of my cut.

“Property of Whiskey.”

“Yes.”

She looks at Whiskey. “But Daddy belongs to you too?”

“Apparently.”

Wren considers this with the seriousness of a judge. “Okay.”

Then she looks at me again.