Page 42 of Property of Whiskey

“All right. Ain’t gotta tell me shit.”

Her eyes dart past me toward the buildings. “Don’t.”

“I ain’t taking you anywhere you don’t wanna go.”

“Don’t let them.” Her teeth chatter despite the heat.

I take off my cut, then my overshirt, keeping the cut folded beside me because I ain’t dumb enough to leave club colors lying ten feet away.

I hold out the shirt. “Can I put this over you?”

She stares at it.

“Kaylee.”

Her eyes snap back to mine.

“Need you to stay with me. Can I cover you up?”

A tiny nod.

I move slow, the same way I do when Wren’s sick and half asleep and convinced the thermometer is trying to murder her.

The shirt settles across Kaylee’s shoulders.

She flinches anyway.

“Sorry.”

I back off enough to give her space.

“Look at me.”

She does.

“Good. That’s good.”

Her bottom lip shakes. “I wanna go home.”

“Then that’s where we’re aiming.”

“But I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They’ll find me.”

“Who?”

Her eyes close.

I don’t touch her.

“Who’ll find you?”

“Don’t make me.”

I ain’t interrogating a bleeding girl because Legend wants answers. Fuck answers. She needs medical help. Maybe a hospital. Maybe somebody outside the hospital system if county law is half as compromised as I think.