Page 45 of Property of Whiskey

Pain folds her in half. That answers that. “All right.”

I turn partly away so I’m not looming over her.

“Gonna pick you up.”

She jerks back. “No.”

“Then tell me another way.”

She looks at me. I wait. That’s something most men don’t understand. Sometimes waiting is all you can give somebody.

Finally, she whispers, “Don’t hurt me.”

Something ugly twists behind my ribs.

“I won’t.”

I slide one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. She weighs almost nothing. Not literally, but close enough to piss me off. She bites down on a cry when I lift her.

“Sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, you ain’t.”

I carry her through the break in the fence. My Harley appears between the trees, and her grip tightens around my neck.

“You’re a biker.”

“Yeah.”

“The Kings.”

“Yeah.”

She looks at the patch folded over my forearm. Fear comes back into her eyes.

“I heard…”

“Whatever you heard can wait.”

I reach the Harley and lower her carefully onto the seat. She can’t stay upright without swaying, so I keep one hand at her shoulder. The other comes away bloody.

“You still with me?”

She nods.

“Bullet’s almost here.”

“Who’s Bullet?”

“Pain in my fucking ass.”

A weak breath escapes her that might be a laugh. Good.

Then gravel crunches somewhere beyond the trees.

I straighten.