Page 5 of Property of Whiskey

For the first time since I walked over, every trace of amusement leaves his face.

“No,” he says. “That’s the fucking problem.”

The answer lands differently than all the teasing before it.

Before I can decide what the hell he means, my father appears beside us.

Daddy doesn’t shove himself between us. He doesn’t need to. Sheriff Dix has spent thirty-two years perfecting a look that makes grown men suddenly remember outstanding warrants, expired tags, unpaid taxes, and every bad decision they made after midnight.

Whiskey looks over my shoulder.

“Evening, Sheriff.”

“Whiskey.” Daddy says his name like it’s a diagnosis.

Whiskey glances at me. “Fine match.”

“Move along.” Daddy shifts one boot half a step closer to Whiskey. Not enough to start anything. Just enough to remind everybody which one of them is wearing a badge.

“Ain’t finished my drink.”

“Take it somewhere you can’t see my daughter’s backside.”

“Daddy.”

“What?”

“You’re discussing my backside in public.”

“I’m discussing him looking at it.”

Whiskey lifts his glass. “I was appreciating local athletics.”

“You can appreciate your way out that door.”

“Can’t arrest a man for supporting small business.”

Daddy’s left eye twitches harder.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Whiskey catches it. “What brings you here, Sheriff?”

Daddy rises on both feet. “Report of an active shooter at the bar.”

Whiskey laughs, glancing toward a woman surrounded by her girlfriends encouraging her to take another shot. “And you came alone?”

“Backup already here.” Daddy is talking about me.

“Well, the only active shooter here is that redhead over at the bar. Name’s Andi, I think. Shootin’ Fireball like it doesn’t taste like spicy piss.” He tips his glass toward me, entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re not funny,” I tell him.

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s what makes it sad.”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth again, and the humor leaves his face. “Careful, Deputy.”