Page 68 of Property of Whiskey

He catches me around the waist. This time he commits. Whiskey hauls me forward while I lock both legs around the doorframe.

He grunts. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“I wrestle.”

“I know.”

“You watch.”

“I know that too.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“Yeah, probably.”

He gives one hard pull.

My grip slips.

The next thing I know, I’m over his shoulder with my hair hanging toward the ground and my ass in the air.

I test how much leverage the cuffs give me, decide his kidneys are easier to reach than his face, and swing both hands against his back.

Humiliation burns hotter than anger.

“You motherfucker!”

“Keep yelling. Maybe the frogs’ll save you.”

“Put me down!”

“You kick me again, I’m carrying you like a sack of concrete.”

“You’re already carrying me like one!”

“Nah. Concrete complains less.”

Bullet gets behind the wheel, and the van pulls out.

I watch it disappear down the road with Kaylee inside.

A missing girl.

Gone again with a King.

My stomach knots even though I saw her choose to go.

I smack Whiskey again.

He keeps walking.

“You hillbilly son of a bitch!”

“Ain’t a hillbilly.”

“You’re carrying a deputy into your mama’s basement!”

He pauses at the porch.