Page 73 of Property of Whiskey

“You put that thing in my mouth and I will bite your fucking fingers off.”

“Noted.”

“Whiskey.”

“Need to call Mama.”

“Then call her.”

“She hears you screaming through the phone, she’ll come straight over here.”

“Good.”

“No. Bad.”

“Why?”

“Because she don’t know you’re here.”

That stops me.

He steps closer. “My mama’s at my house. She hears Sheriff Dix’s daughter screaming in the background, I’m gonna have two pissed-off women to deal with.”

I smile. “Scared of your mama?”

“Fucking terrified.”

That almost gets me. Almost.

Then he puts the bandanna over my mouth.

I fight him.

Obviously.

He catches my shoulders, turns with me instead of trying to overpower the movement head-on, and knots the cloth behind my head tight enough to shut me up without interfering with my breathing.

“Mmff!”

“Yeah.”

“Mmmff!”

“Pretty sure that means fuck you.”

It does.

He steps back. “Soon as I’m finished, I’ll come back. We’re gonna talk. Get this shit straightened out.”

I glare at him.

“Stay put.”

I look pointedly at the chain.

He winces.

“Yeah. Heard it soon as I said it.”