Page 79 of Property of Whiskey

“I mean bite it clean off.”

“Still thinking about it, ain’t you.”

I hate him. Actually hate him.

He rubs his bitten hand. “You draw blood?”

“Hope so.”

“You got all your shots?”

I stare.

He smiles. “Rabies?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, we keep circling back.”

I lean against the support post. “Take these cuffs off.”

“No.”

“Then call my father.”

“No.”

“You said we were going to talk.”

“We are.”

“Hard to have a productive conversation while I’m chained to a post.”

“You seem productive.”

“I will kill you.”

“See? Communicating already.”

Whiskey drags an old wooden chair across the concrete and sits facing me, not close enough to touch and just far enough that I could kick him if the chain were six inches longer.

I test it.

He notices and moves his chair back another couple inches.

Coward.

“Ask,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“You got questions.”

“No shit.”

“You’ve been chasing this thing since Kaylee’s name landed in front of you. Ask.”

“What’s the catch?”