Page 85 of Property of Whiskey

“No. Changed my mind.”

“Criminal.”

“Deputy.”

“Asshole.”

“Blondie.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being blonde.”

“I can arrange for you to stop breathing.”

The old refrigerator clicks behind him, and somewhere overhead the house settles with a faint creak. The basement suddenly feels too quiet for two people who’ve spent the last hour trying to piss each other off.

My throat is dry from yelling through a bandanna.

Whiskey notices, because the man seems to notice everything.

“You want water?”

“No.”

“You’re thirsty.”

“No.”

He gets up anyway and crosses to an old refrigerator near the washer. He takes out a bottle, breaks the seal in front of me, and holds it up.

I eye it. “You expecting me to drink that?”

“Yeah.”

“You could’ve drugged it.”

He looks at the sealed bottle in his hand.

Then drinks half of it.

He holds the rest toward me.

“Woman, if I wanted you unconscious, we wouldn’t have spent thirty fucking minutes arguing.”

I hate that this is logical. I reach for the bottle.

Our fingers touch. Nothing dramatic. Just warm, rough skin against mine.

A stupid little current shoots through my hand anyway, and I pull back too fast.

Whiskey notices.

For once, he doesn’t say a damn thing.

I drink.

He sits again.