Page 5 of Whiskey & Wreckage

She sighs, more defeated than offended. “I guess I should go somewhere. Anywhere but home.”

“How’d you get here?”

Pause. Cue the guilty look.

“I… drove.”

“Yeah, no.” I shake my head. “You’re not driving.”

She throws up her hands. “Okay, fine. I’ll call an Uber.”

The thought of her climbing into some stranger’s backseat, half-coherent and clearly upset, makes my stomach twist. “No. I’ll drive you to a hotel. Make sure you get checked in.”

Her eyes narrow. “You sure you’re not some kind of serial killer?”

“If I were, I’d probably pick someone quieter.”

She snorts. “Fair.”

I pay the bartender, nod a quiet thank you, and guide her outside. She stumbles against my side as we step onto the sidewalk, and I catch her easily, steadying her.

“Easy there,” I mutter.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she insists stubbornly, swaying like a drunk sailor in flip flops. “I was just testing gravity.”

“Uh-huh.” I give her a sideways glance. “Spoiler: it’s still working.”

She mumbles something unintelligible, patting her coat pockets. I notice her phone is completely off. Probably a mercy, considering the way she glared at it before shutting it down.

I open the passenger door and help her inside. She immediately starts fiddling with the radio like she owns the place.

“Comfortable?” I ask, sliding in beside her.

“Your truck smells expensive,” she mumbles. “Leather and cologne and... danger.”

“Danger?”

“All men are dangerous,” she says like it’s fact. “But you’re... like, medium-danger. High-functioning menace.”

I chuckle under my breath. “I’ll put that on my résumé.”

“Should.” She leans back, eyes drifting shut. “Thomas, the high-functioning menace.”

“Private investigator,” I remind her, turning onto the main road.

“Right. Love detective,” she yawns.

I glance over. She’s already out. Peaceful now, her hands loose in her lap. Tired, not weak. Like she’s been holding the world on her shoulders and finally set it down.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of a high-end boutique hotel. The doorman gives me a familiar nod as I help her out.

“Evening, Mr. Ashcroft,” he says.

“Evening,” I nod, guiding Poppy through the glass doors.

The front desk clerk perks up when he sees me. “Mr. Ashcroft. Everything alright?”

“Need a room,” I say, keeping my voice low. “For her. One night for now.”

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