The Bourbon Kings
Page 100
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
The sound of the door opening behind him ripped his head around.
Not Edward.
Not. Even. Close.
His father, not his brother, came out of the rear door of the business center, and Lane froze.
The first thing he did was look at the man’s hands—and he expected to find blood there. But no. In fact, the only thing on them, or in one of them, rather, was a white handkerchief that was pressed to his mouth as if he were discreetly covering a cough.
His father did not look over, but didn’t appear stressed. Preoccupied, yes. Stressed? No.
And the bastard walked right by the back end of the old truck, the lack of social position associated with such a vehicle putting the F-150 and whatever owner or passenger might be standing with it beneath his radar.
“I know what you did.”
Lane wasn’t aware of speaking until the words came out of his mouth. And his father stopped and turned around immediately.
As one of the garage doors began to trundle up in the background, William’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said.
Lane crossed the distance between them and met his father eye to eye. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You heard me. I know exactly what you did.”
It was eerie how much that face looked so like his own. Also eerie that nothing in it moved … William’s expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“You’ll have to be more specific. Son.”
The cold tone suggested that last word could have been replaced by “waste of my time” or perhaps the more colloquial “asshole.”
Lane gritted his teeth. He wanted to lay it all out, but the reality that his brother was still inside that business center—or at least, hopefully remained in there alive—coupled with the fact that his father would just redouble efforts to cover his tracks, stopped him.
“Chantal told me,” Lane whispered.
William rolled his eyes. “About what? Her demand that her rooms be redecorated for the third time? Or is it that trip to New York she wanted to take—again? She’s your wife. If she wants these things, she needs to discuss them with you.”
Lane narrowed his stare, tracing every one of those features.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lane, I’m going to—”
“You don’t know, do you.”
His father indicated an elegant hand to the Rolls-Royce being pulled out of the garage. “I’m going to be late—and I don’t play guessing games. Good day—”
“She’s pregnant.” As his father frowned, Lane made sure that he enunciated his words clearly. “Chantal is pregnant, and she says it’s yours.”
He waited for the tell, waited for that single pinpoint of weakness to show … used all his experience in poker to read the man in front of him.
And suddenly there it was, the admission spoken in the subtle twitching under the left eye.
“I’m divorcing her,” Lane said softly. “So she’s all yours, if you want her. But that bastard child is not living under my mother’s roof, do you understand? You will not disrespect Mother like that. I will not have it.”
William coughed a couple of times, and re-outed the handkerchief. “A piece of advice for you, son. Women like Chantal are as truthful as they are faithful. I have never been with your wife. For godsakes.”
“Women like her aren’t the only ones who lie.”
“Ah, yes, a double entendre. The conversational harbor for the passive aggressive.”
Fuck it, Lane thought.
“Fine, I know about your affair with Rosalinda, too, and I’m very sure she killed herself because of you. Considering you have refused to speak to the police, I’m assuming you know that fact as well and are waiting for your attorneys to tell you what to say.”
The flush of rage that rose up from the French collar of his father’s pressed and monogrammed shirt was a red stain that turned his skin ruddy as a tarp. “You better realign your thinking, boy.”
“And I know what you did to Edward.” At that point, his voice cracked. “I know you refused to pay the ransom, and I’m pretty sure you had him kidnapped.” Steering away from anything further about the financial issues, Lane continued, “You always hated him. I don’t know why, but you always went after him. I’m only guessing you finally got bored toying with him and decided to end the game on your terms, once and for all.”
Funny, over the years, he had often pictured himself confronting his father—had played out all kinds of different scenarios, tried on all sorts of righteous speeches and violent yelling.
The reality was so much more quiet than he would have imagined. And so much more devastating.
The Rolls-Royce came to a stop beside them, and the family’s uniformed chauffeur got out. “Sir?”
William coughed into that handkerchief, his gold signet ring gleaming in the sunlight. “Good day, son. I hope you enjoy your fiction. It is easier to contend with than reality—for the weak.”
Lane grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him around. “You are a bastard.”
“No,” William said with boredom. “I know who both my parents were—a rather important detail in one’s life. It can be so dispositive, don’t you agree?”
As William ripped out of the hold and walked toward the car, the chauffeur opened the suicide door to the backseat and the man slid in. The Drophead was off a moment later, that handsome profile of its passanger remaining forward and composed as if nothing had happened.
Not Edward.
Not. Even. Close.
His father, not his brother, came out of the rear door of the business center, and Lane froze.
The first thing he did was look at the man’s hands—and he expected to find blood there. But no. In fact, the only thing on them, or in one of them, rather, was a white handkerchief that was pressed to his mouth as if he were discreetly covering a cough.
His father did not look over, but didn’t appear stressed. Preoccupied, yes. Stressed? No.
And the bastard walked right by the back end of the old truck, the lack of social position associated with such a vehicle putting the F-150 and whatever owner or passenger might be standing with it beneath his radar.
“I know what you did.”
Lane wasn’t aware of speaking until the words came out of his mouth. And his father stopped and turned around immediately.
As one of the garage doors began to trundle up in the background, William’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the handkerchief inside his jacket.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said.
Lane crossed the distance between them and met his father eye to eye. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You heard me. I know exactly what you did.”
It was eerie how much that face looked so like his own. Also eerie that nothing in it moved … William’s expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“You’ll have to be more specific. Son.”
The cold tone suggested that last word could have been replaced by “waste of my time” or perhaps the more colloquial “asshole.”
Lane gritted his teeth. He wanted to lay it all out, but the reality that his brother was still inside that business center—or at least, hopefully remained in there alive—coupled with the fact that his father would just redouble efforts to cover his tracks, stopped him.
“Chantal told me,” Lane whispered.
William rolled his eyes. “About what? Her demand that her rooms be redecorated for the third time? Or is it that trip to New York she wanted to take—again? She’s your wife. If she wants these things, she needs to discuss them with you.”
Lane narrowed his stare, tracing every one of those features.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lane, I’m going to—”
“You don’t know, do you.”
His father indicated an elegant hand to the Rolls-Royce being pulled out of the garage. “I’m going to be late—and I don’t play guessing games. Good day—”
“She’s pregnant.” As his father frowned, Lane made sure that he enunciated his words clearly. “Chantal is pregnant, and she says it’s yours.”
He waited for the tell, waited for that single pinpoint of weakness to show … used all his experience in poker to read the man in front of him.
And suddenly there it was, the admission spoken in the subtle twitching under the left eye.
“I’m divorcing her,” Lane said softly. “So she’s all yours, if you want her. But that bastard child is not living under my mother’s roof, do you understand? You will not disrespect Mother like that. I will not have it.”
William coughed a couple of times, and re-outed the handkerchief. “A piece of advice for you, son. Women like Chantal are as truthful as they are faithful. I have never been with your wife. For godsakes.”
“Women like her aren’t the only ones who lie.”
“Ah, yes, a double entendre. The conversational harbor for the passive aggressive.”
Fuck it, Lane thought.
“Fine, I know about your affair with Rosalinda, too, and I’m very sure she killed herself because of you. Considering you have refused to speak to the police, I’m assuming you know that fact as well and are waiting for your attorneys to tell you what to say.”
The flush of rage that rose up from the French collar of his father’s pressed and monogrammed shirt was a red stain that turned his skin ruddy as a tarp. “You better realign your thinking, boy.”
“And I know what you did to Edward.” At that point, his voice cracked. “I know you refused to pay the ransom, and I’m pretty sure you had him kidnapped.” Steering away from anything further about the financial issues, Lane continued, “You always hated him. I don’t know why, but you always went after him. I’m only guessing you finally got bored toying with him and decided to end the game on your terms, once and for all.”
Funny, over the years, he had often pictured himself confronting his father—had played out all kinds of different scenarios, tried on all sorts of righteous speeches and violent yelling.
The reality was so much more quiet than he would have imagined. And so much more devastating.
The Rolls-Royce came to a stop beside them, and the family’s uniformed chauffeur got out. “Sir?”
William coughed into that handkerchief, his gold signet ring gleaming in the sunlight. “Good day, son. I hope you enjoy your fiction. It is easier to contend with than reality—for the weak.”
Lane grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him around. “You are a bastard.”
“No,” William said with boredom. “I know who both my parents were—a rather important detail in one’s life. It can be so dispositive, don’t you agree?”
As William ripped out of the hold and walked toward the car, the chauffeur opened the suicide door to the backseat and the man slid in. The Drophead was off a moment later, that handsome profile of its passanger remaining forward and composed as if nothing had happened.
