The Bourbon Kings
Page 48

There was an awkward moment during which the butler said nothing—and Lane wondered how much of the very reasonable plan he was going to have to cram down the little dictator’s throat.
“Very well,” the butler said. “Your assistance is much appreciated.”
As Mr. Harris walked away, Lizzie took a deep breath. “And so we enter the T-minus twenty-four hours stage of things.”
“Can’t some of the other staff do the counting? It’s not your problem.”
“It’s all right. At least if Greta and I do it, I know it’s right. Besides, everyone else on Easterly’s staff is swamped, and it’s not like the adjunct chefs can spare—”
Lane’s phone started ringing, and he took it out of his pocket to silence the noise. “Who the hell is this?” he asked when he saw the local area code.
She laughed again. “You can find out by—brace yourself—answering the call.”
“Are you giving me a hard time?”
“Someone’s got to.”
Lane smiled so wide, his cheeks stretched. “Okay, let’s roll the dice and see who it is.” He hit the green means go and said in his best Lurch voice, “Yooooou raaaaaaaaannnng—”
“Lane—oh, God, Lane, I need help.”
“Gin?” He sat up in the chair. “Gin, are you okay?”
“I’m downtown at the Washington County Jail. You have to come bail me out—I—”
“What the hell? What are you—”
“I need a lawyer—”
“Okay, okay, slow down.” He got to his feet. “You’re talking so fast I can’t understand you.”
His sister took a pause and then said four complete sentences that bottomed him out.
“All right,” he said grimly. “I’m coming right now. Yes. Right. Okay. I will.”
When he hung up, all he could do was trace Lizzie’s face with his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“My father had Gin arrested. I’ve literally got to go and bail her out at the county jail.”
Lizzie put her hand over her mouth with shock. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I’m going to take care of her. But thank you.”
It took all his self-control not to lean in and kiss her like he used to. Instead, he settled for reaching up and brushing her cheek—and leaving before she could marshal a “friends don’t do that.”
Holy hell, what was his father up to now.
Back when Edward had been a smoker, he had frequently woken up in the morning in mid-reach, his arm and hand going for his Dunhill Reds before he was conscious of having so much as rolled onto his side.
Now he did the same, only he was going for the bottle of Advil.
Shaking four gelcaps into the palm of his trembling hand, he put the pills in his mouth and swallowed them down with the dregs of the vodka he’d taken to bed with him. Grimacing as his version of breakfast headed to his stomach, he lay back on his pillow.
He’d given up smoking during his recovery. Actually, the abduction had been the first step in breaking him of the habit.
Ironic, that nearly getting killed was probably responsible for helping him to live a longer life.
He toasted the bottle into the air. “Gracias, muchachos.”
Before his brain could get locked into that endless loop of hideous, Day It Happened sequences, he shifted his legs to the floor and sat up. He didn’t look at his right thigh or calf. For one, the ragged seams of his Frankenstein flesh were burned into his mind. For another, he didn’t sleep naked anymore, so there was nothing showing.
The cane was necessary to get him upright, and his balance was off not just because of the injuries, but the lack of sleep and the fact that he was still drunk. Limping to the bathroom, he left the lights off so the mirror wasn’t an issue, and he used the toilet, washed his face and hands, and brushed his teeth.
The confirmation that God still hated him came when he stepped outside the cottage ten minutes later and was blinded by the bright sunlight—and his hangover headache.
What time was it? he wondered.
He was halfway to Barn B when he realized he’d taken the bottle of hooch with him. Kind of like a safety blanket.
Rolling his eyes, he kept going. Miss No-Cussing-Ever might as well get used to him and the booze now—no reason to present her with an illusion of daylight teetotaling that would only get shattered later. If she couldn’t deal with his habit, she might as well leave on her first day.
The sound of a squeaky wheel turned his head to the right, and a split second later, Shelby came out of the far end of the barn, her body cocked at the waist behind a tremendous load of horse manure in an old rusty wheelbarrow.
Guess Moe had put her to work already.
“Hey,” he called out.
Without losing a beat, she waved over her shoulder and kept going to the compost area behind the nearest outbuilding.
As he watched her, he envied her strong body—and maybe noticed, absently, that the sun on her hair turned the many blond streaks nearly white. She was wearing a navy blue T-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and the same high-quality boots she’d been in the night before. And after disappearing around the lip of the walling, she reappeared twice as fast as she should have, considering the amount of manure she’d had to dump.
So she was efficient, too.
As she approached, her eyes were bright and alert, her cheeks flushed with the effort. “Almost done. I’ll start on ‘C’ next.”