The Bourbon Kings
Page 39
“Okay. I respect that.”
He could hear the relief in her voice: “Thank you—”
“But,” he interjected, “what exactly does that mean?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, friends … like, what is that? I can call you, right? And friends can share a meal now and then so they keep each other up on the news—you know, divorces, moving plans, new directions, this kind of thing.”
“Lane.”
He smiled. “I love when you say my name like that.”
“When I’m annoyed?”
“It’s sexy.”
Lizzie cleared her throat. “That is not a friendship word, okay?”
“I was merely making a statement of fact.”
“Opinion.”
“Fact—”
“Lane, I’m telling you right now, you need to …”
As she went off on him, talking in her typical straightforward, no-nonsense way, he closed his eyes and listened to the orders, letting the tone of her voice wash over him. Deep in his gut, that old familiar lust stirred, a dragon woken up—and the urge was so strong, he wanted to get in his car and head out over the bridges to Indiana.
“Are you still there?” she demanded.
“Oh, yeah.” Rearranging his erection in his pants, he held back a groan. “Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing?”
He moved his hand way, waaaaay away from ground zero. “Nothing.”
“Well?” she said. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Falling asleep on me?”
“Hardly,” he muttered.
There was a heartbeat of a pause. Then a tight, “Oh …”
Like she’d caught his drift.
“I better go,” he said roughly. “You take care and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Except now she didn’t seem to want him to get off the phone—and his cock was very truly happy about that: “So you’re really staying?” she said.
Can we talk about something else, his erection thought.
Down, boy.
“Yes, I am.” As he shifted on the hard floor, he tried to ignore the way that zipper stroked at him. “I have to meet with Samuel T. about my divorce.”
“So you’re really going to …”
“Yes,” he said. “Immediately. And, no, it’s not just about you. I made a mistake, and I’m fixing it for everybody.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“I’m only looking forward, Lizzie.”
“So you say. Well … good-bye—”
“No,” he cut in. “Not that. We say good night, all right? Not good-bye, not unless you want me showing up to sleep on your doorstep like a stray dog.”
“All right.”
Before she ended the call on her side, he mouthed, I love you. “Good night, Lizzie.”
“Good … night, Lane.”
Ending the connection, he let his arm fall down, and the phone hit the concrete floor with a crack. “I love you, Lizzie,” he muttered out loud.
Taking another draw off the bottle, he thought how convenient it was that his family’s fortunes were based on something that could get him drunk—as opposed to the countless other consumer products which wouldn’t have helped him in his current situation: pencils, car batteries, Band-Aids, chewing gum.
When his phone went off again, he snapped to and picked the thing up. But it wasn’t Lizzie calling him back.
“Jeff,” he said, even thought he didn’t really want to talk to anybody.
His Manhattan host’s voice was dry. “You’re still alive.”
“Pretty much.” He put the bottle to his mouth again. “How’s you?”
“Are you drinking?”
“Yup. Number Fifteen. I’d share it with you if you were here.”
“Such a Southern gentleman.” His buddy cursed. “Lane, where are you?”
“Home.”
Cue the crickets over the connection. “As in …”
“Yup.”
“Charlemont?”
“Born and bred I was and back to the fold I have returned.” Huh. Guess he was getting drunk; he sounded really Southern. “Like you and the Upper East Side, only we have chitterlings and fried chicken—”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“My …” He cleared his throat. “A very important person got sick. And I had to come.”
“Who?”
“The woman who raised me. My … well, mother—even though she’s not my biological mother. She was sick a couple of years ago, but, you know these things. They can return. She says she’s going to be fine, though, and I’m hanging on to that.”
“When’re you coming back?”
Lane took another drink. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”
“What?”
“It was right before I came up north and started crashing with you. I’m going to stay down here until I know Miss Aurora’s okay and that dumb idea is taken care of. Plus … anyway … there’s this other woman.”
“Hold on. Just, fucking hell, hold on.”
There was some rustling, then the chk-chk-chk of someone trying to get a lighter to spit out a flame … followed by some puffing. “I’m going to need a Cuban to get through this. So … there’s a wife?”
He could hear the relief in her voice: “Thank you—”
“But,” he interjected, “what exactly does that mean?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, friends … like, what is that? I can call you, right? And friends can share a meal now and then so they keep each other up on the news—you know, divorces, moving plans, new directions, this kind of thing.”
“Lane.”
He smiled. “I love when you say my name like that.”
“When I’m annoyed?”
“It’s sexy.”
Lizzie cleared her throat. “That is not a friendship word, okay?”
“I was merely making a statement of fact.”
“Opinion.”
“Fact—”
“Lane, I’m telling you right now, you need to …”
As she went off on him, talking in her typical straightforward, no-nonsense way, he closed his eyes and listened to the orders, letting the tone of her voice wash over him. Deep in his gut, that old familiar lust stirred, a dragon woken up—and the urge was so strong, he wanted to get in his car and head out over the bridges to Indiana.
“Are you still there?” she demanded.
“Oh, yeah.” Rearranging his erection in his pants, he held back a groan. “Yes, I am.”
“What are you doing?”
He moved his hand way, waaaaay away from ground zero. “Nothing.”
“Well?” she said. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Falling asleep on me?”
“Hardly,” he muttered.
There was a heartbeat of a pause. Then a tight, “Oh …”
Like she’d caught his drift.
“I better go,” he said roughly. “You take care and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Except now she didn’t seem to want him to get off the phone—and his cock was very truly happy about that: “So you’re really staying?” she said.
Can we talk about something else, his erection thought.
Down, boy.
“Yes, I am.” As he shifted on the hard floor, he tried to ignore the way that zipper stroked at him. “I have to meet with Samuel T. about my divorce.”
“So you’re really going to …”
“Yes,” he said. “Immediately. And, no, it’s not just about you. I made a mistake, and I’m fixing it for everybody.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“I’m only looking forward, Lizzie.”
“So you say. Well … good-bye—”
“No,” he cut in. “Not that. We say good night, all right? Not good-bye, not unless you want me showing up to sleep on your doorstep like a stray dog.”
“All right.”
Before she ended the call on her side, he mouthed, I love you. “Good night, Lizzie.”
“Good … night, Lane.”
Ending the connection, he let his arm fall down, and the phone hit the concrete floor with a crack. “I love you, Lizzie,” he muttered out loud.
Taking another draw off the bottle, he thought how convenient it was that his family’s fortunes were based on something that could get him drunk—as opposed to the countless other consumer products which wouldn’t have helped him in his current situation: pencils, car batteries, Band-Aids, chewing gum.
When his phone went off again, he snapped to and picked the thing up. But it wasn’t Lizzie calling him back.
“Jeff,” he said, even thought he didn’t really want to talk to anybody.
His Manhattan host’s voice was dry. “You’re still alive.”
“Pretty much.” He put the bottle to his mouth again. “How’s you?”
“Are you drinking?”
“Yup. Number Fifteen. I’d share it with you if you were here.”
“Such a Southern gentleman.” His buddy cursed. “Lane, where are you?”
“Home.”
Cue the crickets over the connection. “As in …”
“Yup.”
“Charlemont?”
“Born and bred I was and back to the fold I have returned.” Huh. Guess he was getting drunk; he sounded really Southern. “Like you and the Upper East Side, only we have chitterlings and fried chicken—”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“My …” He cleared his throat. “A very important person got sick. And I had to come.”
“Who?”
“The woman who raised me. My … well, mother—even though she’s not my biological mother. She was sick a couple of years ago, but, you know these things. They can return. She says she’s going to be fine, though, and I’m hanging on to that.”
“When’re you coming back?”
Lane took another drink. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”
“What?”
“It was right before I came up north and started crashing with you. I’m going to stay down here until I know Miss Aurora’s okay and that dumb idea is taken care of. Plus … anyway … there’s this other woman.”
“Hold on. Just, fucking hell, hold on.”
There was some rustling, then the chk-chk-chk of someone trying to get a lighter to spit out a flame … followed by some puffing. “I’m going to need a Cuban to get through this. So … there’s a wife?”
