The Bourbon Kings
Page 45
Repeating the process until she had four outfits in there, she leaned back and checked out her work. Horrible. Nothing like what Blanche did for her, but she was not waiting until that woman came in for her shift at noon.
Gin was in the process of closing things up when she realized she had no underwear, no shoes, no bra, no toiletries.
She took out a second LV roller, and screwed the tissue paper.
What did she care, anyway. She was just going to buy whatever else she wanted.
When she was finished, she picked up the house phone over by her bed, dialed Rosalinda’s office, and couldn’t believe it as voice mail kicked in. “Where the hell is that woman—”
A quick glance at the Cartier clock on her desk and she discovered it was just eight-thirty. God, she hadn’t been up this early in how long?
Arrangements for the jets could also be made through her father’s executive assistant—and that robot was always at her desk. But Gin didn’t want him to know she was leaving until she was halfway to California, and undoubtedly his bulldog in a skirt would hop right on the phone to him if she called.
God, that expression on his face last night had made her blood run cold. She’d never seen him so furious.
But, again, she was nothing if not her father’s daughter: As with hatred, two were going to play at this game of chicken.
Ten minutes later, Gin pulled out the handles on her luggage and tripped over the damn things as she rolled herself out into the corridor. With her matching monogrammed bag slapping against her side and one of her heels popping out of the back of her Louboutins as she shut her door, she cursed the lack of a bellman.
But she didn’t trust that butler, either.
As a matter of fact, she trusted no one in the house.
Before she took the elevator down to the basement level, she went to Amelia’s room and opened the door up.
For the first time, the decor truly registered on her.
The pink and white canopied bed was a queen size even though her daughter barely weighed more than a pillow, and there were no Taylor Swift or One Direction posters on the walls. The vanity was French and antique, the en suite bathroom was marble and brass that was sixty years old, and the chandelier in the center was Baccarat and suspended on a silk-sheathed chain below a handmade, gold-leafed medallion.
It was more the suite of a fifty-year-old than someone who was fifteen.
Sixteen, as of last night, Gin reminded herself.
Tiptoeing across the needlepoint rug, she took her favorite picture of her dark-haired little girl, who was now not so dark haired as she was getting blond highlights every six weeks and hardly so little given that she was a sophomore at Hotchkiss.
The mere thought of her daughter made leaving Easterly feel even more right. She had two friends waiting for her in Montecito, and she’d stay out there until the point had been made that her father might run a billion-dollar-a-year corporation but he was not in charge of her. After that? She would come back here just so he could see her on a regular basis and realize his mistake.
Out in the hallway again, she kept the cursing to a minimum as she hobbled down to the elevator and loaded herself in. She broke a nail punching repeatedly at the door-closing button, and nearly snapped one of her stiletto heels off when she got off on the cellar level and had to pull the suitcases out.
She had no idea which way to go. Where the garages were. How to orientate herself underground.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to find the tunnel that ran out to where the fleet of cars was, and when she surfaced in the ten-bay facility, she felt like she’d not just run a marathon, but won it.
Except no car keys. Not in the Bentley. Not in the Drophead. And she wasn’t taking the Porsche GTS or the Ferrari thingy or that ancient Jaguar that was like Samuel T.’s—because they were all stick shifts that she couldn’t drive. Same with the 911s and the Spyker.
And the Mercedes sedans weren’t good enough for her.
“Damn it!” As she stamped her foot, one of her rolling cases fell over like it had fainted. “Where are the keys?”
Abandoning the luggage, she marched down toward the office space. Which was locked. As were the garage doors.
This was totally unacceptable.
Taking out her cell phone, she was about to dial—well, she didn’t know who, but someone—when the lockbox over against the wall caught her eye. Going across to the three-foot-by-one-foot metal door, she pulled at the toggle, and was unsurprised when it didn’t budge.
The good news? She really felt like hitting something.
Looking around, she saw nothing out of place. From car covers, to spare tires, to cleaning supplies, everything was arranged down the wall with military precision in shelving, on hooks, under container lids.
Except for the crowbar she found leaning against a neat stack of chamois cloths that were monogrammed with the family crest.
Gin smiled as she clip-clip-clipped her way over and hefted the hunk of metal up. Back at the lockbox, she swung the thing above her head and had at the key storage like it was her father’s head, hitting, hitting, hitting, the sharp ringing sounds stinging her ears.
Even though she had almost no nail tips left by the time she was finished, that cover was hanging open from its one remaining hinge.
The Bentley, she decided.
No, the Rolls. It cost more.
Taking her luggage to the Phantom Drophead, she opened the suicide door, shoved the suitcases into the back seat and got behind the wheel. Then she punched her high-heeled shoe into the brake, hit the start/stop button, and the engine flared to life with a latent growl.
Gin was in the process of closing things up when she realized she had no underwear, no shoes, no bra, no toiletries.
She took out a second LV roller, and screwed the tissue paper.
What did she care, anyway. She was just going to buy whatever else she wanted.
When she was finished, she picked up the house phone over by her bed, dialed Rosalinda’s office, and couldn’t believe it as voice mail kicked in. “Where the hell is that woman—”
A quick glance at the Cartier clock on her desk and she discovered it was just eight-thirty. God, she hadn’t been up this early in how long?
Arrangements for the jets could also be made through her father’s executive assistant—and that robot was always at her desk. But Gin didn’t want him to know she was leaving until she was halfway to California, and undoubtedly his bulldog in a skirt would hop right on the phone to him if she called.
God, that expression on his face last night had made her blood run cold. She’d never seen him so furious.
But, again, she was nothing if not her father’s daughter: As with hatred, two were going to play at this game of chicken.
Ten minutes later, Gin pulled out the handles on her luggage and tripped over the damn things as she rolled herself out into the corridor. With her matching monogrammed bag slapping against her side and one of her heels popping out of the back of her Louboutins as she shut her door, she cursed the lack of a bellman.
But she didn’t trust that butler, either.
As a matter of fact, she trusted no one in the house.
Before she took the elevator down to the basement level, she went to Amelia’s room and opened the door up.
For the first time, the decor truly registered on her.
The pink and white canopied bed was a queen size even though her daughter barely weighed more than a pillow, and there were no Taylor Swift or One Direction posters on the walls. The vanity was French and antique, the en suite bathroom was marble and brass that was sixty years old, and the chandelier in the center was Baccarat and suspended on a silk-sheathed chain below a handmade, gold-leafed medallion.
It was more the suite of a fifty-year-old than someone who was fifteen.
Sixteen, as of last night, Gin reminded herself.
Tiptoeing across the needlepoint rug, she took her favorite picture of her dark-haired little girl, who was now not so dark haired as she was getting blond highlights every six weeks and hardly so little given that she was a sophomore at Hotchkiss.
The mere thought of her daughter made leaving Easterly feel even more right. She had two friends waiting for her in Montecito, and she’d stay out there until the point had been made that her father might run a billion-dollar-a-year corporation but he was not in charge of her. After that? She would come back here just so he could see her on a regular basis and realize his mistake.
Out in the hallway again, she kept the cursing to a minimum as she hobbled down to the elevator and loaded herself in. She broke a nail punching repeatedly at the door-closing button, and nearly snapped one of her stiletto heels off when she got off on the cellar level and had to pull the suitcases out.
She had no idea which way to go. Where the garages were. How to orientate herself underground.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to find the tunnel that ran out to where the fleet of cars was, and when she surfaced in the ten-bay facility, she felt like she’d not just run a marathon, but won it.
Except no car keys. Not in the Bentley. Not in the Drophead. And she wasn’t taking the Porsche GTS or the Ferrari thingy or that ancient Jaguar that was like Samuel T.’s—because they were all stick shifts that she couldn’t drive. Same with the 911s and the Spyker.
And the Mercedes sedans weren’t good enough for her.
“Damn it!” As she stamped her foot, one of her rolling cases fell over like it had fainted. “Where are the keys?”
Abandoning the luggage, she marched down toward the office space. Which was locked. As were the garage doors.
This was totally unacceptable.
Taking out her cell phone, she was about to dial—well, she didn’t know who, but someone—when the lockbox over against the wall caught her eye. Going across to the three-foot-by-one-foot metal door, she pulled at the toggle, and was unsurprised when it didn’t budge.
The good news? She really felt like hitting something.
Looking around, she saw nothing out of place. From car covers, to spare tires, to cleaning supplies, everything was arranged down the wall with military precision in shelving, on hooks, under container lids.
Except for the crowbar she found leaning against a neat stack of chamois cloths that were monogrammed with the family crest.
Gin smiled as she clip-clip-clipped her way over and hefted the hunk of metal up. Back at the lockbox, she swung the thing above her head and had at the key storage like it was her father’s head, hitting, hitting, hitting, the sharp ringing sounds stinging her ears.
Even though she had almost no nail tips left by the time she was finished, that cover was hanging open from its one remaining hinge.
The Bentley, she decided.
No, the Rolls. It cost more.
Taking her luggage to the Phantom Drophead, she opened the suicide door, shoved the suitcases into the back seat and got behind the wheel. Then she punched her high-heeled shoe into the brake, hit the start/stop button, and the engine flared to life with a latent growl.
