The Bourbon Kings
Page 82
“I shall take care of that, sir.”
Lane shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was time for him to go through those dressers of his and throw on another change of clothes—
“Brunch workers are to go to the rear entrance,” the butler said in a haughty tone. “You shall have to—”
“I’m here to see William Baldwine.”
Lane froze as he recognized the voice.
“That is absolutely not possible. Mr. Baldwine is not receiving privately—”
Lane wheeled around and recoiled at the sight of the lean, dark-haired man in the disheveled clothes and the expensive leather boots. “Mack?”
“—remove yourself immediately from the—”
Cutting the butler off, Lane went over to a guy he’d grown up with. “Mack? Are you all right?”
Okay, the answer to that was clearly “no.” Bradford’s Master Distiller was looking worse for wear, his normally sharp eyes hung with dark circles, a shading of stubble on his handsome-as-sin face.
“Your father is ruining this company,” Mack blurted out in a series of slurs.
“I’ve got this,” Lane said, dismissing the butler and taking the distiller under the arm. “Come with me.”
He dragged the drunken man up the grand staircase and then frogmarched him down the hall to his bedroom. Inside, he led Mack over to the bed, sat him down, and turned away to shut the door—
The thump! of deadweight hitting the floor resounded all around the room.
With a curse, Lane doubled back and lifted the guy off the carpet and back up onto the mattress. Mack was babbling about the integrity of the bourbon-making process, the importance of tradition, the lack of reverence that management was showing the product, how much of a cocksucker someone was …
They were going to get nowhere like this.
“Time to wake up,” Lane said as he got his old buddy up on his feet again. “Come on, big guy.”
Mack had been to the house countless times, but never pickled like this—well, not since they’d transitioned into adulthood. You coupled that with Rosalinda’s information and the fact that the distiller thought William was ruining the company?
Another piece of the pie, Lane thought. Had to be.
In the marble bathroom, he cranked on the shower and shoved Mack under the cold spray fully clothed.
The howl was loud enough to shatter glass, but at least the shock got the guy to stand up on his own.
Leaving him under the water, Lane went over to the petit déjeuner closet in the corner and got to work on the coffee pot, firing up the Keurig.
“You awake now, Mack?” he asked as he brought a mug with the Bradford crest on it into the bath. “Or should I add some ice to the mix?”
Mack glared through his wet hair and the spray. “I should punch you.”
Lane opened the shower’s glass door. “How many of me are there?”
“Two.” The man accepted the mug with his wet hands. “But that’s down from four and a half.”
“So it’s working.”
Mack took a draw of the java at the same time he reached around and juiced the “H” handle. “Coffee’s not bad.”
“Would you know if it were paint thinner?”
“Probably not.”
Lane pointed over his own shoulder. “I’ll be in there, waiting. Robe’s on the back of the door. Do me a favor and don’t come out naked.”
“You couldn’t handle me.”
“Too right.”
Closing things up, Lane went into his closet, put on a set of fresh clothes and then took a load off where Mack had failed to retain verticality. A little later, the Master Distiller made his grand, robed appearance.
The two of them had played basketball together for Charlemont Country Day before they’d gone to college, and the guy was as athletic as he’d always been, with no fat on him and the lanky build of a man who could play golf like a pro, run a marathon better than idiots ten years younger than he was, and still plow the lane on a b-ball court.
Oh, and there was still nothing stupid in those unusual, pale brown eyes. In a romance novel, Mac’s peepers would have been called whiskey or something—but it wasn’t the uncommon color that had gotten all those women into the guy’s bed.
No, there had been so much more to all of that.
And people called him a lady’s man? Lane thought to himself. Edwin MacAllan was worse.
“You got any more of this?” Mack held the mug up. “I think another gallon should do it.”
“Help yourself. It’s single-serve, in there.”
The guy glanced over at the open door to the little kitchen. “Right, I make bourbon. I should be able to handle caffeine.”
“On that note, let me do the duty again. I need some myself, and burning down the house this morning would be a buzzkill.”
The two of them ended up in the chaise lounges over by the windows like a pair of little old ladies. Little old ladies who both needed a shave.
“Talk to me.” Lane plugged his elbows into his knees. “What’s going on at the company.”
Mack shook his head. “It’s bad. I’ve been drunk for two days.”
“Like the latter’s ever stopped you before. We went on spring break together, remember? Six times. Of which only two were actually on the school calendar.”
Mack smiled, but the expression didn’t last. “Look, I’ve kept my thoughts about your father to myself—”
Lane shrugged and headed for the stairs. It was time for him to go through those dressers of his and throw on another change of clothes—
“Brunch workers are to go to the rear entrance,” the butler said in a haughty tone. “You shall have to—”
“I’m here to see William Baldwine.”
Lane froze as he recognized the voice.
“That is absolutely not possible. Mr. Baldwine is not receiving privately—”
Lane wheeled around and recoiled at the sight of the lean, dark-haired man in the disheveled clothes and the expensive leather boots. “Mack?”
“—remove yourself immediately from the—”
Cutting the butler off, Lane went over to a guy he’d grown up with. “Mack? Are you all right?”
Okay, the answer to that was clearly “no.” Bradford’s Master Distiller was looking worse for wear, his normally sharp eyes hung with dark circles, a shading of stubble on his handsome-as-sin face.
“Your father is ruining this company,” Mack blurted out in a series of slurs.
“I’ve got this,” Lane said, dismissing the butler and taking the distiller under the arm. “Come with me.”
He dragged the drunken man up the grand staircase and then frogmarched him down the hall to his bedroom. Inside, he led Mack over to the bed, sat him down, and turned away to shut the door—
The thump! of deadweight hitting the floor resounded all around the room.
With a curse, Lane doubled back and lifted the guy off the carpet and back up onto the mattress. Mack was babbling about the integrity of the bourbon-making process, the importance of tradition, the lack of reverence that management was showing the product, how much of a cocksucker someone was …
They were going to get nowhere like this.
“Time to wake up,” Lane said as he got his old buddy up on his feet again. “Come on, big guy.”
Mack had been to the house countless times, but never pickled like this—well, not since they’d transitioned into adulthood. You coupled that with Rosalinda’s information and the fact that the distiller thought William was ruining the company?
Another piece of the pie, Lane thought. Had to be.
In the marble bathroom, he cranked on the shower and shoved Mack under the cold spray fully clothed.
The howl was loud enough to shatter glass, but at least the shock got the guy to stand up on his own.
Leaving him under the water, Lane went over to the petit déjeuner closet in the corner and got to work on the coffee pot, firing up the Keurig.
“You awake now, Mack?” he asked as he brought a mug with the Bradford crest on it into the bath. “Or should I add some ice to the mix?”
Mack glared through his wet hair and the spray. “I should punch you.”
Lane opened the shower’s glass door. “How many of me are there?”
“Two.” The man accepted the mug with his wet hands. “But that’s down from four and a half.”
“So it’s working.”
Mack took a draw of the java at the same time he reached around and juiced the “H” handle. “Coffee’s not bad.”
“Would you know if it were paint thinner?”
“Probably not.”
Lane pointed over his own shoulder. “I’ll be in there, waiting. Robe’s on the back of the door. Do me a favor and don’t come out naked.”
“You couldn’t handle me.”
“Too right.”
Closing things up, Lane went into his closet, put on a set of fresh clothes and then took a load off where Mack had failed to retain verticality. A little later, the Master Distiller made his grand, robed appearance.
The two of them had played basketball together for Charlemont Country Day before they’d gone to college, and the guy was as athletic as he’d always been, with no fat on him and the lanky build of a man who could play golf like a pro, run a marathon better than idiots ten years younger than he was, and still plow the lane on a b-ball court.
Oh, and there was still nothing stupid in those unusual, pale brown eyes. In a romance novel, Mac’s peepers would have been called whiskey or something—but it wasn’t the uncommon color that had gotten all those women into the guy’s bed.
No, there had been so much more to all of that.
And people called him a lady’s man? Lane thought to himself. Edwin MacAllan was worse.
“You got any more of this?” Mack held the mug up. “I think another gallon should do it.”
“Help yourself. It’s single-serve, in there.”
The guy glanced over at the open door to the little kitchen. “Right, I make bourbon. I should be able to handle caffeine.”
“On that note, let me do the duty again. I need some myself, and burning down the house this morning would be a buzzkill.”
The two of them ended up in the chaise lounges over by the windows like a pair of little old ladies. Little old ladies who both needed a shave.
“Talk to me.” Lane plugged his elbows into his knees. “What’s going on at the company.”
Mack shook his head. “It’s bad. I’ve been drunk for two days.”
“Like the latter’s ever stopped you before. We went on spring break together, remember? Six times. Of which only two were actually on the school calendar.”
Mack smiled, but the expression didn’t last. “Look, I’ve kept my thoughts about your father to myself—”
