The Bourbon Kings

“A spoon?” Max demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s medicine, isn’t it.”

Max threw his head back and laughed. “What are you—”

Lane slapped a palm on his brother’s mouth. “Shut up! Do you want to get caught?”

Max ripped the hold away. “What are they going to do to me? Whip me?”

Well, yes, if their father found them or found out about this: Although the great William Baldwine delegated the vast majority of fatherly duties to other people, the belt was one he saved for himself.

“Wait a minute, you want to be found out,” Lane said softly. “Don’t you.”

Max turned to the brass and glass beverage cart. The ornate server was an antique, as most everything in Easterly was, and the family crest was etched into each of its four corners. With big, spindly wheels and a crystal top, it was the hostess with the mostest, carrying four different kinds of Bradford bourbons, half a dozen crystal glasses, and a sterling-silver ice bucket that was constantly refreshed by the butler.

“Here’s your glass.” Max shoved one at him. “I’m drinking from the bottle.”

“Where’s my spoon?” Gin said.

“You can have a sip off mine,” Lane whispered.

“No. I want my own—”

The debate was cut short as Max yanked the cork out and the projectile went flying, pinging into the chandelier in the center of the room. As crystal chattered and twinkled, the three of them froze.

“Shut up,” Max said before there was any commentary. “And no ice for you.”

The bourbon made a glugging noise as his brother dumped it into Lane’s glass, not stopping until things were filled as high as the milk was at the dining table.

“Now drink up,” Max told him as he put the bottle to his mouth and tilted his head back.

The tough-guy show didn’t last but a single swallow as Max barked out a series of coughs that were loud enough to wake the dead. Leaving his brother to choke up or die trying, Lane stared down into his glass.

Bringing the crystal lip to his mouth, he took a careful pull.

Fire. It was like drinking fire, a trail blazing to his gut—and as he exhaled a curse, he half expected to see flames come out of his face as if he were a dragon.

“My turn,” Gin spoke up.

He held onto the glass, not letting her take it when she wanted to. Meanwhile, Max was having a second and a third go of it.

Gin barely drew from the glass, doing nothing more than get her lips wet and recoil in disgust—

“What are you doing!”

As the chandelier was turned on, the three of them jumped, Lane catching the bourbon that splashed out of his glass down the front of his monogrammed PJs.

Edward stood just inside the parlor, a look of absolute fury on his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you,” he said, marching forward, grabbing the glass out of Lane’s hands and the bottle out of Max’s.

“We were just playing,” Gin muttered.

“Go to bed, Gin.” He put the glass down on the cart and pointed with the bottle to the archway. “You go to bed right now.”

“Aw, why?”

“Unless you want me to kick your ass, too?”

Even Gin could respect that logic.

As she headed for the archway, shoulders hunched, slippers sloppy over the Oriental, Edward hissed, “And use the staff stairs. If Father hears anything, he’ll come down the front.”

Lane’s heart went into full-thunder. And his gut churned—although whether it was the getting caught or the bourbon, he wasn’t sure.

“She’s seven,” Edward said when Gin was out of earshot. “Seven!”

“We know how old she is—”

“Shut up, Maxwell. Just shut up.” He stared down Max. “If you want to corrupt yourself, I don’t care. But don’t contaminate the pair of them with your bullshit.”

Big words. Cusses. And the demeanor of somebody who could ground the both of them.

Then again, Edward had always seemed like a grown-up, even before he’d made the leap into the teenage world.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Max shot back. But the fight was already leaving him, his tone going weak, his eyes dropping to the rug.

“Yes, you do.”

Things got quiet at that point.

“I’m sorry,” Lane said.

“I’m not worried about you.” Edward shook his head. “It’s him I worry about.”

“Say you’re sorry,” Lane whispered. “Max, come on.”

“No.”

“He’s not Father, you know.”

Max glared at Edward. “But you act like it.”

“Only because you’re out of control.”

Lane took Max by the hand. “He’s sorry, too, Edward. Come on, let’s go before anyone hears us.”

It took some tugging, but eventually Max followed along without further comment, the fight over, the bid for independence dashed. They were halfway across the black and white marble floor of the dim foyer when Lane caught sight of something way down at the end of the hall.

Someone was moving in the shadows.

Too big to be Gin.

Lane yanked his brother into the total darkness of the ballroom across the way. “Shh.”

Through the archways into the parlor, he watched as Edward turned to the cart to try to find the cork, and he wanted to yell out a warning for his brother—