The Bourbon Kings

He shook his head at the cash. “Ma’am, I can take you anywhere—”

“Please. I need the car.”

There was a short pause. “All right. Do you know how to drive this—”

“I’ll figure it out.” She put the money against his palm and curled his hand into a fist. “Keep this. I’ll be fine.”

“I’d rather drive you myself.”

“I appreciate the kindness, I truly do.” She shut herself in, put the window up, and looked around for the gear shift or the—

At the knock on the tinted glass, she put the thing back down.

“It’s there—to the side of the wheel,” the chauffeur said. “That’s where your drive and reverse are. There you go. And the directional signal is—yup, that’s right. You shouldn’t need the windshield wipers, and the headlights are already on as you can see. Good luck.”

He stepped back, kind of like you’d do if someone were about to put a match to fireworks. Or a bomb.

Sutton hit the gas, and the powerful sedan lurched forward as if there were a jet engine under the hood. In the back of her mind, she did a quick calculation on how many years it had been since she’d actually driven herself anywhere—and the answer was not encouraging.

But just like everything else in her life, she was going to figure it out—or die trying.

“Mind if I have some more?”

As Lizzie gave him an Oh, please, do, Lane got up and headed back for the fridge. The food was helping clear his head—or maybe it was her company.

Probably more just being in her presence.

“This is really good,” he said as he broke open the ice box and took out another serving.

Her soft laugh made him pause and close his eyes, so the sound could sink into him even more deeply.

“You’re just being nice,” she murmured.

“God’s honest.”

Putting his plate into the microwave, he hit six minutes and watched as the frozen block went around and around.

“So I’m going to have to talk to Edward,” he heard himself say.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

He cleared his throat. Felt that itch for a little drink. “It was …”

For a moment, he got lost in wondering how he could ask her if she had any booze in the house. “Wow.”

“That long?”

“Actually, I was thinking about something else.” Namely, that it was entirely possible that he had a drinking problem. “But come on, after a day like today, who wouldn’t be an alcoholic?”

“What?”

Oh, shit, had he spoken out loud? “Sorry, my brain’s a mess.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“You are.”

“So when did you see Edward last?”

Lane closed his eyes again. But instead of doing some mental calculation that would reveal the sum of how much he sucked as a brother, he went back in time to that New Year’s night when Edward had gotten beaten for the rest of them.

He and Maxwell had stayed in the ballroom, silent and trembling, as their father had forced Edward upstairs. As the two sets of footfalls had ascended the grand staircase, Lane had screamed at the top of his lungs—but only internally.

He was too much of a coward to jump out and stop the lie that had saved him and his brother.

“I should go up there,” he said as time passed.

“But what can you do?” Max whispered. “Nothing will stop Father.”

“I could …”

Except Max was right. Edward had lied, and their father was making him pay for a transgression that was not his own. If Lane told the truth now … their father would simply beat them all. At least if he and Maxwell stayed put here, they could avoid …

No, this was wrong. This was dishonorable.

“I’m going up there.” Before Maxwell could say anything, Lane grabbed his brother’s arm. “And you’re coming with me.”

Max’s conscience must have been bothering him as well, because instead of arguing like he always did with everything, he followed mutely up the front stairs. When they got to the top, the grand hallway was empty save for the fancy moldings, the oil paintings, and the bouquets sitting on antique tables or bureaus.

“We’ve got to stop this,” Lane hissed.

One after the other, they moved quickly over the carpeted runner … to their father’s door.

On the other side of the panels, the sounds of the whipping were sharp and loud, from the slaps of leather hitting bare skin to the grunts as their father put strength into it.

Edward was silent.

And meanwhile, the two of them just stood there, silent and stupid. All Lane could think about was how neither he nor Max would be even half as strong. They would both have ended up crying.

The drive to be righteous and honest grew weaker with each of those hits … until Lane’s nerve was totally lost.

“Let’s go,” he choked out with shame.

Once again, Max did not put up a fight. He was obviously too much of a coward as well.

The room they shared was down farther, and Lane was the one who opened the door. There were plenty of bedrooms to spare for them to sleep separately, but when Maxwell had started getting night terrors a couple of years before, they had become roommates by default: Max had started sneaking into Lane’s room and waking up there in the morning. Eventually, Miss Aurora had moved another bed in, and that was that.