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“Yes, sir,” Jock responded with patience. “He’s also now unarmed.”
Setting the gun down, I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Send him up. Keep his weapons.”
“Of course.”
A yawn cracked my jaw as I left the bed, cell phone in hand, and went straight to the bathroom. I’d barely managed two consecutive hours. Emptying my bladder gave me a minute to clear the cobwebs. I got rid of the rest by splashing cold water on my face. The roughness of the stubble was abrasive against my palm.
The past few weeks had been an exercise in the intense. My phone vibrated a warning that the elevator had arrived. It would request my authorization to open. Another measure of security.
I used my thumbprint and facial scan on the way out of the bathroom to let him in before I headed out of the bedroom. The elevator chimed as it opened and a drunken Ezra staggered out. I’d have known he was drunk without the warning from Jock.
He smelled like a distillery and it wafted off of him like he’d soaked alcohol into his pores. His hair askew, his face flushed, and his eyes—
Pausing, I narrowed my gaze to study him. Like a wounded animal and unfocused, he didn’t even bother to glance in my direction. Instead, he just headed for the bar. His gait was unsteady and he swayed on his feet.
“Coffee,” I told him as I descended the steps into the sitting room. The bar itself was locked. Old habits. He could try it all he wanted, but he’d have to break into the cabinet. Leaving him to discover that fact, I headed for the kitchen.
Normally, staff would take care of all these things for me. But I allowed for no staff here save for one day a week. A housekeeper who came in, cleaned everything, changed out the sheets, and restocked the fridge; and the valet who retrieved suits for cleaning and pressing while delivering new ones.
It was a two hour window under strict scrutiny from security while I worked in my office. I set up the coffee maker to pull shots while I checked my phone.
The crash of glassware in the other room and an aggrieved grunt told me Ezra had discovered the locked bar cabinets. I didn’t care. If he wanted more alcohol, he had plenty of his own homes.
No urgent messages required my attention. There was an email from Andrea with an image attached. The horse in the picture was a beautiful young filly, good conformation, and coloring. The red in her coat seemed to shimmer under the summer sun.
Flicking to the email itself, I frowned.
Dad is selling her. He said I don’t ride enough to justify keeping her and she is better for racing. Help? I emailed Lainey too, but she’s been tied up with Grandfather all week.
I’m home on the weekend. They moved the masquerade up this year, so don’t yell it’s too early for break. I’m getting an extra week. Reed perks.
The corners of my lips twitched.
Anyway, can you save my horse? I’ll see you soon. Love A.
It was followed by a far more droll postscript.
P.S. If you want, I’m stuck at the club first thing on Saturday, I wouldn’t mind if you broke me out.
If I wanted…
Shaking my head, I poured the shots into a demitasse cup and downed them before I started another set going. Sunset’s Egyptian Princess was out of one of Dad’s premier racing studs and another mare with good bloodlines but not a proven track record.
Whatever—I copied the information and sent it to the lawyer. He could buy the horse and have her sent to the Benedict stables for Andrea. If nothing else, old man Benedict would sooner swallow acid than let my father anywhere near his property, much less his barn.
Lainey was the far more accomplished equestrian; she could decide what to do with her.
The door to the kitchen slammed open. “What the fuck is wrong with your staff? Your bar is locked up and there’s nothing in the crystal.”
“Coffee is ready,” I answered ignoring the rest of his question. From here, the aroma of alcohol was already strong. How much had he been drinking?
“I don’t want fucking coffee,” Ezra snarled. “I came here to have a drink.”
“Too bad,” I told him, locking the phone before I set it down. “You have plenty of places you can get alcohol from. I’m not your fucking bartender.”
Scowling, Ezra picked up the demitasse with its espresso and scowled at me. “It’s all your goddamn fault.” Then he tossed back the espresso like it was vodka and set the cup back down with the kind of force we’d use when doing shots.
“Okay.” I accepted whatever the fuck it was and went about pulling another shot. Fuck, I just wanted to go to bed. But Ezra in this mood would take a while to settle. So while he prowled around the kitchen, muttering, I focused on making a latte.
