“I’m not thirsty. I’ve been drinking all day,” John protested.
“Hydrate,you rat-arsed bellend. You’ll thank me later.” I shoved the bottle in his hand and strode back into the living room.
“God, you’re funny when you’re mad. With everyone else, you hide it behind a disinterested veneer of haughtiness, but if I piss you off, you wear your heart on your fucking sleeve. You would have been a terrifying tsar.”
“Drink the fucking water and shower.”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.” The bedroom door closed most of the way behind him.
I sank onto the couch, my head in my hands, and waited.
Water swished from somewhere farther back in the suite.
John was usually all right. He was even my favorite cousin most of the time.
But alcohol was not John’s friend. He became morose.
And childish.
Hopefully, the shower would sober him up enough for the meeting.
Twenty minutes later, John stumbled out of the bedroom as a better-smelling, wet-haired drunk.
It was an improvement I could work with.
Keeping a tight hold of his arm, I steered him into the meeting downstairs and pointedly ignored the askance looks in his direction from the New Jersey mafia cronies.
They were wearing baggy suits, for God’s sake. None of them should be giving personal presentation advice.
Nevertheless, their plan for increasing housing density in train-commutable communities near New York City was interesting.
Living in Europe gives one an entirely different perspective on efficient housing, public transportation, and city planning, of course, but it was an interesting step in what I considered to be the right direction, or at least a profitable direction.
When the meeting ended, the New Jersey people left, leaving John and me in the acoustic-paneled conference room.
I swiveled in my chair to face him. “I say, you managed to sit upright and didn’t urinate on yourself. Good job.”
He glared at me. “I’m sobering up. There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“Oh, excellent. Shall we have a bite before the drunken debauchery at the Sanctuary? I had breakfast in Paris and missed a meal in there, somewhere.”
“That explains the attitude. I’ll ring and have something delivered to my room. Unless you’re staying at the Waldorf?”
“No, I’m staying at the club. I don’t like the Strip. I’ll head over there to freshen up before the throng descends later tonight.”
“Always one for the quiet life. So studious. So security-compliant,” he chided me back.
“Yes, quite. Harry said he’s staying at the Sanctuary club, too, so I won’t be a monk.”
“But he’s no fun these days, taking marriage and fatherhood seriously and all that. Promise me that you’ll at least try to pick up a woman or a man for a one-night thing.”
My sigh was impossible to hide, though I tried for form’s sake. “It’s so much trouble, especially when my small security bubble overlaps with Harry’s. His people are terribly stringent because he pays them directly instead of as part of a larger corporate account. If he dies, they don’t get paid.”
John stared at the wooden conference table for a beat before looking up at me again, his sea-green eyes searching my face like he was trying to scry the future. “And how seriously are you taking your security these days?”
I shrugged. “Seriously enough. A step up, the last few months.”
“I’m not talking about stalkers or lone jackals who might take a potshot at you.”
