I’ve got about a dozen missed calls and messages that I’ll deal with later, but for now, I tap open the newest one.
Where are you? We tried you earlier. Penthouse. Now. Dad.
Like a child being summoned by the principal.
Great.
I stuff my feet into a pair of flip-flops by the door and go.
I often use the stairs because staff and hotel guests alike frequently stop me in the elevator, and if I’m pulled into a twenty-minute-long conversation every time I round a corner, I’d never get any work done.
Tonight, I choose them because I’m dressed in a loose cardigan and old, faded jeans, and I don’t want to risk being seen. When I first open the door to the stairwell, I experience a residual twist of fear, followed by a healthy dose of leeriness.
No Shout or anyone else here, and picturing Kellin dislocating that man’s arm again reassures me enough to continue up the steps without glancing over my shoulder.
Once I stop at the top of the stairs, I realize I don’t have my key card.
Luckily, both the stairwell door and the penthouse have a coded entry option.
When I learned early on that my father planned to treat the suite as his personal playground, I took precautions to ensure other guests couldn’t access the space accidentally.
Also, both brothers have somehow managed to lose their key cards in the past. Just a complete shit show that no one needs.
I type in the code to enter the hallway and repeat the process outside the penthouse. I open the suite door to the smell of old smoke, socks, and a sweet medicinal odor that triggers my gag reflex.
Bourbon.
It’s akin to a locker room after the big game, except accentuated with booze.
Despite the dishwasher in plain sight, plates pile up in the sink.
Various bottles of top-shelf liquor grace the countertops, most of them uncapped. Funny how all alcohol smells vile after a night of drinking.
I let the door slam closed and glare at my father. “You know we have housekeeping, right?”
“No housekeeping.” He jerks his chin at the skinny man on the recliner. “We can’t let Nolan?—”
“Nope!” I swipe a hand through the air. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
I already possess more than enough knowledge. This guy managed to piss off our East Coast relatives, and my dad’s hiding him in exchange for information. Or something similar. I don’t care about the specifics.
My father shakes his head in disgust. “Such a fucking disappointment.”
That goes both ways, Dad.I bite my tongue. “What do you need?”
He scans my outfit while flicking a bit of ash off his cigar. “Why are you dressed like that? Do I pay you to enjoy mid-week personal days now?”
Hedoesn’t pay me at all. I write my own checks, thank you very much. “I had the flu. I’m just now starting to feel better.” I walk around the expansive living room, plucking up glassware and plates. “Are you going to tell me what’s so urgent, or can I get back to work?” I load the dishwasher with what will fit and start it up.
I cringe at the leftover crust in the sink.
From his spot on the leather sectional, my father stares out the window, quieter than usual. After a moment, he lifts himself up and stalks over to the French doors that lead to the balcony.
The view is one of the best in the city, in my opinion. The pier, the ocean, the Arden below.
Not that Dad notices or appreciates any of that.
Shoulders hunched, he starts to pace like a caged bear. Hungry, restless.
