The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (4 page)

Screw it. This was life and death.

“His name is Lane Bradford—he’s my boyfriend. I came out because …”

She babbled at that point and turned back to the drop. And then she was leaning out over the rail again, praying she could see his head breach the surface of the water. God, she couldn’t see anything!

Lizzie hung up after she had given her name, her number, and as much as she knew. Meanwhile, the man was off his phone as well and he was talking to her, telling her that his brother, or his cousin, or frickin’ Santa Claus was coming. But Lizzie wasn’t hearing it. The only thing she knew was that she had to get to Lane, had to—

She focused on her beat-to-crap truck.

And then looked at Lane’s 911 Turbo convertible.

Lizzie was behind the wheel of that Porsche a split second later. Fortunately, he’d left the key in the ignition, and the engine came alive as she punched in the clutch and cranked those horses over. Flooring the accelerator was a different deal entirely from her old Toyota, tires skidding out as she doughnuted the sports car and raced off—going in the wrong direction

Fine. Let the cops arrest her. At least she’d bring them down to the water.

A set of headlights coming at her got her to pitch the Porsche to the right, and the other vehicle’s horn was like the terror in her head, a screaming distraction that might have derailed her but for her laser focus on getting to Lane.

Lizzie took the exit ramp at eighty miles an hour, and by some miracle, no
one happened to be heading up it to get on the highway. At the bottom, she pulled another illegal turn and got herself heading the right way, but more traffic laws got broken as she hopped the curb, tore across a grass verge, and bottomed out on a two-laner that ran down to the river’s edge.

Lizzie took the Porsche up to nearly a hundred miles an hour.

And then she slammed on the brakes.

One of the region’s favorite ice cream parlors was located on the shore, in a Victorian house with a storied past—and in addition to slinging scoops, they also rented bikes … and boats.

She didn’t park the 911 so much as dump it at the side of the road on the grass shoulder as cockeyed as a drunk’s hat. She left the headlights on and facing across the water as she vaulted a fence and gunned across a shallow lawn for the floating docks. There, she found a variety of Boston Whalers, none of which had keys in them, of course—and one measly, tippy flat-bottom with a pull-start outboard.

Which, blessedly, somebody had not chained to the posts.

Lizzie jumped in, and it took her two yanks to get the engine cooking. Then she ripped off the tethers and headed out into the river, the tin can slapping against the waves and kicking spray into her face. With the dearth of artificial light, she could see a little, but not a lot—and the last thing she wanted was to run him over.

She had gone only a hundred yards or so into the river—which seemed to be the size of an ocean—when she saw the most miraculous thing on the horizon.

A miracle.

It was a miracle.

T
he
Ohio River was so much colder than Lane could ever have imagined. And the shore was farther away, like he was swimming the English Channel. And his body heavier, as if there were cement blocks tied to his feet. And his lungs weren’t working right.

The current was carrying him fast, but that was only good news if he wanted to go over the falls like his father had. And as luck would have it, the relentless draw was pulling him into the center of the channel, away from any kind of land, and he had to fight against it if he hoped to get to—

As a piercing illumination hit him from behind, he thought for a split second that his momma’s faith had turned out to be real and her Jesus was coming to take him to the Pearly Gates.

“I got him! I got him!”

Okay, that voice sounded way too ordinary to be anything biblical—and the Southern accent was a telltale that it was probably a mortal and not God.

Spitting water out of his mouth, Lane rolled onto his back and had to put an arm over his eyes as he was blinded by the glare.

“He’s alive!”

The
boat that pulled up beside him was a good thirty feet long and had a cabin, and its engines were cut as the stern swung around toward him.

He was pulled over thanks to a net grappler, and then he helped himself out of the river and onto the platform over the propellers. Flopping on his back, he looked up at the night. He couldn’t see the stars. The city’s glow was too bright. Or maybe his eyes were just too clouded.

A man’s face appeared in his vision. Gray beard. Shaggy hair. “We saw you jump. Good thing we was coming under—”

“Someone’s approaching from starboard.”

Lane knew without looking who it was. He just knew it. And sure enough, as the spotlight was manually spun in that direction, he saw his Lizzie in a flatboat coming at them, the flimsy, metal craft clapping against the water, her strong body crouched by the outboard motor, that high-pitched whine of the overworked little engine the perfect sound track to the panic on her face.

“Lane!”

“Lizzie!” He sat up and cupped his dripping hands to yell. “I’m all right! I made it!”

She pulled up like an expert right across the stern, and even though he was in wet clothes and cold to the bone, he jumped at her. Or maybe she jumped at him. It was probably the both of them.

He held her tight against him, and she held him back. And then she jerked away and punched him in the biceps so hard, she nearly knocked him back into the river.

“Ow!”

“What the hell were you doing up there—”

“I wasn’t—”

“Are you out of your mind—”

“I didn’t—”

“You almost killed yourself!”

“Lizzie, I—”

“I am so pissed off at you right now!”

The fishing boat was tipping back and forth as they stood with feet planted on the gunnels. And he was dimly aware that there were three fishermen popcorn-and-Coke’ing it on the larger vessel.

“I
could just slap you!”

“Okay, if it’ll make you feel better—”

“It won’t!” Lizzie said. “Nothing is going to—I thought you were dead!”

As she began to cry, he cursed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”

He brought her back against him and held her tightly, stroking her spine and murmuring things he wasn’t going to remember even if the moment itself was unforgettable.

“I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry …”

Typical of Lizzie, it wasn’t long before she pulled herself together and looked up at him. “I really want to hit you again.”

Lane rubbed his biceps. “And I’d still deserve it.”

“Y’all okay?” one of the guys said as he tossed a faded towel that smelled like bait over. “Y’all need nine-one-one? Either one of you?”

“It was already called,” Lizzie answered.

And yup, sure enough, there were flashing red and blue lights up on the bridge now, as well as ones coming down to the river’s shore on the Indiana side, too.

Great, he thought as he wrapped himself up. Just frickin’ great.

“We’re going to be fine.” Lane put out his hand. “Thank you.”

The man with the gray beard shook what was offered. “I’m glad no one’s hurt. You know, people, they jump from there. Just last week, this guy, he jumped and kilt himself. They found him down on the far side of the falls. In a boathouse.”

Yes, that was my father,
Lane thought.

“Really?” Lane lied. “There hasn’t been anything in the press.”

“It was my cousin’s boathouse. Guess the guy was important or something. They ain’t talking.”

“Well, that’s a shame. For the man’s family, whoever they are.”

“Thank you,” Lizzie said to the guys. “Thank you so much for getting him out.”

There was some conversation at that point, not that Lane paid much attention to it—other than them wanting him to keep the towel and him thanking
them for it. And then he was lowering himself onto the bench in the middle and tucking everything he had into his torso to conserve body heat. Meanwhile, Lizzie restarted the outboard motor with a couple of powerful yanks and reversed them away, the sweet smell of gasoline and oil tinting the air and making him think of childhood summers. As they turned around, he glanced back at the bigger vessel.

And then laughed.

“What?” she asked.

“The boat’s name.” He pointed to the lettering on the stern. “Unbelievable.”

Aurora,
was spelled out in gold lettering.

Yup, somehow, even when she wasn’t around, his momma was protecting him, saving him, supporting him.

“That is eerie,” Lizzie said as she hit the gas and they slapped their way back to the shore.

Every time Lane blinked, he saw the abyss below the bridge, relived that moment when he went into a free fall. It was strange to realize that even though he was heading for solid ground with the woman he loved, he felt as though he was back in that no-man’s land, all security gone, nothing but careless air between him and a hard, hard impact that he was fairly sure was going to kill him.

Focusing on Lizzie, he measured the strong lines of her face and her sharp eyes, the way her blond hair wisped on the breeze, the fact that she didn’t care that he’d gotten her wet when they’d hugged.

“I love you,” he said.

“What?”

He just shook his head and smiled to himself. His momma’s name on that stern … his woman behind this wheel …

“Did you steal this boat?” he said more loudly.

“Yes,” she hollered back. “I didn’t care what it took. I was coming to get you.”

As they pulled up to a dock, she maneuvered the boat like a boss, driving the outboard by pushing its handle in the opposite direction from
where she wanted the bow to go, then reversing things with such skill that in spite of the current, the metal teacup just kissed the pylons.

Lane anchored the bow with a line, Lizzie took the stern, and then he held his palm out to her to help her onto the dock. She didn’t come to him right away. Instead, she shoved her hand into her loose jacket. Taking out something, she tucked it into the gas cap.

As she jumped onto the dock by herself, he said, “What was that?”

“A five-dollar bill. I used some of their gas.”

For a moment, Lane simply stood before her, even though he was cold to the bone, and they were trespassers, and he’d just taken a swim in the Ohio.

Oh, and then there were the cops pulling up in front of them.

And that little free fall, am-I-going-to-die thing.

Reaching out, he cupped her beautiful face in the illumination from the headlights. Lizzie was everything his family was not. On so many levels.

It was one of the many reasons he loved her. And it was strange, but he felt an urgency to make things permanent between them.

“What?” she whispered.

He started to sink down on one knee. “Lizzie—”

“Oh, God, are you passing out?” She dragged him back to his feet and rubbed his arms. “You’re passing out! Come on, let’s get you to an ambulance—”

“Put your hands where we can see them,” came the demand. “Now!”

Lane looked into all those lights and cursed. There were times and places to ask your woman to marry you. In the crosshairs of the Charlemont Metro Police, soaked with dirty water, and two minutes after a death spiral into the Ohio?

Not. It.

“Hey,” one of the cops said. “I know who that is. That’s Lane Bradford—”

“Shut up,” somebody hissed.

“They did this article on him—”

“Hicks, shut it.”

As Hicks went quiet, Lane lifted both arms and stared into the brilliant
illumination. He could see nothing of what was ahead. Kind of apt, really.

“Can they arrest me for taking that boat?” Lizzie whispered as she put her palms up.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lane said quietly. “Don’t worry.”

Shit.

Easterly, the Bradford Family Estate

“
I
hate you!”

As
the youngest of the Bradford family’s three living Virginia Elizabeths lunged for a lamp, Gin Baldwine, soon-to-be Pford, did not make it. Probably for the best. The thing was made out of an Imari vase she had always been rather fond of and the silk shade was handmade with her initials embroidered in real gold thread.