by Meghan March
I will not roll over and pay for Brett’s bad decisions on my back.
The steady thrum of fear running through my veins attempts to weaken my titanium spine.
“I will find a way to fix this. Somehow. Some way. I will.”
The silence in my office is the only answer I need.
I don’t believe myself either.
But I have to do something or I’m fucked. And, apparently, Lachlan Mount will be doing the fucking.
Keira
I approach my life like a general. A tactician. Each decision researched and executed with precision. My father always said I should have been a surgeon, but the only thing I ever wanted to do was make whiskey. He wanted a son to carry on the family tradition, but he got three daughters instead, and I’m the only one who cared about the difference between single malt and single barrel.
Right now, I need information on a man who lives in the shadows, so I go to the most obvious source—Google. I type in his name, and in less than a second the following message appears on my screen.
* * *
Your search – Lachlan Mount – did not match any documents.
* * *
That’s impossible. I click on the image tab and it’s blank. I add New Orleans, and dozens of sites pop up with information about the city, but nothing about Lachlan Mount shows beneath the preview of each.
I try a dozen more searches, all providing the same result.
It’s like he doesn’t exist. Like he truly is the myth and legend I thought he was before I came face-to-face with him yesterday.
So, how the hell am I supposed to get any information on him if he’s a ghost where the Internet is concerned?
Last night, I tossed and turned as the minutes and hours ticked down to my deadline. My tiny apartment doesn’t have a money tree growing out back, so it’s safe to say I’m no closer to a solution than I was before.
I could sell a kidney, but even that’s not going to get me $500,000, I assume. It’s not like I stay up on the black-market value of organs, because, well, I’m a normal, law-abiding citizen.
I sell whiskey. I pay the excise taxes that make me want to vomit when I write the check. But I don’t cut corners. I play by the rules.
As I walk in through the side door of the distillery, heat from the three massive pot stills surrounds me. Others would find it stifling. To me, it provides a sense of comfort. It’s home.
Louis Artesian, my head of distilling operations, lifts a glass to the light before sniffing and tasting.
“How’s it coming along?”
He swings his head around with a grin stretching his lips. “Mark my words, Keira, this is going to be the best we’ve ever produced.”
The smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth isn’t forced. It’s pride. I will make my father proud. I took a risk by changing grain suppliers—without telling him, I might add—and it’s going to pay off huge.
If I can keep the distillery open long enough to bring it to fruition.
All night, I worked through scenarios. When I signed the loans with the bank, it was all based on the assumption that every loan was already disclosed. I didn’t know about the debt to Mount. How could I disclose it? And if it wasn’t filed with the state and on record, then it doesn’t count, right? Or could he be second tier and force a foreclosure to get what he’s owed, after the original lenders are paid off? It’s not like I know the ins and outs of any of this stuff, and what’s more, I assume it doesn’t matter. I can’t imagine Lachlan Mount abides by the normal rules that apply to everyone else.
There’s only one person I know who might be able to give me some insight. And since Google failed me, she’s my next best option. No general makes decisions without information.
“Don’t you think, Keira?”
Louis has been speaking to me, and I’ve completely zoned out. “Sorry, what?”
His kind smile reminds me of all the people whose livelihoods depend on me.
“No matter. I was just saying you made the right call. It was a ballsy move going to the organic grain, and a costly one, but this speaks for itself.”
Any other time, my lungs would heave a sigh of relief, relaxing my stiff posture, but not today.
I can answer honestly, however. “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”
“Keira, can I borrow you for a second?” Temperance, my overworked and underpaid assistant / right-hand woman calls from the doorway. It’s a running joke that she works at the distillery, given her name. “We have a few more decisions to make for the event that I don’t want to commit to without your approval.”
In addition to being my right hand, Temperance has also taken the lead on a massive Mardi Gras event we were lucky enough to snag—one for the New Orleans Voodoo Kings, a local pro football team. They’re renting out the entire restaurant, and the money coming in will be enough to keep our head above water for a few more months. At least, it would have been until . . .
I shove the thought of my unexpected and unwelcome visitor out of my head and give Louis a thumbs-up before walking toward Temperance, leaving the heat produced by the stills behind.
“What’s going on?”
“They want to upgrade the menu to include something Odile is pissed about. They also want us to coordinate a car service, and police all the attendees to make sure none of them leave with their keys in hand to drive drunk. Bad PR, you know?”
The thought of having to be the one to tell a professional athlete that he isn’t sober enough to drive home—and possibly take his keys—sounds like a nightmare.
“So, basically, they want us to be the bad guys? Why can’t the team do it themselves if they’re so worried?”
“I don’t know, but they said this has to be added to the contract or they’ll hold the event somewhere else.”
Oh, hell no. We need this event.
I think fast. “Tell them yes. But tell them we’ll have to set it up as a mandatory valet service, and that we need someone from their organization at the door with one of our people to make it a joint decision.”
Temperance pulls out one of three pens she has anchoring her dark brown bun before scribbling on her notepad with it. “Okay, I’ll see if they bite on that.” She glances up. “And if they don’t?”
“Give in, but tell them we’re only doing it for public safety reasons and reserve the right to call the cops if someone gets rowdy.”
She adds the note to her list. “And about Odile—”
“How much is their request adding to the price of the menu?”
Temperance flips the pages on her notepad. “Our food cost goes up by ten percent. I haven’t given them a quote on the change.”
“Tell them it’s a thirty-percent increase in the cost, and when they push back, settle on twenty-five. And then tell Odile I owe her.”
Temperance’s grin widens as she scribbles. “See? You’re a born negotiator. This is why you rock at your job.”
If only I could negotiate my way out of a certain debt.
I’m saved from discussing anything further as my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at the name on the screen.
This can’t be a good sign.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” I tell Temperance.
“Of course. I’ll catch up with you later on any other details. This is going to be great for Seven Sinners. Also, I have a line on a few more organizers interested in reserving the space for events, and a couple other ideas that could really be profitable. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
Normally I’d be thrilled to hear this, but I’m already distracted completely by my caller.
“Thank you, Temperance. This is why you rock at your job.” I stride down the hallway.
“Hey,” I answer.
“You know I don’t get up before noon. You better explain these cryptic-as-shit texts that woke my ass up,” Magnolia Marie Maison says.
After Magnolia dropped out of Sacred Heart in tenth grade because her sc
holarship got pulled, my mother told me I couldn’t see her anymore. The ban wasn’t surprising, because Magnolia got caught giving our history teacher a blow job in the supply closet. Mr. Sumpter disappeared, but Magnolia viewed the situation as finding her calling.
Mama tried to exorcise her from my life, but that’s not how friendship works, at least in my book. Magnolia is the one who beat up Jill Barnard when she made fun of my pixie cut in fourth grade, which also resulted in a suspension. She coached me through using my first tampon. Took me to the clinic to get birth control after I got asked to prom at a boy’s private school, because she swore she wasn’t going to let me make any stupid mistakes with my life.
Magnolia is the big sister I never had. The one who looked out for me and always made sure I stayed out of trouble. My loyalty to her runs deep, and in my opinion, how she makes her living is no one’s business but her own.
“Mags, I have a problem.”
“What, you getting hit on by another restaurateur who only wants to carry Seven Sinners if you have a private dinner to talk it over with him?”
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. That has been the extent of my male interactions since Brett died, and she knows it.
I duck into my office and shut the door behind me before I speak. “Lachlan Mount. He was here.” As soon as I say his name, the goose bumps return, along with the lingering seductive scent he left behind. I’ll probably have to fumigate my office to get rid of it.
Magnolia’s voice goes quiet. “The fuck did you say?”
“Lach—”
“Shut your damn mouth and do not say that name again.”
My teeth clack shut.
“He is not a man you want to know you exist. And we can’t talk about this over the phone. I’ll get up. Get dressed. Fuck.”
Her reaction validates everything I’ve been thinking. This situation isn’t bad. It’s catastrophic.
“What do I do?” I hate the fear making my voice unsteady.
“You get your ass to my place and tell me every damn thing that happened. Bring some of that whiskey of yours too, because we’re gonna need it.”
“I have a full day of meetings—”
“Ke-ke, your schedule just got fucking clear. Get your ass to my place.”
Magnolia ordering me around usually is more along the lines of “Ke-ke, take that shot. Don’t be such a pussy.” Or, “Just go out and get some dick, for the love of all that’s holy. Your cooch is gonna dry up.”
Depending on the circumstances, I ignore those comments. This order, I can’t ignore.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Make it ten.”
* * *
I park my twelve-year-old Honda Civic in a guest space of the parking garage of the poshest new condo complex in New Orleans. It’s full of cars worth at least ten times the value of mine.
And while Mama disapproves of the path Magnolia has taken, no one can argue it hasn’t been a lucrative one. She holds the distinction of being one of New Orleans’ most exclusive madams, and the details of how she got there have never been shared with me. Everything I know came anecdotally, including the fact that her little black book of johns is thick. And what’s more, Magnolia has the dirt on just about all of them, or so she claimed on the night when we celebrated me taking the helm of Seven Sinners.
As I slip out of my car and shut the door, careful not to ding the Porsche parked beside it, my breathing speeds up. Magnolia won’t pull punches. She’ll tell me just how screwed I am.
I cross the pristine parking garage floor to the elevator and press the call button. It appears instantly, and within moments, I’m standing in front of the entrance to her sixth-floor condo. She hasn’t quite reached penthouse status, but I have no doubt she’s heading there. Magnolia has as much entrepreneurial spirit running through her veins as I do, if not more.
Maybe that’s part of the reason we’re kindred spirits. We’re both in the business of sin.
She opens the door on my first knock, and her peach silk dressing gown emphasizes her every gorgeous curve. Instead of the normal smile I usually get when I show up, she grabs me by the arm and yanks me inside. She slams the door behind me and locks the dead bolt.
I face her, a lump growing in my throat. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Where’s that whiskey you brought? We’re gonna need it.”
I pull a bottle out of the Tory Burch bag she gave me the night we celebrated, and hold it out. Magnolia grabs it from my hand and carries it to the counter as I follow.
“There are things in my world that should never cross into yours, Ke-ke. You’re sweetness and light, despite the fact that you make badass whiskey. But you crossed into it, and I have no fucking clue how we’re gonna get you out of it whole.”
She reaches up and snags two crystal tumblers off glass shelves in the bar area and splashes whiskey into them, three fingers each.
Magnolia is always confident, bold, and never shows any kind of hesitation. The fact that her personality has taken a one-eighty kicks up my heart rate until it hammers in time with the tapping of her long peach acrylic nails on the counter.
“What do you mean?” I ask slowly, because I have a feeling I’m going to need an explanation that’s just as slow.
“You’ve been marked, girl.”
“What does that mean?” There’s no way to disguise the fear edging my words.
“I did some digging.”
“How? I just told you—”
She cuts me off with a hand in the air. “You know I can get to the bottom of a mystery faster than a crack whore can find the bottom of a dime bag. Don’t act all surprised. This took one discreet phone call, and what I found out isn’t good.”
I reach for the crystal tumbler and gulp down the single malt that any other day I would sip and savor, noting the flavors as they caress my palate. Not today. Today, I need liquid courage to face whatever is coming out of Magnolia’s mouth next.
She leans both elbows on the counter and drags one long, glitter-tipped nail around the rim of the glass. “Lachlan Mount is not someone you fuck with.”
“I didn’t!” I sound like I’m on the verge of hysterics, and to be honest, I am.
“Nothing happens in this city without his say-so. He’s like a conduit through which all things must pass. Booze. Drugs. Girls. Cons. Gambling. How the man amassed so much power, I have no idea, but he did and he holds it with an iron fist.” She looks up at me. “Now you’re in his grip.”
“Booze? We’ve never paid him off.”
“You sure about that?”
“I would’ve known. Dad never mentioned—”
Magnolia tilts her head to one side and then the other. “Doubt he would. Hell, maybe he’s kept paying him off since you took over to keep him away from you. Doesn’t matter now. You owe him, and you can be sure he’s gonna collect.”
I can’t imagine my father paying off Mount regularly, and I have no idea how I’d even begin to bring up the subject. The implications hit me hard, and I watch the color drain from my face in the mirror behind Magnolia.
“I don’t even know what Brett did with the money. I didn’t know he borrowed it in the first place.”
Magnolia’s gaze drops away.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Ke-ke, you know I love you, but there are some things you don’t need to know.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Magnolia would try to shield me if she could, but right now, I need answers. I take a slow, deep breath and let it out, as though preparing for something painful. Which I suppose I am.
“Tell me what you heard.”
After a few beats, she finally speaks, her tone flat. “Word on the street is that part of the money went to pay off one very irate loan shark, which is like borrowing from the devil to pay one of his minions. Some went to his very expensive nasal problem, and the rest to the bitch he was banging on the side, because she told him she
was pregnant. That’s all rumor and hearsay, though.”
My knees are supposed to hold me up, but they fail. I fumble for a grip on the counter, but miss and fall flat on my ass on the floor. The crystal tumbler shatters on the marble as I go down.
“Ke-ke!” Magnolia bolts toward me, her arms outstretched.
I hold my hands out. “Don’t. Just. Don’t.”
Stunned, I suck in breath after breath as I process her words.
Loan shark.
Nasal problem.
Pregnant mistress.
I knew Brett was cheating on me. He barely tried to hide it. I can’t even believe it took me almost the entire four months we were married to figure it out. It’s why I met with a divorce lawyer three days before he died and leased an apartment so I’d have somewhere to go when I filed the paperwork.
Magnolia backs away and reappears with a broom to sweep up the broken glass. I pull myself together and stand. There’s one part of what she said that doesn’t make sense.
“What kind of nasal problem did Brett have? Allergies?”
She dumps the dustpan in the trash bin and looks at me with an expression that can only be described as sympathetic. “Ke-ke, he was a cokehead. Since before the day you met him.”
“What?” The word bursts out of me. She surely can’t mean . . .
“Cocaine. Blow. White.”
“That’s impossible. I would’ve known. I—”
“You’re a good girl,” Magnolia says, shaking her head benevolently. “You can recognize a drunk at twenty paces, but drugs are out of your wheelhouse, Ke-ke.”
“That piece of shit put my family’s legacy at risk because of drugs?” I’m no longer on the verge of hysterics. I’m there.
“That and pussy, which is even more addictive, in my experience. Plus, Brett Hyde was a con artist. He had you hook, line, and sinker before you even had a chance.”