Page 63 of Puck King
Right away.
I put on a pair of heavy winter boots and took the elevator to the parking garage. My driver wasn’t due in to work until eight, so I hopped into the driver’s seat of my Range Rover. It was better this way. It had snowed at least a foot overnight, but the SUV drove like there was only one inch. A snowstorm in the city meant one of two things – it would be total gridlock with cars stuck everywhere, or a ghost town. Thankfully, it was the ghost version, and I was at Everleigh’s luxury brownstone in half an hour.
“Everleigh.” I banged on the door with my fist.
She opened the door, a silk robe pulled tight around her, and eyes ringed in smudged black eyeliner. “Colton, what the fuck are you doing here so early?”
I tried to step into her house, but tripped on a pair of large winter boots. Kicking them out of the way, I sat on the stairway to the second floor. Everleigh closed the door and followed me, her hands on her hips.
“Late night?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “None of your business.”
“Right,” I growled. “You’re the only one allowed to mess with other people’s business.”
“Colton.” Her face softened.
“I couldn’t sleep all night. I don’t believe you.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at her and studied my clasped hands between my knees.
Everleigh slipped beside me and rested her hand on my knee. “Baby brother, it’s my job to protect you. I’ve been doing it every day since mom died, whether you’ve noticed it or not.”
“I don’t need your protection, Everleigh.” Her heart was in the right place, but her actions had come out the wrong way. “I need to talk to Alison and set everything straight. I thought that you took care of Brittany.”
Everleigh’s laugh was low and slightly evil-sounding. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve got Brittany right where I want her. She royally fucked up last night.”
“What if Alison saw that show?”
“Who cares?” Everleigh shrugged. “Come on, I’ll put on some coffee.” Her robe billowed behind her as she padded into the kitchen in her bare feet.
I sighed and pulled off my boots, setting them on the stone-filled tray at the door. “Hey, whose boots are these anyway?” I fixed the set of boots I’d kicked out of the way in my hulk-style entrance.
Everleigh clicked on the gas burner and set her percolator on the flame. She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “I’ve got the best private investigator in the city. I know things about Brittany that even Brittany doesn’t know about herself.” She ignored the boot question completely.
“I can’t take your word for it, Everleigh. I need to talk to Alison but she won’t answer my calls.”
Everleigh took two mugs from the cupboard. “Why do you need to talk to her so badly? I told you everything you need to know.”
I took a deep breath. As stone-cold as Everleigh appeared, I knew that she was sensitive, and I was about to breach some potentially triggering territory. “Do you think that your past might be clouding your vision when it comes to Ali?”
“Ali?” Everleigh rolled her eyes.
“Yeah.” I stood. “Ali – the kindest, sweetest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Ouch.” Everleigh mocked stabbing herself in the heart.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I grumbled. “Ever since Lars, you’ve been suspicious of anyone who has come into our lives.”
“Can you blame me?” The coffee pot started to gurgle behind her, steam puffing out the spout, filling the kitchen with the smell of fresh coffee. “Lars showed us that people want one thing from this family. And, it’s not our love. Look at Dad’s last girlfriend. She took us for what, twenty million? And Lars got five, plus the beach house.”
My sister hadn’t been the same since Lars, a con artist, had swept her off her feet and gotten away with it.
“But Alison is different. She doesn’t care about money.”
“Really?” Everleigh raised her eyebrows. “You could’ve fooled me.”
“I have to see or hear it for myself. You need to tell me exactly what happened. Word for word.”
I didn’t have time to chitchat with my clearly hungover sister, but after a restless night, I needed some caffeine. I sat on one of her kitchen bar stools and took a sip of the piping hot coffee. “I can’t believe you still have Mom’s old percolator. Dad must be pissed that you prefer it to that fancy espresso machine he gave you for Christmas.” I braved another sip.
