The Lying Season (Seasons #1) - K.A. Linde Page 0,37
do so much disgusting behavior. You’re the one who has to clean up after them and make sure no one finds out about the strippers and the cocaine and the gambling.” She crinkled her nose. “There is no way.”
“Yeah, but Court is hot and charming. It’s how it goes.”
English held up her hand. “I have both of those things back home. Court might be hot and charming, but it’s not going to work on me.”
“That’s what I told Leslie.”
“All right, all right. Trial run it is then.” English pushed her shoulders back and put on her game face. “We can conquer this. It’ll be fine.”
“I love how you really want this job now.”
She shot me a cutting look. “I like a challenge.”
“Well, Court should be that at least,” I said as we pulled up in front of his building on the Upper East.
We hopped out of the car and passed a surprising number of paparazzi who were still camped out in front of his place. I would have thought they’d be gone by now. But I guessed putting him under house arrest was making his picture more valuable. No one had seen him since the night coming out of the police station. And everyone wanted to hear his side. Not just his mother’s canned answer. They were probably all expecting him to come out drunk and rant about what had actually happened. God, he needed English.
We took the elevator up to the penthouse. I glanced at English to get her reaction to his insane apartment. But she was all business. She might gush over my place, which wasn’t even this nice, but not here. Not when she had a job to do. She was a total babe when she got serious.
Court was sprawled out across the couch with a bottle of gin and a tome cracked open to the middle. He glanced over at us when we came in and then returned to the book. “I have to finish this chapter.”
My eyes widened. I’d never seen Court Kensington with a book in his hand. I’d thought the only things he cared about were girls, alcohol, drugs, and having as much illicit fun with those things as possible.
English just crossed her arms and assessed the room. I saw what she saw. The maid must not have been here this week. Another precaution, but it made his living situation look like even more of a mess. There were empty beer bottles, a few wine bottles, and a half-dozen liquor bottles lining the kitchen counter and the bar. It appeared the only thing he’d done all week was get shit-faced. Typical.
Eventually, he stuffed a receipt into the book and shut it. I could see that it was a fantasy novel—The Shadow Rising by Robert Jordan. He rose to his feet and ran a hand through his mussed, dark hair. At least he was dressed decently in slightly rumpled khakis and a button-up that he’d rolled to his elbows. It almost looked like he’d thought about leaving earlier and changed his mind. Maybe he was too drunk.
“Larkin St. Vincent and the illustrious Anna English,” he said with a charming smile. “What can I do for you two? A drink? I have…gin.” He reached down and grabbed the bottle off the table. “I probably have olives. Martinis?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“Ah, right. You’re here for Mommy dearest,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.
We stepped farther into his apartment. I could see him making another drink. From my perspective, it looked like straight gin. Maybe a hint of olive juice. No olives.
“We’re here because English has been hired to work as your publicist. She’s going to be handling the aftermath of your arrest and what that entails for the campaign through November,” I explained.
He walked back into the living room. He didn’t stumble or slur. His tolerance was too high for that. But I could see he was teetering on a precipice, and any minute, he might fall off of it into oblivion.
But he glanced at English. He looked her up and down with a flick of his eyes. And then a dangerous smile crossed his face.
“So, you’d work for me?” he asked English.
“Incorrect,” English said. “I would be an employee of your mother. I would report to her.”
He stepped closer. A wave of charisma seemed to wrap around him. Or perhaps that was just the gin. “And would you have to tell her everything?”