The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,75
car and drive away.
But that wasn’t because he couldn’t stand confronting the living, breathing evidence of his father’s infidelities, and he wasn’t afraid of looking into a face that was so close to his own, either. And no, the fact that some stranger was his blood and was in the will didn’t rock his world.
The bottom line truth to his reticence? He was simply too exhausted to take care of anyone else. The problem was, this poor kid, through no fault of his own, was about to get sucked into the Bradford black hole, and how could Lane not at least try to guide the SOB a little bit.
It was a helluva lottery to win. Especially now that the money was gone.
Not a lot of upside.
The driveway was only about thirty feet long, a mere parking space at Easterly. And as Lane proceeded up, the eighteen-year-old with the basketball was revealed gradually.
Tall. Going to be taller. Dark haired. Big shoulders already.
The kid went up for a dunk, and the ball ricocheted off the rim.
Lane caught it on the fly. “Hey.”
Randolph Damion Freeland stopped first because he was surprised. And then because he was shocked.
“So you know who I am, then,” Lane said softly.
“I’ve seen your picture, yeah.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
As the kid crossed his arms over his chest, there was a good deal of space between the pecs and the biceps, but that wasn’t going to last for much longer. He was going to fill out and be built strong.
God, his eyes were the exact blue of Lane’s own.
“He died,” the kid mumbled. “I read about it.”
“So you know …”
“Who my father was? Yeah.” That stare lowered. “Are you going to, like …”
“Like what?”
“Get me arrested or something?”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“I dunno. You’re a Bradford.”
Lane closed his eyes briefly. “No, I came to see you about something important. And also to say that I’m sorry your mother passed.”
“She killed herself. In your house.”
“I know.”
“They say you found her body. I read that in the newspaper.”
“I did.”
“She didn’t say good-bye to me. She just left that morning and then she was gone. You know, like, permanently.”
Lane shook his head and squeezed the ball between his palms. “I’m really sorry—”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!”
An older woman shot out onto the porch with a full head of steam up, her face twisted into the kind of rage that made a handgun unnecessary. “You get away from him! You get away—”
“Granny, stop! He’s just talking—”
As the kid got between them, the grandmother was all arms, fighting to get at Lane. “You stay away! How dare you come here—”
“He’s an heir. That’s why I came.”
As the two of them paused in their struggling, Lane nodded. “He got left the house and ten million dollars. I figured you would want to know. The executor is going to be in touch. I don’t know how much money there really is, but I want you both to know that I will fight to make sure this house stays in your grandson’s name.”
After all, there was a scenario whereby it, too, might be liquidated depending on the debt situation. And then where would this kid go?
As the grandmother snapped out of her surprise, she got right back on the hate-train. “Don’t ever come here again—”
Lane locked eyes with the boy. “You know where I live. If you have questions, if you want to talk—”
“Never!” the woman screamed. “He will never come to you! You can’t take him, too!”
“Babcock Jefferson,” Lane said as he put the ball down on the driveway. “That’s the attorney’s name.”
As he turned away, the image of that young kid holding back that old woman was carved into his brain, and God, he hated his father for new reasons in that moment, he really did.
Back at the Porsche, he got behind the wheel and headed off. He wanted to screech out, take the corners hard, hit a couple of parked cars, roll over some bicycles. But he didn’t.
He was coming out to the entrance of the development when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it because even a telemarketer was better than the thoughts in his head.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Baldwine?” a female voice said. “Mr. Lane Baldwine?”
He hit the directional signal to the left. “This is he.”
“My name is LaKeesha Locke. I’m the business reporter for the Charlemont Courier Journal. I was wondering if you and I can meet somewhere.”