And I can’t even say that out loud because I would look insane.
“Adam. She’s with Sasha Cherlin. And Merc whatever-the-fuck-his-last-name-is. Seriously. If anything happens to any of us right now, maybe we fucking deserve it?”
“You’re not helping.”
McKay walks over to me chuckling and shaking his head. “Let go, man. Your job is done.”
“How can you say that? Maggie is six. Six, McKay. I’ve got an entire lifetime of work left to do.”
“She’s not your work.”
“This again?”
“No. I’ve said what I’m gonna say about it. I’m done.” He opens the passenger door to his truck and points. “Get in. We’re leaving.”
“Bye!” Maggie calls from the porch. “See you tomorrow! Have fun!”
McKay shoots me a look. It’s his cocky, one-eyebrow-raised, I-told-you-so look.
“Fine.” I get in the truck and we leave.
The sun is low on the horizon when we arrive in New Orleans and the sky is promising a spectacular display tonight, deep red and russet orange mixed in with a smattering of bruised purple. I catch McKay looking at the Mississippi River as we wind our way through the too-narrow streets towards the Corinthian.
“You know, we could’ve stayed at home,” McKay says.
“Wow.” I smile and look over at him as he drives. “I haven’t thought of that place as home since we left.” He’s referring to the other Boucher House in the French Quarter, the one we grew up in. “But we can’t stay there.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got five assassins lying low there until the heat wears off their last jobs.”
“Busy man,” McKay says, just as he turns into the Corinthian’s pretentious hidden courtyard. I can’t tell by his tone what he might think about my revelation, and normally I’d be interested in finding out. But I’m done thinking about shit like that tonight. I just need a break.
McKay stops at the valet and we get out. The doorman calls us by name, even though I haven’t been here in a couple years, at least, and McKay hasn’t ever been here. He whistles, looking up at the fresco on the ceiling as we walk into the lobby.
The concierge is waiting. Smiling. Hands together, leaning forward, eager to please. “Mr. Boucher. Welcome home.”
McKay chuckles, then mutters, “Home,” like it’s almost an insult.
But he’s not wrong. This place is too much for either of us. I knew when I bought it, but it’s classic New Orleans and guests eat that shit up.
“Your room is ready, of course,” the concierge says. He gets a confused look on his face when he notices we don’t have bags.
“I called ahead,” I explain. Like this explains anything.
The concierge smiles. “I will personally take you up to the penthouse, sir.”
“No need,” McKay says. Then he holds his hand out, palm up. “We can find our own way.”
For a moment, the concierge is confused. On the one hand, he’s been trained to defer to the guests’ wishes. On the other hand, I’m here. “It’s fine,” I say.
He lets out a breath of relief and places the keycard into McKay’s hand.
“Who did the interior design?” There is no denying that the interior of the Corinthian Hotel is spectacular and I love the way McKay doesn’t hide his curiosity and appreciation. We live in luxury, so it’s nice to know that he hasn’t been desensitized to it.
“I hired a woman.”
“She did good. When did you buy this place?”
“I bought the whole fuckin’ chain about three years ago.”
McKay whistles again. “We need to get out more.”
I laugh as we get in the glass elevator that faces the central courtyard. I flash the keycard, gaining access to the button for the top floor, and say, “We really do.”
He leans against the glass wall and folds his arms, smirking at me. “I know you got something planned for tonight. So how long are you gonna keep me in suspense?”
I grin back at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The elevator stops, and when the doors open, we are looking into the main living space of the penthouse. It’s a semicircle with floor-to-ceiling windows. There are two couches opposite each other in the center, a fully-stocked bar on the far right end, a music nook with a baby grand piano in the corner, and double doors leading to the master suite.
“Now this is nice,” McKay says. He walks right over to the windows and takes in the view of the Mississippi River. The sun isn’t disappointing us tonight. The smattering of bruised purple has mixed with the deep red and the sky before us is now a calling card for the apocalypse.
I join him at the window and we just stand there for a moment. It’s a little bit weird because we haven’t been us for very long. We took that trip to Savannah last month to meet up with Nathan, and it was fun. Also one of my hotels. But it was business dressed up as pleasure.