Page 10 of Pulling Strings

“He was,” Nash replied. “Drinking his feelings about Donnie growing up.”

I wasted a scowl on the bartender’s back as he turned toward the bottles lining the wall shelves. With no labels or discernible method of organization, it was a miracle he hadn’t poisoned us all over the years.

“Pregaming twenty-four hours in advance?” Pippa mused. “Very on-brand, Fitch. Very you.”

She’d been in attendance most of the previous evening, bearing witness while casting judgment—the trait that made her most unlike her brother. While Nash often dabbled in muddy waters, Pippa kept her hands clean of we criminals and our dealings. She and I were friends, but friends in the sense that I’d known her since I was fourteen but didn’t know her at all. She had a hell of a bead on me, though.

“That reminds me.” Nash turned, tapping a finger to his temple. “The girl from last night left her number.” He dipped into his jeans pocket.

“Who?” I frowned.

Pippa leaned in and propped her chin on her hands, visibly amused.

“The woman you insisted on taking to bed,” Nash continued, still searching his pocket. “Leggy brunette? Drank mimosas after dark like some kind of animal?”

The recollection was vague, but there. “Ah. Yeah.”

“She left her number,” Nash repeated. “Wants you to call her.” He pulled out a folded scrap of notebook paper and slid it across the bar.

I eyed it, unmoving. “Why me?”

“Something about oral Olympics,” he replied. “You made an impression.”

That was enough to put a smile on my face. “Don’tI always?”

The paper remained while Nash looked from me to it and back again. Finally, I picked it up and wadded it, then flicked it into the nest of shot glasses on Pippa’s countertop tray.

“Thanks, jackass,” she muttered.

Nash rolled his eyes. “Such a gentleman.”

I sighed and straddled the barstool, changing the subject with my drink order. “I’ll take a Boulevardier. Neat.”

Pippa snorted, having already turned and started looking through the drinks for the one with the paper floating in it. “Pretentious,” she muttered.

“I’m expanding my horizons. Branching out.” I extended one hand in a mockingly grand gesture.

She found the contaminated glass and plucked it from amidst the others, setting it off to the side. “Why, though, when you’re practically synonymous with well whiskey sours? They’re cheap, bitter, and effective for a man looking to bonfire his entire career over a bad hangover.”

I froze. Pippa’s comments were often scathing, but not always so specific.

“Mycareeris safe and sound,” I replied. “I got the job done, and what do you know about it, anyway?”

Pippa gripped the edge of the counter, then leaned back on braced arms. “I watch the news.”

“I’m on the news?”

“Youarethe news.”

An old-fashioned glass hit the countertop with a thud, sloshing red liquid around an orange zest garnish.

I looked past it at Nash, whose knowing expression implied he, too, had tuned into the six o’clock nightly broadcast.

“How bad was it?” I asked him.

He raised one shoulder then the other in a crooked shrug. “I believe the word ‘brazen’ was thrown around. Cocky…”

“Careless.” Pippa grabbed my drink before I could and tipped it to her lips for a taste. “Hmm. You might like this too much.” She reached into her apron pocket, producing the straw her brother had failed to provide.

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