Page 11 of Pulling Strings

“No straw, no napkin?” she teased him. “I thought this was a classy establishment, Nick.”

Nash shrugged again and gestured to me, implying that such niceties were reserved for more discerning clientele.

Meanwhile, my thoughts teemed with worst-case scenarios. I’d been caught on camera before. My wanted ads were crowded with stills from real life. Most were tabloid cover shots, catching me with a gas station burrito stuffed in my mouth, or later puking up that same burrito after learning it didn’t mix well with the bottle of vodka I’d found in the backseat of my car.

“Do you think Grimm saw?” I wondered aloud. The thought sunk in my stomach like a fishing weight.

Rather than answer my question, Nash dipped a hand below the counter. “I made you something,” he said, pulling out what looked to be a corked marble and tossed it to me.

I caught it, spurred by the self-preservation instinct that informed me Nash made as many consumable liquids as he did combustible ones. It wasn’t unlikely he would throw a potion grenade my way, trusting I wouldn’t fumble it and blow this place sky-high.

With the tiny orb safely in hand, I lifted it for inspection. Blue-green liquid swirled, mercurial, inside the glass. It was prettier than many of the alchemist’s concoctions, which often came out looking like thin mud or swamp water.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Recall potion,” he replied. “Thought you could test it for me. Break or drink it, and it should bring you back here.”

“Should?” I echoed.

Pippa snickered, nibbling another olive.

Nash continued with a nod, “Might come in handy for someone needing to avoid negative attention. Or arrest.”

“Could’ve used this earlier.” I gave the potion a swish.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He said it jokingly, but I was entirely serious as I replied, “I would never say that.”

“When you use it, would you make a note of any sensations or side effects?” Nash asked, unmoved by my effort at sincerity. I half-expected him to hand me a steno pad and pen. “Up to seventy-two hours after consumption.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Tucking the potion into the jeans pocket opposite my car keys, I already worried about accidentally popping it at the worst possible moment. I’d find a safer way to store it when I got back to the motel later.

Awareness of the late hour reminded me I hadn’t expected to be drinking alone. I scanned the walls for a clock.

“What time is everybody supposed to get here?”

“Well, you’re never early and they’re always late, so you all usually arrive about the same time,” Nash said. “I’d guess they’re about to walk in right now.”

“Fitch!” My brother’s voice carried on a shout across the bar.

I grimaced. Not at Donovan’s audible enthusiasm at finding me here, but rather at his presence heraldingthe arrival of the rest of the party guests. I swiveled on the barstool and stood to greet him with a smile.

“Happy birthday, kid,” I said as he leaned in for a hug.

After a brief embrace, he pulled back, surveying the balloons and streamers populating every surface. He beamed, mocha brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm so genuine I regretted saying the décor was juvenile. Maybe I’d missed the mark all these years and he would have been happier with a cake and a clown.

“This is great, you guys.” Donovan shared thanks with each of us in turn and ended on me. “Fitch, is this where you’ve been all day?”

“Oh, yes.” Pippa pressed the half-drank Boulevardier into my hand then climbed off the counter. “It was Fitch’s idea to dress up the place. Blowing up balloons with his own breath and spit, running up and down a ladder…”

She laughed, amused by the joke, but Donovan’s expression sobered.

“So, you weren’t here,” he said flatly. “Why didn’t you come home?”

He didn’t know. Nice to see at least one person had better things to do than watch TV all day.

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