Page 81 of Pulling Strings

Grimm pitched forward, stabbing a finger into my chest. “You, Mister Farrow, are the embarrassment,” he snapped. “To yourself and to this organization.”

I rolled my eyes. “‘Organization.’ Sure.”

His hand pulled back, and I could tell he wanted to hit me. He wouldn’t, though. Not with everyone watching.

“I risked everything to free you from a prison of your own making,” he said. “You earned your way in there and would not have made it out without me moving the very hand of God to spare you.”

“You weren’t doing me any favors,” I said, rising to stand on the table. “You need me. I heard the news. I’m the most prolific killer in modern history. I’m your golden goose. I know it.Heknows it.” My point at Ripley earned me a narrow look.

“Leave me out of this, mate,” he said.

Bristling, I continued. “Isaved your asses from extinction.Iturned the tide against the Capitol.Ikilled thirty-some-odd people. Me.”

Liquor sloshed from my drink to splatter onto the tabletop. Swearing, I threw the whole glass to shatter on the wood floor.

“Get out.” Grimm stabbed a finger toward the exit. He was madder than ever and not about the spilled booze.

I sneered back at him. “I’m not done.”

“Whatever you have left to say can wait,” he replied in a scarcely controlled growl. “I’ll be holding my peace until later. I suggest you do the same.”

The breath I drew to respond was stopped by his shout.

“Donovan!”

My brother stoodbeside the table, directly behind me. Near enough he could grab my forearm.

“I’ve got him,” he told Grimm, then gave a tug. “Come on, Fitch.”

I jerked away from him, stepping off the table onto the floor. “I don’t need a chaperone. Jesus.”

Donovan pressed in close to me with both our backs to the seated men. Reluctantly, I let him set a speedy pace across the room. We made it several steps before he asked,

“Are you drunk?” Disdain contorted his features.

“You think I should be?” I kept in stride while swiveling to glare at him. “Would it be better if I was?”

As we walked past the bar counter, I extended my hand toward the liquor bottles lined against the mirrored back wall. A blind grab looped and pulled the nearest thing through the air as though on a line. Nash—the only person outside the gang who hadn’t fled the chaos—ducked as the bottle whizzed past his head. It hit my palm and I uncorked it, not bothering to read the label before tipping it to my mouth.

Donovan’s expression became even more scornful. “Whatever.” He looked away.

The alcohol tasted like lighter fluid. I squinted at the label.

“It’s Everclear, dumbass!” Nash called out, explaining what I could now see for myself.

Under different circumstances, I would have spat it out, but I had a point to make.

Ignoring Nash’s head shake, I muscled down another swallow. “Where are you parked?” I asked my brother.

“Around back,” Donovanmuttered.

“Great.”

We made it to the entry hall where I broke out ahead of him, leading the way through the front door and into the gravel lot outside. A clog just beyond the exit cleared with a swipe of my hand, toppling people like a house of cards. They shouted and scrambled as I passed, and Donovan trudged along.

Rounding the corner of the building, a crisp breeze whipped by. Dark skies and moonlight reflected off the ocean waves stretching out from the bluff where the Bitters’ End perched. Small groups of people cluttered around the structure, and I recognized a few as rejects from the gang’s recruitment push.

At the back of the whitewashed house, Donovan’s soft-top Ford Bronco was parked beside the dumpster. I waited for him to let me in, leaning against the front fender while taking another swig of the toxic waste masquerading as booze.

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