Page 9 of Pulling Strings

But no, my concerns never came up. Instead, we drank and laughed and recounted memories until he left, believing all was well. Then I kept drinking, long after midnight, and confessing to Nash as though he were my priest and the Bitters’ End my church.

“Yeah, I talked to him,” I lied. “He thinks it’s my fault it’s taken him this long to get in. Said I’ve been holding him back because I’m afraid he’ll be better than me.” I sucked sharply on the cigarette, and the ash end flared.

Donovan may not have told me those things last night, but he’d made his feelings clear in the past. Another reason I hesitated to broach the subject now.

“For God’s sake, that’s all I want for him,” I muttered. “Bebetter than me, but not a better criminal.”

Isha folded her arms under cleavage already threatening to spill over. “You don’t have to agree with your brother’s choices, but you should respect them. He’s spent a long time in your shadow. That can’t be easy.”

I laid back in the chair. Her eyes were too full oftruth for my liking, so I looked everywhere else. My attention drifted from the brocade wallpaper gleaming black and gold to the crystal chandelier swagged overhead.

“You know what he should do?” I said at length.

“Hmm?”

“Get the hell out of Dodge. Leave this shitty place behind and all these shitty people, too.”

Isha’s expression soured. “Oh thanks, Fitch. I think you’re great, too.”

“Donovan’s human,” I continued. “He could live a normal, human life. Nine-to-five job, white picket fence, the goddamn American dream.” As I ticked the pros off on my fingers, my bandaged middle one throbbed in protest.

“Sounds terribly boring.” Isha took another drag. “Would you be happy like that? Spending your days as an unremarkable man with an unremarkable life?”

It sounded like bliss sometimes. Running off to somewhere sunny and, honestly, nostalgic. Donovan and I grew up in the suburbs, fifteen minutes from here. We lived in the same world then that surrounded us now, but we had been insulated. So well-protected that even the horrors of our father’s job never managed to touch us.

“You’ve never been unremarkable, Fitch,” Isha concluded. “You can’t even fathom it.” She slipped a hand around my thigh and gave a squeeze. “But try to.”

Her next draw on the cigarette reminded me of the one burning down between my fingers. I dropped ash onto the tray table.

“While you’re at it, try to imagine a world in which you could walk out of this city and no one would stop you.” She met my gaze, her long lashes blending intowinged liner. “It may sound like freedom, but it’s also a kind of insignificance I don’t think you could bear. And I don’t think Donovan can, either.”

Silence filled the space between us. Her manicured hand rested on my leg until she moved it to cup my chin instead. She tipped my head up to see her smile.

“Do you know whatyoushould do, Mister Farrow?” she said softly. “Go home and get some rest. You’re dead on your feet by the looks of it.”

Her fingers fell away, but I chased them, sitting up close enough to brush against her chest. Aromas of jasmine and patchouli wafted to my nose, the same smells present in her bedroom.

“It’s early,” I murmured. “I need to get something to eat, and maybe…” My mind roamed ahead, thinking of myself in the very near future with a full belly and a warm body in bed beside me. “Do you mind if I hang around here awhile?”

Her lips pursed, and her eyes glittered with mirth. “Only if you shower first. You really do smell like you crawled out of a bottle.”

4

Gang’s All Here

It wasn’t like Nash to decorate. He outfitted his bar with a steampunk mad scientist aesthetic that didn’t mesh well with balloons. But they were everywhere tonight. Streamers wound around and through the nest of copper piping in the ceiling, and a hand-painted sign the size of a bedsheet hung on one wall, proclaiming HAPPY BIRTHDAY DONOVAN in slanted script.

Nash waved from behind the bar as I meandered in. A polka dot bowtie made a comical addition to his flannel button-down and leather apron.

Despite his toothy grin, I approached with caution and groaned when I saw the stack of party hats on the counter beside him.

Sliding between stools, I leaned over the bar.

“Jesus, Nash. He’s turning twenty, not ten. Isn’t this a bit much?”

Nash’s sister, Pippa, emerged from the back room. She held a large, round tray brimming with shot glasses ready for tasting. Setting the tray on the counter, she clambered up to sit beside it.

A martini glass heaped with olives nestled amidst the jewel-toned shots. Pippa plucked one out andcheeked it before asking, “Weren’t you just here last night?”

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