Page 15 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)

Ignoring the Closed sign, I let myself in to the Bitters’ End with Donovan trailing behind. Music rumbled from the bar area, luring me with the promise of satisfaction for my many vices. Strutting in, we found the room vacant and spotless. Nash had more time on his hands since quarantine, but the spit shine on the wood floors and gleaming copper counter implied a level of boredom that could easily translate to madness.

“Nash?” I called out. “Pippa?”

Neither of the siblings responded, but I was perfectly capable of pouring my own drinks. I sped up, approaching the counter and vaulting over it to the other side. Grinning, I drummed my hands on the countertop as Donovan stopped behind a stool.

“Welcome, good sir.” I effected an announcer’s voice as I extended an arm toward the wall of intoxicants. “What’re we drinking tonight?”

“You sure we shouldn’t wait?” Donovan glanced around. “They’re probably upstairs.”

I shrugged. “Probably.”

Turning to the shelves brimming with booze and alchemical concoctions, I identified as many liquors as I could. Without labels, it was a memory game, but I was pretty sure Nash kept most of the poisonous stuff under the bar, so whatever I mixed up wouldn’t kill us. Hopefully.

“I don’t know, Fitch. I’m not really feeling it.” Donovan climbed onto a barstool, and his arms fell across the counter with limp thuds.

I snagged a cocktail shaker from beside the sink and popped it open. “You gotta give me something or I’ll get creative, and it will absolutely taste like shit.”

He sighed. “Fine. Vodka martini.”

“Coming right up.”

Grabbing a bottle of clear liquid, I spun the cap off then tipped it to my mouth for a swig. The vodka tasted clean and crisp, a nice primer for the night’s imbibements.

Donovan shook his head as I began to fill the shaker. He remained somber, dark eyes drifting away rather than watching me spin the chilled vermouth bottle before adding its contents to the martini mix.

I capped the shaker, then tossed it behind my back for an over-the-shoulder catch that should have wowed, but the sole member of my audience remained indifferent.

No need to wonder about the cause of his gloomy mood. He had plenty of reasons for concern—the most recent addition to his storage unit zoo foremost among them. I pulled out a stemmed glass and filled it to the brim. Heavy pours across the board left extra in the shaker, so I downed that, too, then passed Donovan his drink.

Leaning against the bar, I snagged a few bottles from the shelves and set them hovering in the air. They raised and lowered in a circle like Ferris wheel gondolas slowly turning.

“Hey, Donnie,” I began after a moment, “you remember that game we used to play here? Invisible Man?”

Coming into the gang at the ripe age of fourteen meant that I was too young to participate in most of the activities the grown men considered entertainment. I didn’t develop a taste for alcohol till about two years later, around the time my interest in women peaked. Before then, I spent most of my time at the bar and brothel babysitting Donovan.

I’d done the same at home when our parents went out for date nights, or on long summer days when Dad was at work and Mom had errands to run. I had a decent repertoire of ways to keep my kid brother occupied but, as my magical prowess grew, so did his interest in seeing it in use.

Eleven years earlier

“That one next!” Donovan giggled as he crouched beside me beneath an empty booth table.

Beyond the shadow of our hiding place, bar patrons milled. They passed in stumbles and swaggers, moving to the beat of the music till they toppled over chairs or crashed into each other like human bumper cars.

Donovan’s chosen target sat at the counter across the room. The big-nosed man tipped back a frosted mug of beer that caked his mustache with foam.

I pointed at him. “That one?” I grinned at Donovan. “You sure?”

My brother’s dark eyes glittered as his head bobbed.

“You got it,” I said.

Leaning back against the lip of the bench seat, I aimed a finger toward the man at the bar. Mental rope snaked out, reaching for the handle of the big clear mug. When I caught hold and tugged, the man held on. His previously vacant expression turned to shock as he gripped his glass with both hands, starting a tug of war that pitched him back and forth on the stool.

Beside me, Donovan burst into snorting laughter. I couldn’t help but join in, rocking the drink side to side so beer sloshed first onto our intended target, then the woman at the bar beside him.

The woman leaped up, dripping with frothy booze. She glared at the man as he clung to his mug with scrunch-faced consternation. He remained so focused on regaining control of his drink that he didn’t see the punch the beer-soaked woman threw at his face.

A real ringer, the blow knocked him off his stool. He listed back, keeping his footing long enough to collide with another customer standing nearby. I recognized the tall, broad man the second he spun around: Vinton.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

Disaster unfolded while a weight plummeted into my gut. I released the mug too late to avoid the collision that splashed the last of the foamy swill down Vinton’s shirt. He stood, stunned and speechless, as the first man recovered enough to remain barely on his feet.

Donovan kept snickering despite my frantic attempts to shush him. I finally clapped my hand over his mouth, but Vinton was already heading our way. Tree trunk legs carried him across the hardwoods.

The table over our heads tipped back, bringing light and Vinton’s red-faced scowl. Donovan shrunk back, and I barred an arm across him. It was an unnecessary defense because the bald man’s wrath was all mine.

“Knew it was you,” Vinton growled.

He grabbed me by the ear, pinching then pulling so hard I thought he might rip it off. I yelped and swatted at his hand as he dragged me into the middle of the room.

He said something else, but I didn’t hear it as he shook me, unfazed by my attempts to loosen his grip on my ear. The side of my head burned with pain while the bald man slung me forward to land in the puddled mess on the floor.

“Clean it up!” he commanded.

The room went quiet. All eyes zeroed in on where I knelt while booze seeped into my jeans. The other gang members stood by, even Grimm, his silence endorsing Vinton’s authority.

I glanced back at Donovan, forgotten under the table. He huddled with his head ducked, barely peeking out. All signs of happiness had been superseded by pale-faced fear.

My fault. My idea to play the stupid game.

At the edge of the gathering crowd, the bartender, Nicholas Nash, approached with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a mop in his hand. He looked at me with something so near kindness I almost didn’t recognize it.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. That’s my job.” A smile parted his ginger beard. “Don’t wanna put a guy out of work, do you?”

Vinton made a swiping grab at the mop. “Gimme that.”

The bartender moved out of his reach. “Next round’s on me,” he told Vinton, then seemed to reconsider. “Make that the next two. You clearly need it.”

Grumbling, Vinton made his way to the bar, where the bartender’s curly-haired sister waited to take his order.

I stayed on the floor while the gawkers dispersed, and the bartender walked forward and offered his hand. I took it and let him pull me up.

My stomach knotted with nerves as I stepped back, surveying the liquid pooling on the floor. “Sorry, Mister Nash,” I said.

“Mister?” His nose crinkled. “How ‘bout just Nash?”

I shrugged one shoulder, then nodded toward the mop he held. “I can help if you want.”

The bartender shook his head. “I’ve got it. That was a neat trick you pulled, though.” He chuckled.

Looking again at Donovan, I found him a sniveling mess huddled beneath the table. A long breath escaped me. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Real neat.”

Head resting on his crossed arms, Donovan stared through the martini glass at me. “What made you think of that?”

The memory clung on, a muddle of emotion I didn’t care to sort out. “I don’t know. It was kinda fun.”

“Until you got in trouble.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced through a swallow. “You always got in trouble.”

The Ferris wheel of booze dispersed, sending bottles back to their shelves except for the one I called to my grasp. Old reliable whiskey. Import, judging by its warm, woody smell. I spotted an old fashioned glass in the drying rack further down the counter and reeled it through the air to land before me.

“I’m in trouble now, too,” I told Donovan, filling the glass with amber liquid. “With Holland for sure. Probably Grimm, too.”

Donovan was right in that our gang leader was neither seen nor heard these days, but I worried rumors would reach him. There were only a few degrees of separation between Holland, her father, and her father’s personal assistant.

“What for?” Donovan asked.

“Murder.”

Donovan’s eyes went wide. “You mean Avery’s guys? This morning? That was you?”

“Mmhmm,” I hummed through a mouthful of whiskey.

“Avery said the investigator did it.”

I sniffed and swallowed. “Hardly. She would’ve been dead if not for me. Then she got pissed about it. Like killing criminals is a bad thing.”

A mental fling sent the cocktail shaker to the sink basin, where it landed with a clatter.

“Nice of Avery to cover for me,” I said more to myself than my brother. “Surprised the rookies went along with it, though.”

“They didn’t even mention you were there.” Donovan leaned back on the barstool. “Well, that’s not true. Ripley said he saw you in the parking lot.”

My mouth twisted into a frown. “Fucker.”

Between unenthusiastic sips of his martini, Donovan nodded toward the shelves behind me. “Hey, what’s that?”

I turned to find the subject of his interest. A scrap of paper leaned against a green glass bottle. Grabbing it, I immediately noticed the pencil sketch on the front. It showed a man lying down with his eyes closed in sleep and one hand stuffed in the open fly of his pants. Not just any man. The fluffy undercut hair and the inmate ID number written on the breast pocket of his coveralls made it unmistakably me. And that made the artist undeniably…

“Clyde?” I yelped.

“Who?” Donovan asked.

Shuffling steps echoed from the entry hall. Donovan spun toward the sound while I studied the shapes and lines that I’d seen the big man creating during my time in prison. His autograph occupied the bottom right corner, a single letter C.

Nash wandered into the bar wearing a white undershirt, sweats, and slippers that made it clear he was not expecting customers. If the outfit hadn’t been a clue, the potion bottle almost hidden in the grip of his left hand would have been. Combustible, if I were to guess.

“Gentlemen,” he called out. “Making yourselves at home, I see.”

Donovan wilted, looking abashed as the ruddy bartender approached.

I still held the drawing and flapped it at Nash. “Where’d you get this?”

An ornery smile split his face. “You like it? I have more.”

“I said where did you get it?” I repeated, then shook myself as the rest of his statement processed. “More?”

He hummed acknowledgement. “I keep them upstairs. Part of my private collection.”

My nose wrinkled. “Pervert. That’s great, though. You’ve met Clyde?”

“Who’s Clyde?” Donovan chimed.

“My cellmate from Thorngate,” I explained. “Big fella. Claimed to be my biggest fan.”

Nash slid in beside Donovan and propped his elbow on the bar. “I informed him he had competition for that title.”

I crossed my arms and smirked. “Oh yeah? You gonna start sketching my dick for the internet? ”

“I’m not much of an artist.” Nash shrugged. “But I do have a few photographs. And one very spicy sex tape.” His bushy brows waggled.

Donovan grimaced. He planted his palms on the counter and shoved back. “Gross, you guys.”

Chuckling, Nash moved away from Donovan and nodded at the whiskey bottle within my reach. “You find that on the top shelf?”

I lifted it to my lips for a savoring sip, and Nash shook his head. Making his way down the bar, he stepped through the swinging double doors to the back side of the counter. When he got a head to toe look at me, his smile turned wily.

“What’re you all dressed up for?”

Hooking a thumb in the waistband of my pants, I thrust one hip forward. “I’m soliciting,” I replied. “Is it working?”

“It’s cute.” He closed the gap to me.

In my peripheral, Donovan rolled his eyes. “He catfished some guy at the Blooming Orchid so we could put him in storage.”

Nash’s brows arched, more curious than surprised, as I ticked a finger at my brother.

“That was not catfishing,” I said. “Everything here is as advertised.”

Reaching over, Nash took my glass and raised it to his nose for a sniff. “That’s the good stuff, all right.” He tipped the drink back and swished its contents around in his mouth before swallowing. “How’s that going, by the way? Maximus’s endless list?”

“It’s a nightmare,” Donovan answered before I could. “There’s one guy who cries all day.”

I cocked my head. “Which one?”

“He does snow magic,” Donovan said. “Cryomancy, I think?”

My first victim. The councilman who had tried to turn me into a human popsicle. “Ah, yeah. Yankee Doodle.”

“What?” Donovan frowned.

“Nothing.”

Nash stood by, near enough that the herbal smell of his cologne wormed its way to my nose. In the moment of quiet, I snuck a glance at his bare arms bedecked with colorful tattoos that contrasted starkly against my black and gray ink. I stared too long, studying the scales of a dragon that coiled around his bicep and onto his shoulder. When the alchemist caught me looking, his warm brown eyes crinkled with amusement.

Donovan slid his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “Fitch, we gotta go,” he announced. “I want to make sure the new guy is at least a little more comfortable before we leave him for the night.”

Grumbling complaint, I asked, “One more drink?” Though I could clearly see he hadn’t even finished the martini.

“It’s late,” Donovan replied. “And I have to drive you to work in the morning.”

“I can drive you,” Nash offered.

A smile tugged at my cheeks, but I fought it off. “You don’t want to do that. It’s ungodly early.”

8:00 AM was a time rarely seen by those in my social circle, or by myself before the Capitol gig required it. As a bar owner, Nash was damn near nocturnal. I’d never known him to be awake before noon unless he was still rolling from the night before.

“Then I’ll take a nap afterwards.” Nash raised his shoulder. “And make you breakfast before.”

Warmth crept up my neck. “Look at you, coming in with the hard sell.” I huffed a laugh.

Donovan sighed loudly and stood from his stool. “Guess that answers your question, Fitch. Somebody wants to fuck you.”

I remembered Lover Boy calling me “baby girl” and pulling on the choker collar I’d worn with exactly that in mind.

“Oh, he’s not the only one.” I snaked my tongue across my lips, and Donovan cringed.

“Congrats,” he muttered. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” He made his way out of the bar hastily, and the front door slammed it shut in his wake.

Nash flinched at the echoing bang, then took another nip of whiskey.

Huffing a breath, I tossed my head toward my brother’s exit. “He got what he wanted, and it’s not what he wanted.” I climbed onto the bartop and sat with my arms crossed. “Can I say I told him so?”

Nash set the glass down then stepped over and pushed my knees apart. He pressed in, running his hands up my thighs. “Who else wants to fuck you?” His voice held a soft growl that made my breath catch.

“Lots of people,” I said through a stuttering laugh. “Guys, girls, my options are wide open.”

“Mmhmm.” Nash nodded, standing impossibly close. “But you’re here.”

I rolled my shoulder in a sort of shrug. “None of them offered me breakfast.”

Had I thought of this when I turned Lover Boy down? Remembered the company available to me just across town? Maybe I should have. Toothpaste-white teeth and soft hair were nice, but Nash was more. I wondered if I was more to him, too, but that thought was quashed as Nash’s fingers crept past my waist, walking across my bare midriff and making me squirm.

“What should we do until breakfast?” he whispered.

A shiver slipped down my spine as I replied, “Whatever you want.”

Nash hummed a soft sound. I hooked my legs around his waist and leaned back, bracing my arms as he bent over me. The heels of his palms bumped over my ribs, applying bone-deep pressure that drove a sigh from me.

“I do like this outfit,” he said. His lips feathered across my stomach, joined by a warm rush of air as he chuckled. “But all I can think is how much better you’d look without it.”

Nash’s fingers crept around to my back then walked up my spine. I leaned forward, and we collided with a kiss. He tucked me tightly to him, and I went limp, whimpering against his lips and feeling him smile in return.

“Except maybe this,” he said. One hand strayed to loop a finger around the choker necklace. He gave it a tug, lolling my head backwards. “This can stay.”

The slight pressure on my throat lingered as he moved to my jawline, suckling down to the hollow of my collarbone.

I’d let him walk me on a leash if the trip ended in his bed. Hell, I’d even crawl on all fours. And, after that, I’d show him a few tricks I could do with my tongue.

As soon as Nash released the choker, I kissed him again and brought my hands around. One knotted in the soft scruff of his hair while the other ventured toward the waistband of his sweats.

In response, he barred an arm across my back and tucked the other under me, pulling me forward off the countertop. I hugged my thighs against his hips until he lowered me to the floor. My feet came down to stop the descent and he stepped wide, making space to spin me around. In the span of one surprised gasp, he had me bent across on the bartop with the bulge of his erection pressed against my ass.

Anticipation swelled in my chest and escaped as a breathy whine. I reached to the button fly of my tight leather pants, ready to unfasten them until Nash’s hand cupped the back of my neck and forced me forward. I stretched onto tiptoes as he pinned my face cheek-down against the cold copper counter and shoved my pants past my knees.

The sounds of shuffling, adjusting, and Nash spitting into his hand caused my pulse to spike. I nipped at my lip ring and grabbed the counter’s edge.

I didn’t tell him I’d been wound up half the night after being groped and ogled by Lover Boy. No need to confess that I’d come here more for him than the drinks. And I definitely wasn’t about to admit that I preferred Nash’s lumberjack aesthetic to any floofy-haired news personality.

“You want it?” he asked.

“God, yes.” I rushed to respond.

I exhaled as his cock eased into me, then groaned at the gradual stretch and give. He inched deeper until he was fully inside. My thoughts swirled, and sensation spiked in a sort of painful pleasure I couldn’t equate to anything else.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Nash said, brushing his thumb across the base of my skull.

“Shut up and fuck me,” I replied, but it was hard to sound annoyed with the smile pulling at my lips.

Nash didn’t buy it, as proven by his laugh and whispered response. “Whatever you want.”