Page 11 of Brother's Keeper

“They’re going after Isha, if you care,” I offered,tasting bitterness on my tongue. “The Blooming Orchid was named as a place of interest.”

“I saw.”

He reached for the plate of food once more, considering its contents. I could flip it and dump tartar sauce and fried food all over the rug. Or I could hold his mouth open and stuff it with every bit of the meal one piece at a time. Thoughts and images invaded my brain, temptations I resisted.

“But you don’t care?” I asked. “You’ll fuck her tonight, then let her get fucked tomorrow? She deserves better than that.”

“If this is all you have to show me, I believe we’re done here.” Bending forward, Grimm retrieved the magazine from where I’d thrown it on the floor. He shook it straight and licked his finger before fanning the pages in a search for the place where he’d left off.

Classical music piped through hidden speakers, the calming tune at odds with the rage simmering inside me. I opened my mouth, wanting to say more but seeing no point. He was right. We were done here. Before we ever began.

That evening, I channeled my anger into scrubbing every inch of the houseboat’s grimy interior. Buckets of murky water washed down the camper toilet and dirty rags heaped in the sink. I pulled the curtains off the windows and stripped the sheets and blankets from thebed, stuffing them in a trash bag bound for the laundromat. Or maybe I’d take them to the Bitters’ End and give myself another excuse to visit and linger while the spin cycle ran.

Donovan was less than helpful. He’d taken up a post on the deck, lounging in a plastic chair wearing sunglasses I was pretty sure were mine, and apparently angling for a tan despite the overcast sky.

He was mad at me. Princess in a tower yada yada, but Grimm’s inquiry about his wellbeing only affirmed my fears.

My brother’s sour mood fueled mine, though, and put us in a wordless standoff an hour long and counting. He would crack when I went out for dinner and didn’t bring him anything back. Both of us were already tired of canned soup and ramen noodles.

Shoving out the door, I passed Donovan in a huff. I swung the bag of trash I was lugging toward him, aiming for his head but hitting his shoulder instead.

“Watch it!” he exclaimed, finally looking up from the book he’d been reading.

I ignored him and trotted down the steps to the dock.

Despite the lack of sun, the air was warm and thick with humidity. I was sweating in my undershirt and gym shorts, and my hair was plastered to my forehead. The walk along the line of boats was about the equivalent of a neighborhood block. This was a neighborhood in its own right, and Donovan and I were hardly the only residents. I’d seen people coming and going and heard them chatting on their upper decks after dark. A few hadstrings of cafe lights to illuminate their makeshift lots. It was cozy, like lamps on city streets, meant to keep ne’er do wells at bay. A nice thought, but not an effective deterrent in my experience.

Only one guy was out now, touching up the trim paint on his yacht. He held a small brush in one hand and swirled a glass of wine in the other. Having a better time than me, that was for sure. I made a mental note to break into the six-pack of beer I had stashed in the mini fridge when I got done with trash duty.

I reached the dumpsters and found one lid left open from my previous visits. Slinging the bag into the corroded bin, I dusted my palms over my thighs, then started back down the dock.

In the corner of my vision, a pair of shadows strolled toward me. One of the figures was a wisp in all black while the other skipped along, her hair powder pink and a tutu fanning out around her legs.

I stopped in place and grinned as the girl—Maggie—broke into a sprint.

Her feet thumped against the wood boards of the dock as she closed the gap, stopping a few feet away to launch herself at me like a child expecting to be caught mid-flight.

I set my feet and opened my arms, but not without wondering what Ripley would do if I dropped his precious girl.

Maggie collided with me, squealing at a volume that made me cringe. But my smile endured while Ripley trudged up to join us. Headphones hung around his neck, and he smacked loudly on a piece of chewing gum.He snapped the gum between his teeth as he came into range. I passed Maggie to one arm so I had a free hand to shake with him.

“Long time no see,mate,” I teased. “I was wondering when you’d poke your head aboveground.”

I had neither seen nor heard from Ripley and his undead paramour since the warehouse standoff. I’d worried what happened after I left, but Ripley was capable of sorting things out for himself—meaning he could have flooded the place with toxic fumes and exterminated the gang like cockroaches.

But they survived, and so did he. Maybe Grimm was right that it was a power struggle. The natural course of events. But it felt different.

Ripley shook shaggy, raven hair from his face as he surveyed the boats in their slips. “Seems we’re both getting some distance from things,” he said. “Taking a break.”

Maggie sidled up to me, using her finger to trace the tattoos branching off my exposed shoulder.

I frowned. “Not so much. I see them every day at the Capitol. I was in Grimm’s office just this afternoon.”

“Why in God’s name would you return to that den of vipers?” Ripley’s accent seemed to serve as a barometer for his emotions, peaking in British slang and insults when he got thoroughly angry.

“What else am I supposed to do?” I asked. “It’s a small city with limited employment options for an ex-con. And we gotta eat.” I jerked a thumb toward the houseboat where Donovan loitered.

A life of crime left me without much of a resume,and I couldn’t picture myself bagging groceries or waiting tables for tips. My face had been on too many news reports and tabloid magazine covers; the sight of me would send customers scurrying.

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