29. Unlikely Ally
29
Unlikely Ally
After pacing the motel room, swearing, and barely pulling free of the barbed hooks of a panic attack—I hadn’t had one of those since I was a teenager—I pushed my already taxed brain into overdrive. Drawers were ripped out of the dresser, pillows unstuffed to litter the floor with cottony debris, and oversized art pieces yanked from the walls. My nose started bleeding so badly that I got in the shower clothes and all, then stood there watching water run pink down the drain.
In the wake of all that, I collapsed on my bed and didn’t stir until a knock on the door roused me the next morning.
Stumbling to answer it, I hoped to find my brother on the other side. Repentant or reveling in his newfound villainy, it didn’t matter. It turned out the idea of him loathing me was less tolerable than I’d first believed.
Dragging aside the chair I’d used to block the entrance, I pulled the door open. Blinding sunlight framed a short, scrawny silhouette that I knew immediately wasn’t Donovan.
I blinked and squinted, rubbing the blur from my eyes until Ripley Vaughn’s countenance became clear.
“May I come in?” he asked. The English accent and the attempt at propriety grated on me.
Scowling through a mockingly grand bow, I stepped back to let him enter.
He stopped just inside, and his head turned in a visual sweep of the space. “What happened here?” he asked, giving me cause to reassess the damage I’d done to the room.
“Redecorating,” I replied.
“Ah.”
I moved to the bedside lamp, switching on both shaded bulbs before heading to the upset of clothing left from last night’s sloppy sorting. Grabbing a long-sleeved thermal, I gave it a sniff and found it clean enough to tug over my bare torso.
A glance back found Ripley clearing the seat of one of the floral-upholstered chairs, awkwardly picking up garments and moving them to the adjacent table.
With a snort, I swept my hand through the air, dumping the pile onto the floor.
He turned and sat without so much as a questioning glance, and I began a search for jeans to replace the flannel pants I’d crawled into after last night’s impromptu shower.
“Where’s your pet zombie?” I asked with my back to him.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you called her by name.”
I rolled my eyes. “Remind me?”
“Maggie.”
“Sure.”
Jeans slid on over boxers, and I took a handful of steps to the sink counter, retrieving the capless toothpaste and my toothbrush. I left the water running, hoping to drown out whatever the other man might have said.
He waited till I had scrubbed, spit, and rinsed to speak. “You’ve got a lot of anger, mate.”
“Pretty sure it’s just my personality.” I cranked the faucet off.
Why had I let him in? Now he lingered as a dark shadow lurking in the corner of my room, judging me from behind his scene hair swoop and raccoon-ringed eyes.
I was quickly running out of ways to ignore him but, when I turned around ready to ask what brought him here, he beat me to it.
“You know, you could run the Bloody Hex.”
He stared at me, unapologetic. More than that, he was unafraid of me and my ability to out him to Grimm for even suggesting such a thing.
I met his gaze, stunned until the absurdity of his claim made me chuckle. “How do you figure?”
“You’re powerful. Capable.” He shifted in the chair to kick one leg over the other. “People would follow you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to run any gang. Much less this one.”
Ripley gave the room another visual sweep. “Perhaps not.”
The longer he sat, the deeper the idea wiggled into my brain. With Donovan’s allegiance sworn, stepping up my leadership in the gang would enable me to protect him. I could weigh in on jobs assigned—or not—and, if the current goal was to grow our numbers, I had opinions about that, too.
Before my imagination ran away with me, I dug my heels in.
“What do you want?” I snapped at the skinny teen, stirring him from silence. “Why are you here?”
He didn’t stand, though I wished he would so this would feel less like a lecture or a meeting I’d been called into.
“I believe I misjudged you,” Ripley said. “I assumed Grimm and the others got their claws in you when you were too young. Too impressionable. Directable. I thought you were a lost cause, and that all the good your family put into you was for naught.”
My nose wrinkled. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking a lot for someone who’s known me less than a week.”
He pushed forward then, bracing bony elbows on his thighs. “Fitch…” His head tilted to hold my gaze. “May I call you Fitch?”
I shrugged.
“Why did you tell me your brother was dead?”
“That’s the party line,” I muttered. “Always has been.”
“I suppose that’ll be changing now.”
He knew. Which meant everyone else did, too.
That spurred me to break away, remembering the cigarettes left in the slacks that now lay in a soggy pile on the bathroom floor. Curse words tumbled out before I reached into the pocket and found the pack a disintegrated mess of melted paper and shag. In the midst of it, Holland Lyle’s business card remained mostly intact thanks to its heavily-glossed cardstock. I plucked it from the tobacco carnage and set it on the sink counter on my way past.
“We are alike, you and I,” Ripley said.
God, is he still talking?
“And, I dare say, we want the same things. You for your brother, and me for Maggie.” Ripley stood, more fervent than I’d seen him yet. I stopped in my tracks to give him the attention he clearly wanted.
“As long as Grimm is in charge, things will continue as they are,” he explained. “Or they may get worse. Your brother is the only leverage Grimm has over you. Be it to keep you close, force you into line, or to bend a knee at his command. He knows your weakness, and he exploits it. Believe me when I say he will continue to do exactly that as long as you allow it.”
“You’d know, huh?” I scoffed. “That’s why you’re here.”
His jaw set. “For now.”
Like puzzle pieces snapping together, his pitch became clear, with many of the benefits I’d already considered. I could dethrone Grimm, run the Bloody Hex, and keep Donovan out of harm’s way. Ripley would benefit because I had little use for him or his undead lover. They could fuck right off, for all I cared.
But he neglected to mention what we both knew. He’d attempted as much before, even enlisting the Capitol’s aid, and had been rewarded with a lengthy prison sentence. At the end of that, he was back where he began—a feeling with which I could relate.
“Because striking out on your own went so well last time.” I waved a dismissive hand, turning away from him to search the bedside table drawer for the unlikely event of loose or partial cigarettes.
“I don’t intend to do it on my own.” He pressed closer. “Help me, and we can save your brother.”
Finding nothing in the drawer but lotion and a stack of porn magazines, I slammed it shut.
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “I tried. This is what he wants.”
Ripley huffed a breath. “If a child wanted to eat poison, would you let them?”
“Donnie’s not a kid anymore. ”
“So, he’s just a fool.”
I spun around with my hand toward the exit. The knob turned and the door opened, flooding the room with light.
“Get out,” I growled.
His lips pursed. “Consider it, at least.”
“I won’t.”
With a sigh, he made his way to the exit, stopping only to add, “Everyone’s meeting for brunch in half an hour. They asked me to tell you.”
“Out,” I repeated.
He left, and I slammed the door shut in his wake. Mentally locking it, I sank onto the nearest bed and laid back to stare up at the rocky terrain of the popcorn ceiling.
It was ballsy of the man in black to wander in here trying to stage a coup. Assuming an awful lot about me and making claims that were exaggerated, at best. Why would I work with him? By all accounts, he was only out for his own interests. And, if I did take over the gang, let him and Maggie go, and axed Grimm, Avery, and Vinton, there would be very little Bloody Hex left to helm.
There was also the very real possibility that Donovan wouldn’t take my side of things. He wasn’t my biggest fan at the moment and imagining how that translated to his loyalties made for a hard pill to swallow.
I rubbed my hands across my face.
For all the thoughts swirling inside my head, one question rose above the rest: since when did we eat brunch?