Page 51 of Twisted Control

We round the corner just as Jamie leans beside a dumpster, cigarette already glowing between his lips.

Levi positions himself at the mouth of the alley, shoulder casually against the wall like he’s just killing time. To any passerby, he’s nobody. In reality, he’s blocking the view and watching the street.

I don’t give Jamie a chance to react. My hand locks around his throat and slams him back against the brick wall. His cigarette falls, sparking once before dying on the wet ground. His eyes bulge wide, feet kicking uselessly.

“You’ve had a lot to say about Grace Whitmore online, Jamie,” I say, voice low and calm. “Why don’t you say it to my face?”

He makes a wet, choking sound, nails clawing weakly at my forearm.

“You were a lot braver behind a keyboard.”

I tighten my grip for another second, just enough to make my point, then let go.

Jamie crumples to the pavement, gasping and clutching his throat.

“What has she ever done to you?” I ask.

Jamie wheezes, voice cracking. “She…she doesn’t even look you in the eye.”

I grab him by the collar, yank him up and slam my fist into his stomach. He doubles over again with a pathetic whoosh of air, clutching his gut.

“You know, she’s actually a nice woman.”

I pause, catching myself.

“Well…not nice. She’s…complicated…misunderstood. But you try growing up with her piece-of-shit father and see how you turn out.”

I haul him back up until only his toes scrape the ground, forcing him to meet my eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean you get to talk about her. Ever.”

Jamie’s breathing in short, panicked bursts. “Look, man, I’ll stop, okay? I swear I won’t say anything else⁠—”

“I know you won’t.”

I jerk my chin toward Levi. “Knife?”

“In the car,” Levi replies without looking over. “And it’s my fucking knife.”

“Right, because all that sharpening was just for fun⁠—”

“After you stole my gun? Why the hell would I lend you anything?”

“I told you, I was calibrating it⁠—”

“You did a shit job. It pulls to the fucking right now.”

“It does not⁠—”

“It does. Don’t touch my shit⁠—”

Jamie makes a strangled, gurgling sound and turns a worrying shade of purple. I loosen my grip, and pull the pissy little switchblade from my ankle holster. The blade snaps open with a sharp click.

I press the edge lightly to his cheek. He jerks away in panic. The blade catches skin. It’s just a shallow cut, but blood wells up instantly and streaks down his face.

“Oh God—” he cries.

I sigh and let him drop to the ground.