Free Final Empire by Blake Northcott Page B

place but let my index finger slip over the trigger.
    His top lip quivered for a moment and then he bent at the waist, bursting into gales of laughter. It was the sound of a rusted garden tool scraping down a chalkboard. “I’m just messing with you, man! Bring it in.” He pulled me into a full embrace, patting me on the back. I flipped my hoodie back over the weapon and he didn’t seem to notice.
    “Look at you,” he said, drawing back while clutching my shoulders. “Matthew freaking Moxon, in the flesh. Man, do you look tired. Or maybe it’s just your age...I know you’re like, super old now. Didn’t you turn the big ‘three-oh’ this year?”
    I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Good to see you too, Steve.”
    He released his grip and glanced at Peyton. “And if it isn’t the one and only Patty!” He threw his arms around her with the same enthusiasm, squeezing her tight. She was stationary, arms locked at her sides. I think she was too stunned to correct him. “And wow,” he added, “you’re looking fine, girl. Still with the pink hair, huh?”
    “Yup,” she replied flatly. “And you’re still with the condescending remarks and complete lack of social awareness?”
    McGarrity paused for a moment before playfully smacking his forehead, cackling once again with the laugh I’d heard twice in the last thirty seconds, but was already sick of hearing. “Same ol’ Patty. Man did I miss you guys. Come in, come in...” he waved us into his suite, slamming the double doors behind him. “Can I offer you guys some distilled water? Oreos? A guava? I don’t even know what a guava is, but I just had them flown in from El Salvador on a private jet, so I hope they’re good.”
    The Royal Suite was immense, and not quite as ‘royal’ as I’d imagined; cherry red drapes, gold wallpaper, more crystal chandeliers than I thought could reasonably be crammed into a single space, and an ebony grand piano that took up only a fraction of the expansive living room. If Las Vegas had vomited into an oversized penthouse with twelve foot ceilings, this would be the result. McGarrity explained that the room was different before he’d arrived, but for an extra fee (he declined to mention how much) management would paint, furnish and decorate the suite to suit any guests’ needs, right down to the last gaudy detail. No job was too big, and apparently, no fee was too big.
    We all declined the refreshments before taking a seat on leopard-print couches that surrounded a round, low coffee table, which was overflowing with fruit baskets and floral arrangements.
    “Look,” McGarrity said, crossing one leg over the other (thankfully he’d been courteous enough to wear boxer shorts underneath his robe), “I know exactly why you’re here.”
    “You do?” I asked, arching an eyebrow, cocking my head on an angle.
    “Of course, and I am so sorry, man.”
    “Sorry?” I brought a finger to my chin, taking a moment to process the words he was saying. “You’re... sorry. ”
    He threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “It’s not my fault, really! I feel like shit for leaving you out of my autobiography, bro – but my publisher only wanted three hundred pages. Editing, man. It’s a brutal process. Sometimes you have to kill your darlings.”
    I sprang to my feet without even realizing it. “You think we flew here because of your stupid autobiography?” I shouted. “And wait...I’m not mentioned even once?”
    Gavin stood as well, patting me on the shoulder. “Big picture, Matt.”
    McGarrity sauntered to the piano, where his jeans and a black t-shirt were rumpled, piled into a heap on the bench.
    “So, what’s going on?” He threw off his robe and pulled the jeans over his boxers.
    I sensed the onset of a migraine, although this one was definitely not tumor-related. “Oh, nothing much, Steve. Just this little thing about the world being under attack by superhumans.”
    “Right, that. Caught a bit of it on the