Fallon
Chapter forty-nine
Backlash
I woke up one morning, three days ago, and decided that we were coming home.
I want to run again. Nothing could have prepared me for the hostility of strangers online.
Jules has completely taken over the salon’s social media pages, every post now conveniently missing one particular redhead—me.
Apparently, the investors up north are worried the salon could become collateral damage in something called, ‘cancel culture.’ So, for now, Jules is the face of Billy Blue’s, and honestly, I’m grateful for her willingness to shoulder the fallout.
Still, stepping outside again feels like walking into enemy territory.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. My pulse pounds so hard it drowns out common sense as I make my way toward the salon, dark sunglasses shoved tighter against my face like cheap plastic might somehow shield me from recognition.
It won’t.
This is Bluestone. Everyone knows who I am.
And now, thanks to the internet, people far beyond our tiny mountain town think they know me too.
For two weeks, the kids and I hid away at the cabin. Our days were filled with hiking trails, fishing poles, scraped knees, and swimming in the river until our fingers wrinkled. At night, we roasted hot dogs over the firepit, made s’mores, and pretended the world outside the mountains didn’t exist.
The kids loved every second of it.
And Cyrus… Cyrus came whenever his shifts allowed, staying on his days off, filling the cabin with laughter, roughhousing, and the kind of love that made the kids glow under his attention. Then, after they’d fallen asleep, he’d spend the nights slowly piecing me back together too.
Up there, tucked deep in the woods, we almost managed to forget there was an entire storm waiting for us beyond the tree line.
Almost.
Because while public opinion leaned kindly toward me, our children became pawns for sympathy, and Cyrus became the villain of a story strangers knew nothing about. According to the headlines, he’d left Billy behind for years.The truth didn’t matter nearly as much as outrage did.
Small towns are quick to gossip, with speculation about others’ lives as a sport; forgiveness is often slow, almost nonexistent, and those few who offer it can shatter one’s reputation. My business hinges on the grace of our community.
Rounding the corner of Maple and Greenbrier Street, I freeze, my lungs burn with lack of oxygen, tears prick my eyes, hidden behind my dark shades, a fire truck and Cyrus’s truck are parked parallel to the salon, hiding it from public view as much as possible, as they all, along with Amos and Jules, viciously scrub.
My salon, tucked perfectly between the colorful flower shop and movie theatre, years of demanding work, smeared with graffiti against the bay windows.
Whore.
EBT Queen.
Drug Addict.
Trailer Trash.
I choke on a sob, my lungs filling with the familiar metallic smell of spray paint. I cover my mouth to try to protect myself from the unpleasant aftertaste. To further protect myself from the onslaught of disbelief. Why?
My gasp draws everyone’s attention. Anger, hurt, and frustration mirror across my friends’ faces, and despite everything, hope flickers in my chest at their unwavering loyalty. But any illusion I had that this would blow over without touching the salon vanishes at the sight in front of me.
Rage burns hot and sharp beneath my skin.
I want whoever did this to choke on my vengeance.
I worked too damn hard to build this life—to carve out a place for myself here, to become part of this town instead of surviving on the edges of it.
This is our home too. And I refuse to be treated otherwise.
“Fallon, honey. We were going to call you and tell you; you don’t need to be here,” Jules says, rubbing my arm to comfort me.
I compose myself as numb feet carry me closer to my destroyed salon front. Cyrus opens his arms, and I walk straight into them, his warm, woodsy embrace comforting.
“How bad is it?” I whisper through clenched teeth. The sorrow from moments ago is replaced by anger. This is good, Fal, be angry. Not a single person in this town will see another tear from me. Beat back those tears. Crying will not win this.
“Cosmetic, whoever did it didn’t bust out any windows or try to get inside. Unfortunately, the paint that they used, well, in order to remove it, there will be more damage. I’m sorry,” he whispers against my hair.
“Well, that’s something,” I say.
“We’ll catch them,” he promises.
“The cameras?” I ask.
Jules’ tired eyes light up. “Fuckity fuck! I forgot about those, holy shit, hang on!” She sprints over to her purse, where it’s lying haphazardly on the sidewalk. I inwardly cringe, knowing how expensive her designer bags are.
Jules stands triumphantly, shaking her keys over her head and her hips, drawing the attention of a certain fire chief.
My smile isn’t forced as I watch Jonah soak in the entertainment that is Jules; she has a gift for making everyone smile.
“Fallon, you hang tight onto that hunk of a man. The boys and I will check the film.”
Jonah’s body tenses, his usually humorous demeanor gone; his eyes harden around the edges by Jules’s comment. I’m guessing it has more to do with that than with her volunteering them to do recon with her.
Cyrus folds himself around me. We rock slowly back and forth, letting the rhythm of our bodies carry the calm between us.
“I’m sorry, Fallon, this is all my fault.”
“We will not be carrying the blame for the actions of others, Cyrus.”
“Had I not jumped off that damn bridge—”
I cut him off, preventing him from finishing. “Had you not saved that young boy, a father would be mourning.” My stomach becomes queasy thinking of Cyrus jumping off any bridge. Jesus, we’re lucky he’s still here. “No more jumping off bridges, though. Leave that shit to someone else.”
He tightens his arms around me, “Awe, you care.” His muscles flex under my hand as I playfully slap him.
“Of course I do, you big lug.” I arch my back, tilting to meet his eyes. “I care too much about you to sleep at night, knowing you’re out here without a stunt double.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives me a tug, wrapping me in his arms. “I love you, Fallon.” The words spill out, leaving me breathless.
His lips meet mine in a warm, insistent kiss, stealing any chance I had to answer. Somehow, even with this chaos around us, my business in shambles, he still manages to make my toes curl and my heart stutter.
“Hey, when you two are done sucking each other’s faces. You might want to see this.” Amos’s expression gives nothing away; his chiseled face is a mask of indifference. Cyrus stops beside Amos, halting our progress. “Amos, who was it?”
His jaw clenches as he crosses his big arms across his chest: an unmovable mountain, one very pissed-off unmovable mountain man.
“If Fallon doesn’t press charges and finally stand up for herself…well, some things have a way of sorting themselves out. Plausible deniability and all that, Chief.”
My stomach sinks, a tight ball of anxiety settling in me.
There’s no need to look at the footage; there’s only one her that Amos could be talking about, one woman, who makes it impossible to steer clear of her, no matter how far I’ve come in life.
She’s fucking awful. The ringleader of the circus. “Jordan did this, didn’t she?”
Amos dips his chin in confirmation, the arteries in his neck more pronounced with his anger.
“How is Jonah taking it?”
Amos glances over his shoulder. “He’s mortified that he shared the womb with a bitch.” With that, he heads out front.
Their argument is all that can be heard, Jules and Jonah ignore the rest of us as they come closer, their intense exchange growing more heated.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jonah pleads with her.
“Too. Fucking. Late.” Uh-oh, I know that tone. Jules is close to kicking the man in the balls if he isn’t careful.
Jonah crowds her. “I am not your bro.”
Jules slaps her forehead. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure you friend-zoned me, making us bros!”
“You’re unreasonable,” Jonah snaps.
“Unreasonable would be me poking you in the eye with a hot curling iron or blasting hot air up your ass with a blow dryer. I am being quite reasonable.”
Jonah’s mouth opens, he closes it, and frowns at the floor.
Cyrus mouths ‘ouch,’ I nudge him in the ribs.
“She’s pissed.”
“Wonder what that’s all about.”
Rolling my eyes. “Do the other cops know you suck at picking up clues?”
“About?”
I lean in conspiratorially and whisper, “The fact that Jonah’s jealous because Jules called you a hunk outside and gave you googly eyes.”
“Huh?”
Why are men so daft? “She doesn’t want you that way, but it was an innocent enough way to get a reaction out of Jonah. He sidelined her again, and she’s fed up.”
“If she wants him, why doesn’t she say so?”
I flick my eyes skyward. “Men.”
“What?”
“Shush before they hear us.”
The frustrated pair stops near us. Jules squares her shoulders, her tongue clicking against her teeth. “Smells like fragile male egos and disappointment.” Her pinky flexes in front of her. “And really small….pinky penis’s.”
Jonah looks ready to put his fist through the nearest wall.
Jules flips her hair behind her back, propping a hand on her hip.
“So, what’s our move? First, the bitch put you both on blast in the papers and online.
Now this? When are we squaring up? Jules throws a few punches in the air, resembling a Rocky impression, while Jonah slinks into himself, propping up against the wall.
While I appreciate my friend’s loyalty, Jordan isn’t someone who will stop without a good reason.
Her tactics have been going on since grade school.
Honestly, if you want to gossip about me behind closed doors, fucking go for it, but being an adult mean girl is so fucking weird.
It’s one thing to share something true about someone, but to make shit up for clout…
“Jonah, I’m sorry this drags you into it.” My voice is tight and sharp, leaving no room for doubt. “I’m pressing charges. Anything—anything we can pin on her—I’ll do it.”
He opens his mouth, probably to protest, but I cut him off with a glacial glare. No debates. No excuses. This isn’t up for discussion. Not now.
I turn to Cyrus. His eyes flick between me and the destruction behind us. I hold his gaze, steady and unflinching. He knows I mean it. Every word is a promise, every syllable edged with fire.
“I will make sure she pays,” I add, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
The air between us hums with tension, a coiled storm of anger, fear, and resolve.
No hesitation. No mercy. This is about protection.
About justice. About ensuring no one touches what’s mine—the kid’s will not live like this.
“You can’t be the officer who takes the report.” I concede.
“Smart girl, we don’t want anyone saying this is retaliation on your behalf.”
“Exactly.”
Cyrus pulls his phone from his pocket and steps outside to call a deputy to take a statement.
Jules, looking more uncomfortable by the minute in Jonah’s proximity, taking pity on my friend, I ask, “Jules, how about you do a coffee run, and the guys and I can start scrubbing the windows again? There will be plenty left for the cops to take photos of to show proof of what’s happened, and we have the recording. ”
A soft smile tugs at her lips. “Sure thing, Toots.” She squeezes my hand as she passes, then snaps her fingers toward the ground, signaling Jonah. “Stay, boy. You’re not welcome to come with me.”
Amos raises his eyebrows in response to Jule’s usually superb demeanor sounding so frosty all of a sudden. Clearly, these men do not understand women. I smirk, finding Amos’s reaction funny.
“Jonah, Amos, if you don’t mind, I actually have to call clients and rescheduling appointments.
Can you please help Cyrus with the spray paint?
” They’ve already done so much for me, I try to tamp down the guilt for asking more of them.
Moving toward the front desk, I let out a small sigh; I turn on the tablet to scroll through our clients.
A local cop I’m not familiar with walks into the shop to take my statement.
I rub my earlobes, wishing for the world that I had stayed in bed.
For someone who is very limited with social interactions, plenty of people pretend to know me.