Chapter 25 #2
Fallon listens patiently as I talk, handing me a handkerchief from the pocket of her leather jacket when tears stream down my face. This probably isn’t the fun, rowdy girls’ night she imagined, but I can’t keep this bottled up any longer.
“It’s easy to forget how new you are to all of this,” Fallon says, her tone light but serious. “You fit in so well. I forget that you don’t know some of the basic stuff about our world.”
After making sure I’m okay, she launches into an impressively detailed conversation—especially considering how much tequila I watched her consume—about hedgeriders and Sector.
About the Hedgerider Council, which is run by “stuffy old white guys in the U.K.” but also has a local committee headed up by folks here.
“It’s not something I’m deeply involved in,” Fallon says with a shrug, “but trust me, Sector can’t just kill a hedgerider, no matter the circumstances. There’s a lot of diplomacy behind the scenes.”
“Can’t imagine why they don’t involve you in diplomacy,” I say dryly, earning a wide grin from Fallon.
“Activity has certainly kicked up since you arrived,” she concedes, crossing her arms. “And are they paying closer attention to us because you’re here? Maybe. But it’s not entirely because of you.”
I let out a long, jagged exhale. I feel about fifty pounds lighter and take what feels like the first deep breath since yesterday afternoon. “As long as you’re sure,” I say, dabbing my eyes with Fallon’s handkerchief.
Bad night for her to manhandle me into a makeover.
I never would’ve pegged Fallon for having the time to get good at makeup, but shit, she’s excellent.
I don’t want to ruin her artistry. Not to mention that Wyatt will be picking me up later, and now that I know I’m not an active danger to the people I’m beginning to care about very, very much, I’d like to look hot as hell.
“I’m sure,” Fallon says with a smile. Her expression falters, something soft and vulnerable crossing her sharp features. “Alice?”
“Yeah?” I say, unsure.
“Thanks for caring this fucking much,” she says, her tone choked. Maybe it’s just the dim lighting of the bar, but I’m pretty sure that her eyes are shining with tears. “We have a great community here, we really do. We take good care of each other. But sometimes—well, I’m kind of difficult.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I say with an arched brow.
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sometimes it sort of feels like people tolerate me because of what I can do. Because I can handle Them. And sometimes I wonder if they’d kick me to the curb if I weren’t useful.”
I sit back with surprise, examining her.
“Fallon, I think people here love you more than you understand,” I say, meaning every single word.
“Look, I haven’t been here very long. But folks admire the shit out of you.
Maybe not all of them. I’m sure you’ve been given plenty of reasons to feel the way you do.
But I don’t think the people who are afraid of getting cut on your sharp edges deserve to feel the warmth of your company. ”
Thanks to all that hedgerider training, Fallon moves so fast that I barely register when she throws her arms around me.
But I hug her back fiercely, burying my face into her leather jacket.
Then we’re both crying, cradling each other in Lucky’s battered pleather booth, bathed in the skittering purple lights.
“Right on schedule,” I say, making Fallon laugh. We pull apart, smiling shyly at each other, before Fallon recovers herself and sits back in the booth, one arm thrown over the back, looking like a queen surveying her kingdom.
“I want you to understand how frequently Sector is here,” she says suddenly. “For every agent you see, there’s at least one more that even I can’t clock.” I lean forward on the table, watching as Fallon gestures around the room, identifying agents.
“Obvious,” she scoffs at a white man in his thirties wearing a dress shirt and tie, clutching a beer bottle.
“Not so obvious,” she continues, this time gesturing to someone who looks like they belong—worn-in clothing, no fancy haircut—but who isn’t really engaging with anyone.
Just watching. Finally, Fallon lifts her chin in the direction of a femme-presenting person in a vintage dress spinning around on the tiny dance floor, holding court with three or four people vying for her attention.
“No way,” I exclaim.
“Yes way,” Fallon says with a nod. “See what I mean? There were always a ton of Sector agents here. You just didn’t notice them before.” With that, she stands, sliding out from the booth. “Alright, ponder your lesson. I gotta piss.”
I laugh at her abruptness and take another sip of my beer.
I’m exhausted and wrung out, but I feel like I can breathe again.
Nervousness and excitement flutter in my belly as I think about seeing Wyatt soon.
I glance down at my outfit, hoping he’ll like it.
Fallon dug out a black tube top from her closet, insisting it would look cute with my loose, mid-rise jeans.
And I do look cute, especially with the subtly shimmery body lotion she dabbed on my collarbones and shoulders.
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up; it’s only been a few moments since Fallon left.
Instead of the tall, lanky hedgerider, there’s a woman in her early sixties with silvery-blonde hair sliding into the booth next to me.
I startle, leaning away. She’s dressed in nondescript, tailored trousers and a nice blouse.
Which means she’s absolutely not from Blackbird Hollow, and I swear she wasn’t in this bar just a few minutes ago.
“This seat’s taken,” I tell her. In the large, shadowy room, she looks a lot like my grandma—the same round face and warm eyes, a similar shade of blonde shot through with silver.
“It’s nice to meet you,” the woman says, ignoring my words. I look at her, bewildered, my heart climbing my throat.
“Are you Sector?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. “Because you sure as shit look like Sector. And if you are, you should get the fuck out of here.”
“Oh, Alice,” the woman says, reaching across the table to pat my hand before I can yank it away. “Your friend’s coming back from the bathroom, so I’ll have to tell you more later.”
“Later?” I spit at her, adrenaline coursing through my veins, all the fear and dread from earlier surging back in as though it had never really left.
She stands then, brushing imaginary lint from her pants with one hand. “I thought you’d be more excited to meet me. After all, we’ve talked for years,” the woman says with a smile as I stare her down. “Alice, I’m Cookie.”