Page 55

FIFTY-FIVE

MOIRA

The phone rings on the other end as I hold the old-school handle of the receiver up to my ear. Like they have in movies. A strange, almost haunting sound echoes in my ear. I never call people. I text. But here I am, swallowing around the desert-dry ache in my throat, listening to that dull, repetitive tone.

Waiting.

The Travis County Jail is too bright. Fluorescent lights buzz above me, flickering faintly, casting the gray walls in a sickly, bluish hue. The linoleum floor beneath my pinched toes is sticky despite the overpowering scent of industrial cleaner that clings to every inch of this place. A bulletin board to my left is crammed with outdated flyers—bail bond advertisements, victim advocacy pamphlets, something about “finding Jesus.”

The acrid scent of stale sweat and regret lingers in the air, thick as the exhaustion that presses into my bones.

I’m just about to give up when the line clicks.

“Hello?” Kira’s voice on the other end is groggy. Confused.

I blink, my brain lagging behind my body like it’s buffering.

“Moira,” I croak, then clear my throat. Try again. “It’s Moira.”

Silence. Then?—

“Jesus. Moira? Bane was looking for you at the club a couple nights ago. Are you okay?”

My stomach clenches, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead into the cool metal receiver. Bane . He was looking for me.

But now?—

I swallow the ache clawing its way up my throat and try to ignore the glaring officer looming over me, arms crossed over his Kevlar vest. His badge catches the light, and he taps his watch impatiently, spinning his finger like I need to wrap this up.

“Not so much,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I had a bad night. Can you come pick me up?”

A pause. Then, softer, “Where are you?”

I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips to my temples. My head pounds.

“They impounded my car,” I admit. “Well, Dohmn’s car.”

“Moira.” Her voice sharpens. “Where are you?”

I exhale through my nose. “Austin. Travis County Jail, to be exact.”

A beat of silence. Then?—

“Oh my god, Moira. What the hell happened?”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. I glance up at the officer, who’s now all but tapping his foot.

“Nothing exciting,” I mutter. “Just… I might have mistaken a mounted cop’s horse for a unicorn. And then, uh, tried to ride her off into the sunset.”

My eyes flick to the dull gray walls and the rows of empty plastic chairs in the waiting area beyond the payphone. A vending machine hums in the corner, blinking a red ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign.

I hate gray.

I stare down at my scuffed Mary Janes. “Turns out she wasn’t a unicorn. And I wasn’t exactly sober.”

I don’t mention the part where I’m pretty sure someone dosed my drink with Special K at some point in the night.

Like, yeah, things can get shimmery when I get that bouncy manic shine, and sometimes I think I’m a re-incarnated oracle from an ancient, alien civilization, seeing everything at once but forgetting it at the same time in some terrible form of karmic punishment.

But last night went extra dextra , and it’s just a whole disjointed mess of colors and laughter and then—cold, gray walls.

Did I mention I hate gray? There are just so many other colors to choose from.

“Moira,” she sighs. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a few hours, okay?”

“Yeah.” I drop my head back. “Thanks, Kira.”

I hang up before my throat can close up again.

Officer McGrouchy-Pants jerks his chin, ushering me back to the cell where my new, temporary family is waiting.

I smile and wave at Big Mama, the plus-size sex worker who cradled me in her lap last night like a drunk little baby bird. She blows me a kiss as she’s led out for her own phone call, and I mime catching it. Damn, she’s a good cuddler.

Making friends wherever I go is one of my few talents.

If only I could keep them.

I sink down onto the cold bench, pressing the heels of my hands into my burning eyes. My head is still foggy, but fragments of last night flicker through the haze. The unicorn. The way the world glowed—the streetlights haloed, the laughter like wind chimes. The officer’s stunned face as I vaulted onto his horse?—

Backward.

Her tail was so pretty, though.

I huff out a soundless laugh, but it fades fast. Because when I woke up this morning?—

No unicorn. No magic.

No Bane.

Just cement walls, iron bars, and the yawning, endless ache where he used to be.

I slump against the wall, exhaustion sinking into my bones. Man, I’d give my left arm for a Barcalounger. Hell, even one of those crusty office chairs with lumbar support.

I must doze off at some point because the next thing I know?—

CLANG .

A flashlight slams against the bars.

“Moira Callaghan,” a female officer calls.

I jerk upright, my stomach pitching. My head is still a fucking mess, and my shoes—god, why was I wearing these tight-ass pinchy Mary Janes when those fucking assholes decided to kidnap me?

Pushing to my feet, I swallow against the nausea. Then I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms as I follow the officer out.

A grim-faced worker hands me my belongings in a sad little plastic bag.

Domhnall’s credit card.

My key fob—to a car I currently don’t have.

A half-empty pack of cinnamon gum.

A ponytail holder.

Don’t remember where I acquired those last two from but shrug and pop a piece of gum in my mouth. Cinnamon. My favorite.

Then, with all the grace and dignity of someone definitely not arrested for public intoxication and unauthorized unicorn theft?—

I skip out of the jail.

It’s tradition.

For luck.

What can I say? I’ve had a few drunk and disorderlies in my day. A handful of indecent exposures.

But FOMO?

Yeah. That’s never been my problem.

Kira is waiting when I get outside, leaning against her car like some kind of sleek, put-together goddess of competence and emotional stability. Unlike Dom, she’s not here to give me the world’s most disappointing TED Talk about my life choices. She just smiles and pulls me into a hug so big and warm that I half expect her to absorb me like an amoeba of goodwill and expensive perfume.

“I’m so glad to see you’re okay.”

Tentatively, I smile back. “Thanks,” I say, voice quiet, but my body already betrays me by sinking into her hold like an exhausted cat.

She gestures toward the car, but before she can get inside, I remember Domhnall’s car and launch into an explanation about how we have to go break it out of car jail. Kira just waves me off.

“Isaak can send one of his guys to do it later in the week. Domhnall’s got, like, five cars, right? He’s not going to miss it.”

I stare at her. Then, before she can dodge, I give her another hug, squeezing the stuffing out of her.

“You beautiful, competent, problem-solving genius!” I announce, squeezing tighter. “If you were a cake, I’d stuff my face with you.”

She laughs, but it’s the indulgent kind like she’s used to dealing with me at full volume.

She lets me hold on for far longer than socially acceptable, her arms tightening around me at just the right moment before finally pulling back.

“I’m so sorry you had a bad night, Moira.”

I swallow hard. My throat’s gone tight, and I hate it. I hate how easily she gets past my defenses. How she doesn’t even have to try.

When we let go, she holds onto my forearms, pinning me down with one of those therapist looks I can already tell are her secret weapon.

“You know, over the phone, you asked me for help. I’m happy for that help to extend as far as this car ride, but I can also connect you with people who could do more than that. We could get you actual help.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “I’m not going back to one of those fucking… uh, places.”

“No, no,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. Just a therapist. Everybody does therapy these days. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

I squint at her, suspicious. “Everybody? Even serial killers? Even billionaires? Even… Batman?”

“Probably Batman needs it the most.”

I consider this, then squeeze her forearms back. “I’ll do it if the therapist is you . You just started your practice, right?”

She blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Well… there are some ethical considerations. I can’t take on close friends as clients.”

“Perfect. We’re not close friends yet. I just met you.”

“Thanks. Love your bluntness.”

Her eyes flick up and to the left, obviously thinking. I hold my breath without meaning to, already bracing for rejection, for the gentle letdown?—

“I can’t be your therapist, per se,” she says, finally, “but there is some wiggle room if we consider me a life coach.”

I exhale. “Fucking perfect. I like the sound of that way better, anyway. Life coach me, babe.”

“I’m happy to help you get on the right track.”

Then her expression softens, turning serious. “But part of that track might be…” She hesitates again. “As your friend, I can’t ethically diagnose you, but have you noticed certain… um… ups and downs in your moods?”

The Texas heat beats down on us, but her words make my skin go cold. A bead of sweat slides down my spine. Fuck.

“You noticed.” I swallow hard.

I try so hard for no one to ever notice.

“Well, yeah ,” she says with maximum side-eye energy.

My mouth drops open.

“Fuck, does everyone know?”

“I mean, I think most people have noticed something. Did you think it was a secret?”

I scrub my hands down my face, groaning. “Well, that’s just fucking fantastic. Might as well put it on a billboard. ‘Welcome to Dallas, home of the Cowboys, the best barbecue, and Moira’s Fucking Unstable Brain Chemistry.’”

“Moira…”

“No, no, it’s fine. I love being predictable. It’s my favorite.”

Kira sighs. “You want to get in the car and talk about it on the way home?”

“Maybe,” I whine.

She grins. “You can do this, Moira. You’re the strongest person I know.”

The only other person to ever tell me that was— Bane . I swallow hard against the grief that makes me want to crumple to the ground at even thinking his name, then blink at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. Then she tips her head slightly back and forth. “Well, it’s a toss-up between you and MadAnna.” She holds her hands up. “She told me to call her that.”

I give the window of her car a couple of raps before heading to the passenger seat.

“Fair,” I call back as I point over the car at her. “Very fair.”