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Lacie Calbert. Even with a different hairstyle and Weave, she’s recognizable. Her image is pops up on skyscrapers and terminals all across the city almost as often as Kallista’s.
I place my hand on Kallista’s shoulder, trying to ground her, but I can feel her bristle against my touch. Great. We haven’t even gotten our food yet, it’s two in the fucking morning, and my charge is ready to square off with the woman who hates her guts.
22KALLISTA
“You finished your show, I see,” Lacie says conversationally as she checks her nails. Her friends aren’t even looking at us; they’re too busy scrolling through their social feeds. The blue glow makes them all look like gaunt zombies standing in the rain. Even the Acara female I recognize from weeks ago looks completely ghoulified.
Underneath the awning of Chen’s, Xavian and I don’t have to worry about the drizzle, but Lacie’s perfect hair is getting damp. It’s hard to imagine she’s wasting time with me when she could be getting cover.
“Heard it was passable,” she finally concludes.
That’s as close to a compliment as I’m going to get from her, so I nod and mutter, “Thanks.”
Beside me, Xavian is on high alert like a Doberman as he watches our exchange. His gaze narrows in on Lacie as she pretends to be disinterested in me.
“Heard you also got a new pet.” She looks Xavian up and down with hungry, roving eyes. “Handsome one, too.”
I freeze on my barstool, unsure of what to say next. She’s not wrong. Xavian is handsome, but I didn’t want her to notice. Xavian says nothing, just keeps watching and waiting for the proverbial shit to hit the fan.
Lacie’s eyes turn to slits. “Wait, you looksofamiliar.”
“We met already,” Xavian rasps. “At your birthday party.”
It takes a few seconds, but the neurons inside of Lacie’s brain finally fire. “Oh, right. Now I remember. You jumped into the pool.” Then Lacie whirls on me and smirks. “Did Margot get my invoice?”
That’s not a good sign. Margot hadn’t mentioned anything to me about one, so I figured Lacie forgot about her stupidly delicate pool. Wincing, I say, “No?”
“Well, I sent one for five grand. That’s how much it cost to get the pool cleaned again after you two were in there, fouling it all up.”
This woman is truly something else. I drag a palm down my face and groan.
“You can’t be serious…” I whisper.
The hologram behind us blinks into existence again, and a couple trays of food sail across the metal grates before clicking into place behind me and Xavian. The soup smells heavenly—like freshly sliced lemongrass, lime, and fresh chilis—but it’s a little difficult to show interest in my food when the company is so shitty.
“Wait a minute,” Lacey says as she takes a couple steps toward Xavian. “Are you wearing a Weave?”
Xavian stares at her impassively. “No,” he grinds out. “This is my face.”
“Holy shit, you’re Xavian Melrose. Of the Toronto Reapers!” She squeals with excitement, and her entourage rises from the dead behind her and look up from their terminals. They murmur in agreement and huddle behind their queen like a swarm of bees. “What the fuck are you doing on Xilia?”
Xavian’s eyebrows knit together, then he turns to grab his cup of green tea off the counter. “Not playing Terraball, obviously,” he mutters.
My ears are ringing. Wait, is that why he looked so familiar before? Because he’s actually a famous athlete? I don’t watch sports, but it’s almost impossible to pass a terminal in any of the major cities without seeing the galaxy’s favorite ball game. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the players’ faces, but I wouldn’t be able to recognize them on the street.
“Ohmygod!” Lacie squeals again and turns around to grab one of her friend’s shoulders, some guy with the shaggy blond hair and brown suit jacket. “Terrance. Get a pen and some paper! I need Xavian’s autograph right this instant.”
Poor Terrance doesn’t miss a beat. He rummages around in his satchel, his mop of hair falling into his eyes before pulling out a pen.
Lacie looks him up and down and scowls. “Paper. Paper! Do you know what paper is?!” Her voice is shrill. It’s a wonder how she manages to sing as well as she does. Ten million albums sold in its first week, I remind myself. There’s no accounting for taste.
Xavian lets out a sigh and looks over at me with concern. “Sorry,” he mutters.
I shake my head and mouth, “It’s fine.”
But this is definitely going to be a conversation later.
Unable to produce the paper—because who even has paper in this day and age—Terrance lifts a single shoulder in a shrug.
