Allied

Chapter 3

Georgie

Virginia, Three Years Ago

I can't believe I let Jo talk me into this.

I pull at the dress uncomfortably, trying to surreptitiously wiggle the glittery silver fabric further down my thighs. It's not a racy dress, exactly — I wouldn't be caught dead in some of the lacy black items in Jo's closet — but it's not not racy. It's the kind of dress that you'd wear out to a cocktail bar in downtown New York. Or to a friend's wedding, but with a shawl over top.

Or, in this case, to your graduation party from Quantico.

Anyways.

I didn't want to wear the dress. But when I showed up at Jo's apartment for a celebratory glass of champagne beforehand, dressed in a knee-length black skirt, sensible flats, and a tortoiseshell hair clip, Jo took one look at me and said, "No."

That was it.

Just, No.

Like I was some sort of cockroach that she found hiding in one of her shoes. So I let Jo talk me into wearing this dress, and even though some of my other classmates at the bar are wearing much shorter dresses (I'm pretty sure Julia's might even qualify as a child's t-shirt), I still feel a little like I want to throw up.

Technically, this isn't a work function.

But oh my god, does it ever feel like one.

"Holy shit." A warm hand lands on my shoulder. "Georgie?"

I wince. Slowly, I turn around, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage of insults. But for once, Patrick seems to have left his little black book of sarcasm at home. In fact, Patrick seems to have left everything at home, including his voice and common sense.

And he's staring at me.

Why is he staring at me?

"Patrick," I say coolly.

"You look..." He swallows. "That dress is very tight."

I feel my cheeks warm, and I glower at him. "It isn't my dress."

"Well," Patrick says, "that's almost criminal."

He's smirking now, and I fiddle with my straw, uncomfortable that I'm unable to discern his meaning. It's a feeling that I often get around Patrick, actually; I like to put everything else in the world into neat little boxes, but Patrick is the only thing that refuses to go into a box. No matter how hard I try to shove him into one.

"So," he says. "I hear congratulations are in order."

I blink. Now I know that I must have misunderstood him. There's no way that Patrick O'Connor is congratulating me for getting the ASAC job that we were both competing for. He isn't a sore loser, exactly — he always grudgingly admits when I've hit the target more times, or beaten him at a test — but he certainly doesn't go out of his way to congratulate me.

"Thanks," I say slowly. "Did Mark tell you?"

Patrick nods. "And Simon. And Julia." He grins. "Word travels fast in Quantico."

I look at him in disbelief. Mark only told me that I got the ASAC position about an hour ago, which means that in the time it took me to drink this cosmopolitan, the entire department has heard about it. I glance around the room nervously, flinching when I realize that the redhead in our class — Garrett — is glaring at me. I haven't exactly advertised my relationship with Mark, but Quantico is a small place; most people know about it anyways. So even though I aced all of my exams, and I'm top of the class, Garrett — and God knows who else — clearly thinks that I slept my way to the top.