My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  “He bolted. The son of a bitch bolted.”

  “Seriously?” Brandy leans sideways, as if maybe I just missed him. “What the hell? So maybe he really was blowing you off this afternoon.”

  I make a face, then stifle the urge to order another drink. “What now? Should I try to find him? He’s probably outside right now. We could—”

  Brandy tilts her head to the side. “Um, no. Neither one of us wants to sprint around the Arts District trying to find a man who probably hopped in a car the second he stepped out the door.”

  True enough.

  “Let’s forget the asshole and go back to my house. I liked the pizza plan a lot.”

  So did I, but that was before. Now I’m antsy. Frustrated. And very pissed off.

  I shift on the stool so that I have a better view of the interior of the bar. And the truth is, there are a lot of hot guys in here.

  Brandy puts a hand on my arm. “Ellie.”

  I tense. That’s the blessing and the curse of a lifelong bestie. “Don’t handle me, Bran. I’m not you. I don’t need the roses and flowers and wining and dining.” I just want the rush. I just want to forget.

  “I know. And that’s a good thing.”

  I look at her. “Seriously?” Easy acceptance of my less than prudent quirks has never been high on Brandy’s list.

  “Sure. It’s great that you’re not me. The world couldn’t handle that much awesome.”

  I roll my eyes, careful not to smile.

  “It’s just that I worry about you.”

  Her voice is so soft—so genuine—that I can’t help but sag under the weight of it. “I know.”

  The truth is, I worry about me, too. Fast cars. Fast fucks. I’m a therapist’s wet dream, or I would be if I ever saw one. So far, I’ve kept far enough ahead of my demons that I haven’t felt the need to lie on that iconic couch. Maybe someday, but not yet.

  And thanks to my bestie, I won’t hit it tonight, either. I curve my lips into a smile as I let my body sag in defeat. “Just not a rom com, okay? I really couldn’t stand the cuteness.”

  “Bound?”

  I think about it. The movie’s over twenty years old, but it’s one of my favorites. “Two hot girls getting the better of an asshole guy? Yeah. Sounds perfect for tonight.”

  And it is, actually.

  Once we’re back at Brandy’s place, we make popcorn, then settle on the couch on either side of Jake. We sip wine and snack on the popcorn and by the time the movie ends, I’m feeling less edgy and seriously pumped up on girl power.

  I’m also feeling at loose ends. And a little buzzed. “I’m going to walk down the hill for a coffee.”

  Brandy’s house is the kind of place that real estate agents would love to get their hands on because the commission would be so sweet. It’s tucked up in the canyons, but still a short walk from the Arts District and the beach.

  It’s a two-story, three-bedroom stone and wood house that belongs to some guy who travels about forty-five weeks out of every year, and who Brandy calls Mr. Big Shot. In exchange for very cheap rent, Brandy keeps the house in order, sorts and forwards his mail, takes care of the house-related bills and maintenance, and generally runs the place. My job pays more, and I live in a sixth-floor studio walk-up with dicey plumbing in a neighborhood that is on the scary side of iffy.

  Jake whines as Brandy shifts so that she can gape at me. “Coffee now?”

  “It’s not even nine yet. And I want something other than instant.” Brandy has somehow managed to get through life without owning an actual coffee maker. How we’re such good friends is beyond me.

  “I’m so glad that’s your vice, not mine.” She waves a hand imperiously. “Go ye forth into the world and seek thee the blessing of the great god of caffeine.”

  “You have drunk way too much wine.”

  “So have you.”

  Can’t argue with that. “Don’t wait up. I’m probably going to take a walk on the beach.”

  Her brow furrows. “Do you want company?”

  “No, it’s fine. Thanks for the offer, though. I just—you’re the good part of being back. I’m still dealing with the rest of it.”

  “I get it.” She flashes a quick, sad smile.

  I change out of my comfy PJs into jeans, then head out. It’s a gorgeous night, with crisp air and a moon that provides more than enough illumination for the short walk down the hill to Brewski.

  I take my coffee to go, then aim myself toward the tidal pools and the exact spot where Alex kissed me for the very first time.

  It’s a bit of a hike, but I don’t mind, and I take off my shoes and dangle them as I walk the length of shoreline between the Arts District and the DSF.

  As soon as I reach the tidal pools, I drop my shoes. The tide is out, so there’s only a few inches of water in the pools and the craggy rocks are mostly dry.

  I sit on the edge of one and sip the last of my coffee as I look out at the waves, the froth shining silver in the moonlight as I lose myself in memories. The way his fingers slid through my hair as he cupped the back of my head. The flutter in my chest that told me that I was alive.

  And though we hadn’t done more than kiss, a bond had been forged between us that night, and to this day I don’t understand how it had been broken.

  Without consciously intending to do it, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the slim card wallet that holds my driver’s license, a credit card, an emergency fifty, and the tattered slip of paper that’s lived in there for years.

  The paper’s still white, and the ink is still readable, but the tape that holds the two ripped halves together has browned with age.

  I don’t have to read it. I know exactly what it says. I’m sorry. Remember that you’re strong.

  That’s it. Just two simple words and a bullshit platitude. Not even a signature.

  And I never saw Alex again.

  My uncle was dead. The man I loved was gone. And I didn’t understand any of it.

  I was confused. Lost. I wanted answers.

  I wanted Alex.

  As the days passed, confusion turned to anger and then hate. Or I wanted to hate him. I’m not sure I ever truly managed. Mostly, I just felt numb.

  Considering Peter’s execution-style murder, Alex had probably gotten scared and bolted. At least, that’s what Chief Randall told me after Ricky Mercado turned himself in.

  So, yeah. I knew why Alex left. But I still don’t understand why he never came back. Or why he slunk out while I was sleeping. Or why he left me with nothing but two useless sentences even though he had to know that he was breaking my heart.

  Part of me wants to believe that he’d simply used me. That he’d been a teenage psychopath who’d fixated on me the day we met, and then he wove a vile plan to pop the cherry of the naive little girl who’d fallen so desperately in love with him.

  It would probably be easier if I could believe that. But I don’t. What had burned between us was real and magical. He’d betrayed us both by leaving, and I don’t understand why.

  More than that, I’ll never understand why. Because the only one who knows is gone.

  During my time in uniform, I tried to track him down. I wanted to find him. To stand in front of him and force him to tell me why. Why he’d left. Why he’d hurt me. But I hadn’t been able to find him. Not even a trace of him.

  Maybe if I’d thought to play detective in the days immediately after he left, I would have discovered more. But I’d been broken then, lost in a deep pit of grief. And when I’d finally pulled myself out of the hole, all the strings leading back to Alex had been cut.

  Maybe that was for the best. It’s not like I could ever forgive him.

  But I wanted—needed—closure. I guess I still do.

  And the knowledge that I may never have it eats at my soul.

  With a sigh, I take the last sip of my now-cold coffee and stand up, ready to make the trek back to Brandy’s house. I keep my head down as I turn my back to t
he ocean, watching my footing so that I don’t trip and fall on the sharp rocks.

  As soon as I’m safe in the sand, I lift my head, scanning for my shoes. But all thoughts of shoes and Brandy leave my head in a whoosh when I see him. The man standing in the dark at the edge of the sand, his face tilted down so that I see only dappled shadows and the glow of moonlight on his glasses.

  Devlin Saint.

  In the instant before I recognized him, icy fear had flooded my body, and I use that lingering adrenaline to lash out. “You son of a bitch! You cancel my interview, and then you follow me?” I stalk toward him. “What? It wasn’t good enough to look down on me from your goddamn concrete castle? Or sneak peeks of me at a bar? You have to—”

  He takes off his glasses, lifting his head at the same time, and my words catch in my throat.

  Oh, God, I see it now. The tilt of his head.

  That half-smile of bemusement curving up on those wide, sensual lips.

  And those sandy, deep-set eyes, so full of pain and regret and not even a hint of green.

  It’s impossible. Completely unbelievable. And yet…

  “Alex?”

  Chapter Eight

  It’s him. Oh, God, it’s really him.

  The shock of the realization knocks the wind out of me, and I gasp even as my knees go weak. I stagger, but I don’t fall, because he’s grabbed me. His hand is tight around my forearm, and he’s holding me steady.

  My body goes cold. Shock. And my mind is a jumble.

  All those photos of Devlin I’d skimmed through, I’d been seeing bits of the old Alex, but not believing my own eyes. The change in his hair and eye color. The slimming of his nose that must have been surgery. The way his face has thinned out over the last decade, revealing that angular jaw and high cheekbones. The beard. The brutal scar. All details that add up to a different face. A different man.

  And yet now that I see the truth, I can’t unsee it. Like that optical illusion with the drawing of a lady or a hag. Once you finally see, the illusion is shattered.

  “Alex.” My voice is shaky. Weak. And the fact that he’s seeing me like this sends a fresh wave of anger crashing through me as I rip my arm free of his grasp. The next thing I know, my palm is making sharp contact with his cheek.

  My hand throbs from the blow, and I stumble backward, trying to get my bearings. I want to lay into him. I want to kick and scream and pound my fists on him. I want to hurt him the way he hurt me.

  But I can’t. I don’t have the power to hurt him anymore. But he can still slice me up into pieces.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” I whisper. And then, damn me, I run.

  I have no plan, no destination. I just have to get away, away, away. But whether I’m running from my reaction to him or from the past I don’t know. All I know is I can’t process any of this right now. How he’s here. How he’s Devlin Saint. None of it. Not a single, tiny tidbit.

  I need space. Room to think. Hell, room to breathe. And so I have to move. I have to go.

  Even when I realize that my feet are bare, I keep on running, the soles of my feet stinging as I sprint down sidewalks and across the street, dodging cars that have the right-of-way, the blare of their horns getting inside my already screaming head until I don’t even know if I have thoughts. I’m just motion. Just pain. Just loss.

  Finally, exhaustion catches up with me and I collapse onto a nearby bench. I’m back at Pacific Avenue, breathing hard. Trying to calm down. To think.

  I look around, certain that a dozen people will be gaping at me, whispering about the crazy barefoot woman who totally lost her shit. But there’s no one watching me. I’m all alone.

  In Laguna Cortez, I always end up alone.

  I stand, knowing exactly what I’m going to do now. I skim the street once more, this time to get my bearings. Then I walk to the little convenience store on the corner. It has the usual—snacks and chips and ice—but since it’s only steps from the beach, it also sells beach towels, buckets, rafts, and flip-flops. It’s the latter I’ve come for. Because you can’t walk into a bar in bare feet. And even though I know that I should walk back up the hill to Brandy’s I’m not going to. Because should won’t do shit for me. Instead, I’m going after what I need.

  I use my cash for a cheap black pair. It’s not the most amazing fashion statement, but neither am I at the moment. I’d only planned on a coffee, so I’m super casual in my favorite jeans and a plain white T-shirt. But it’s a V-neck, and it’s just a little snug. I consider that a plus.

  I head back to the Cask & Barrel, then hit the ladies’ room first thing. I unhook my bra from the back, wiggle it out through the sleeves, then toss it in the trash. It’s the cheap kind that shows up in the sales bins at Walmart, so I don’t mind the sacrifice.

  I stand sideways, check my profile in the mirror, and give myself a mental thumbs-up. Now that my girls aren’t squashed, I’m filling out the tee rather nicely. Even better, my nipples are hard and visible against the cotton, which is what I’m really going for. Because I’m not here to flirt and play games over four rounds of drinks.

  One bourbon max to loosen me up, and then I want what I want. I don’t know a thing about catching ants with honey, but over the years, I’ve learned very well how to quickly catch a man. Especially if all I want is a man to use for the night. Or even for an hour. Or fifteen quick minutes.

  To be honest, I don’t even need the bourbon tonight. I’m buzzing already. And it’s all because of Alex. Devlin. Whoever the fuck he is.

  I don’t understand any of this. Why he’s someone else. Why he walked away without a word to me. How any of this happened. It’s crazy, and my head is pounding from the sheer magnitude of this revelation.

  He thinks he can just waltz back into my life and send me reeling? That he can play games? That he can spy on me?

  That he can pop up in the night like a spook in a horror movie and send my emotions reeling?

  No. No way.

  This is the guy who whispered that he loved me. That he would take care of me. Who kissed me so gently. Who made me believe for one night that my world hadn’t completely shattered. But it was all a lie. Because he was the one who dealt the final blow and took every last thing from me.

  So fuck him. For that matter, forget him.

  And that’s exactly what I intend to do tonight. I’m going to fuck Alex Leto right out of my mind. I just need to find the right guy to help me with that.

  In the end, it doesn’t take long. It never does. Very few men come by themselves to a bar if they aren’t looking to get laid. They might say they’re coming to watch the game or chat with the bartender or just chill after work, but that’s never the truth, not even if they think it is.

  I take a seat by a blond lawyer-type nursing a Gin and Tonic as he keeps one eye on the TV. At least until I’m settled on the stool. Then his full attention shifts to me.

  All it takes is a friendly smile and some casual banter. Throw in a few provocative sucks on a maraschino cherry, and that’s pretty much a slam dunk. Soon enough Mr. GT pays for both our rounds, then leads me out the door and toward his car. It’s a short walk to a paid lot, but at past eleven on a Thursday, there are only a few cars still here.

  His is in the back, a black BMW tucked into a shadowy corner of the lot. Nice.

  His hand had been casually possessive on my arm, but now he removes it to reach into his pocket for his keys. The car chirps as the doors unlocks. “I don’t live far.”

  “What a coincidence. Neither do I.”

  He grins. He’s clean-shaven with broad shoulders and strong hands. I could do worse. “Come to my place. You won’t regret it. I have a view, a well-stocked bar, and nowhere I have to be in the morning.”

  “Tempting,” I say, though I’m not tempted at all. I’m not going to his place. That’s not what I want. I’m craving danger. And I want something a damn sight more visceral than me dodging pleas that we exchange numbers in the morning.

  No, what
I want is something edgy. The rush from pushing the envelope. The danger of possibly getting caught.

  I tilt my head and bite my lower lip as I move toward his car, then lean casually against the trunk. “Convince me why I should?” I rub my fingertips lightly over my breast, then casually brush my nipple. “A smart woman always tries before she buys.”

  Even in the dim light, I can see his throat move as he swallows, and it’s like a drug to me. Because I’m the one calling the shots now. I’m the one in control.

  “You do seem like a very smart woman,” he says, taking a long step toward me. He puts his hands on my knees, then roughly pushes my legs apart.

  “Yes,” I gasp as he eases closer, so that my thighs press against his hips and his hand cups me through my jeans.

  “A smarter woman would have worn a skirt.”

  “A clever man will find a solution,” I counter, grabbing his tie to tug his mouth down to mine. He’s not a great kisser, but that’s okay. This isn’t about romance or even passion. But it’s raw and hot, and that’s what I crave. Something hot enough and wild enough to burn away my thoughts and regrets. Something I started, and that I’ll finish on my terms, and then walk the fuck away.

  “More,” I demand, grabbing his hand and putting it on the fly of my jeans. He doesn’t need any additional encouragement, and soon enough he has the zipper down and his fingers sliding inside, teasing my clit over the satin of my panties as his other hand frees my breast and plays with my nipple.

  I arch back, closing my eyes as he moves his mouth to my breast. I want to lose myself to the sensations he’s bringing. I want to find that sweet spot of forbidden pleasure, but, dammit, right now all I feel is touch and pressure and the wet suckling of his mouth. There’s no electricity. No fiery threads of awareness. No heat arrowing straight for my core.

  I want to be fucked. I want to be pushed into that void where sense and reason disappear and all you feel is raw, wild passion. I want it, but it’s not happening. Because it’s not anonymous pleasure I’m thinking of now. It’s Alex.

  Goddamn him to hell, now he’s even ruined this for me.