My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  “Keeper,” I say.

  “Maybe,” she says with a shrug, but she looks pleased. She’s still smiling when she tilts her head and asks, “So? Devlin? You look okay now, but yesterday was highly dramatic.”

  “Yeah. I know. Sorry about that.”

  She shoots me an oh, please look before making some sort of adjustment on her machine. How she hasn’t stitched her fingers together is a miracle to me. “I just want to know you’re okay. And if you feel like telling me every single gory detail because it will help you to talk it through, then know that I’m here for you.”

  “God, I love you. I’m going to top off my coffee. I need all the caffeine for this. Want anything?”

  “A smoothie. There are some in the fridge.”

  I fetch our beverages, then settle in to tell her the entire story. Or, at least, the PG-13 version. When I’m done, she’s no longer sewing. Instead, she’s leaning back in her chair, her mouth hanging slightly open.

  “The Wolf,” she says. “Holy shit. That guy was Alex’s father?”

  I nod. “Devlin, remember. And that’s not public, so be careful.”

  “Right.” She nods. “Yeah. Right.”

  I watch as she considers all of that and see when the question flickers on her face. “Why, though? The Wolf’s dead. Why the secrecy?”

  “I didn’t ask him specifically, but I can guess easily enough. The Wolf had a huge network. Do you really think that if his former Lieutenants knew who Devlin actually was that they wouldn’t want a hefty payday for their trouble?”

  She makes a face. “Oh. Yeah. Basically, he’s a walking target. Which,” she adds as I nod, “is probably why he’s pushing you away.”

  She’s not wrong, but I take some comfort in the fact that we’re comfortable together again. I still want more—I can’t deny it—though I know I can’t have it. But at least he’s in my life again.

  I leave Brandy to her sewing when Lamar texts and asks if I want to go to the range with him. After the press conference for Myers, I’d mentioned to him that I was out of practice. I guess he took that to heart.

  It’s an indoor range a few miles inland from the police station. I meet him there, and we check-in with his unloaded firearms, then buy the ammo for the range. We’re assigned to station seven, and as we settle in, I look over and am surprised to see Devlin and Ronan at the far end of the room at stations one and two.

  They’re both wearing protective eyewear and headphones, and neither notices us, but I pay attention as they both retrieve their targets, the paper outlines of a male head and torso moving toward them on the automated line.

  Dead-on target, for each of them. A cluster in the head. A cluster in the chest.

  I glance over at Lamar, and he’s been looking, too. Now, a small frown tugs at his mouth. “How was your weekend in Vegas?”

  “Terrific,” I say. “Tons of research, and I’m almost done with my article.” I can’t tell him the truth about Devlin, and I don’t want to get into it about what’s personal between me and Devlin. Especially since we’ve shifted to the friend zone. And since I know that Lamar isn’t exactly Devlin’s number one fan.

  He studies me long enough that I wonder if he’s going to press for details, but instead, he nods at the ledge where he put the clips and weapons.

  “Ladies first.”

  He brought his Glock, which I know is his service weapon, as well as a smaller Ruger he carries when he’s off-duty. I go with the Glock. That particular gun’s been on my mind since I saw it in Devlin’s drawer, and thinking of that night once again reminds me of Bell’s assassination. Without meaning to, I find my gaze drifting toward Ronan’s alley. And, yeah, I’m impressed.

  Not that whoever took out Bell needed to be a good shot. They got in close and personal. But they would have to be someone who could fade into the crowd. And Ronan is anything but ordinary. Neither is Devlin, but hell, at least in a ball cap and jacket he could blend. Ronan is practically neon by comparison.

  “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” I clip a fresh target to our station, then press the button to slide it back to the furthest position. Then I adjust my goggles, slap in the magazine, chamber the round, and get ready to fire.

  Nice and easy, princess. My father’s words ring in my ear. Advice from years of practice that saw me through the Academy, giving me the highest marksmanship scores of my class. Lamar knows it, too, of course. And I’m certain that right now he’s wondering if I’ve lost my edge.

  It’s possible. I rarely go to the range in New York.

  But I’m a competitive creature, and I’m perfectly prepared to be fully on my game.

  I sight, gently pull the trigger, and mentally take a bow when I see that I’ve nailed it.

  I empty the rest of the clip, only one bullet missing its mark, and that was my own damn fault. My attention had been on my target and my weapon, but some part of me knew that Devlin was walking behind me. And that part flinched just a little.

  Instead of the torso, I got my bad guy in the shoulder.

  As far as I’m concerned, that means Devlin owes me a drink.

  Lamar takes his turn, with equally impressive results. So much so that we call it a tie, then drop the competition to simply get in a few more rounds of practice until we’ve finished off two boxes of ammo.

  “You haven’t lost your edge,” Lamar says as we leave the range and step blinking into the parking lot. I have my arm around his waist, and we’re laughing about our first day at the Academy, but I pull up short when I see Devlin leaning on Shelby’s hood.

  “Can I hitch a ride?” he asks, then nods at Lamar. “Detective Gage.”

  “Mr. Saint.”

  I force myself not to roll my eyes, then turn to Lamar. “You’ve got a shift now, right? I’ll be by later to see the Chief. He’s pulling a few more files for me.”

  “Catch you later, then. Saint,” he adds in dismissal, then continues on to his car.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Devlin says.

  “Try being something other than an iceberg.”

  He ignores that. “Have you had lunch?”

  “That depends. I really do have an appointment with the Chief this afternoon. But so long as we’re not jetting off to Aruba, I can probably squeeze you in.”

  “If we were, would you change your plans?”

  I flash a winsome smile. “I guess you’ll never know.”

  He laughs and heads to the driver’s side. I hesitate, decide what the hell, and toss him my keys. “Don’t get used to it.”

  “Sadly, she’ll soon be garaged in New York. I’m storing up memories.”

  Because I am too, I don’t say a thing as I slide into the car.

  I’m expecting him to go to the Arts District. Instead, we end up miles up the coast at one of my favorite restaurants near Newport Beach.

  “Marco’s on the Waterfront?” I turn to him, my grin wide. “This is great.”

  We’d come here a few times when we were young, grabbing tacos to go, then meandering down the short path to the walkway that runs between the marina with its rows of fancy boats and the rear entrances to various restaurants and stores. Technically, it’s access for the boat owners, so it’s rarely crowded.

  Today, we do the same after we get our food, walking side by side, both trying to finish our tacos without dribbling all over our clothes. I manage, though I use far too many napkins, then laugh when a big blob of taco sauce stains Devlin’s white shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But you’re usually so put together.”

  “It’s you,” he says. “You make me come undone.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Devlin.”

  “Sorry.” He looks appropriately chastised. “I’m not playing fair.”

  I don’t answer. He’s not, but part of me likes knowing that the desire is still there even if we won’t be doing anything about it.

  We walk in silence for a bi
t, and when our hands accidentally brush, I feel the contact from my nipples to my toes and hate myself for being so damn weak around this man.

  We walk all the way down, until we’ve passed the storefronts and have reached the large buildings in which boats under repair are stored. It’s deserted at this end, and the walk dead-ends at a small inlet, filled with muck and debris.

  I look down at it and wrinkle my nose. I’m turning, about to tell Devlin that someone should press the business owners to dredge that section, when I see the look on his face, hard and tight. He’s staring at something, and when I follow his line of sight, I see a suggestion of movement—the final hint of someone disappearing into a shadowy alcove between two darkened repair sheds.

  Devlin turns to me, his expression like stone. He presses a finger to his lips, and I nod and stay silent even though I desperately want to know what’s going on.

  I hear before I see—a muffled cry like someone sobbing into a pillow.

  I look to Devlin again for explanation, but he’s not tuned to me at all. Instead, he releases my hand, then moves toward the alcove with long, quiet steps. I slip off my shoes and pad behind him barefoot, not certain why I’m being quiet, but I’m positive it’s the right thing to do.

  I’m on the far side of the boardwalk, so when I’m even with the alcove, I see it from the perspective of someone standing outside a cave. I realize it’s not an alcove at all, but an alley, and I can see a woman cowering against the brick wall as a man looms over her, shouting a litany of vile curses—bitch, whore, fucking cunt!

  He pauses long enough for the woman to say something, and then lifts his arm, obviously intending to slap her. I gasp and cringe in anticipation of the blow—but it never comes. Instead, Devlin’s hand snaps out, and he grabs the man by the wrist, yanking him away from the woman. At the same time, he twists the thug’s arm backwards, forcing the guy to his knees to keep Devlin from breaking it.

  With the guy cringing on the ground, Devlin turns his attention to the woman, talking to her in words so low and soothing I can only make out the tone. She nods, mumbles thank you a dozen times, then hurries down the alley in the direction of the street.

  Devlin drags the man onto the boardwalk, then releases him. “That way,” he says, pointing to a bridge off the boardwalk that leads to one of the small islands, very much in the opposite direction from the woman.

  “Screw you,” the asshole responds, but he scrambles away and starts sprinting over the bridge.

  I watch him disappear into the shadows, the blood pounding in my ears.

  When Devlin turns and looks at me, he’s breathing so hard I can see the rise and fall of his chest.

  “You’re her knight in shining armor,” I say, and the moment the words are out of my mouth, I know they were the wrong thing to say. His face goes hard, unreadable. He stalks toward me, and for a moment, I actually think he’s going to go on past, and I’ll have to hurry to keep up.

  Instead, he pulls me toward him, backing up as he does so that we end up in that same alley, almost in the exact same position as the couple he just scattered.

  “Dev—”

  “Tarnished knight.”

  He practically growls the words, and I have no chance to ask what he means because he silences me with a brutal, bruising kiss.

  I open to him, my mouth, my body. Adrenaline surges through me, and damned if I don’t want this, too. I’m hot with need, my skin prickly, and though his kisses are deep and hard, I want more of him. All of him.

  I’m wearing a loose cotton skirt, and he tugs it up, then rips off my panties, the sound of the tearing material echoing against the brick.

  “Tell me you want this,” he demands, breathing hard.

  “You said we couldn’t.”

  “Tell me you want it,” he repeats, his voice hard.

  “Are you insane? Yes. Dammit, I want you to fuck me.” I’m fumbling at his fly as I speak, and he roughly brushes my hand away, taking over that task himself.

  “Back pocket. My wallet.”

  I reach around and pull it out. He takes it, removes a condom, then drops the wallet on the ground before sheathing himself. Then he grabs my ass and hoists me up, at the same time, slamming my back against the brick wall. I lock my legs around his hips, arching toward him as he teases my soaking wet sex with the tip of his cock.

  One hand steadies my ass and the other cups my neck. It’s dangerous and hot and I just about lose it when he tightens his grip and slowly teases his cock into me. Shallow thrusts at first, and I whimper in protest because I want to be fucked. Impaled. Taken.

  “Please,” I beg, and it really is a magic word. He slams hard inside me, and I cry out, “Yes, yes!” and I must be loud because he moves his hand from my throat to my mouth, effectively gagging me as he thrusts deeper and deeper as my body clenches around him, drawing him in as the pressure builds and builds and I release a wild, feral scream into the palm of his hand even as he empties himself inside me.

  I’m off on some other planet, but when I come back, I collapse onto him, my arms going around his neck, my head falling to his shoulder.

  Then he eases back, and I slide off of him, letting him settle me back onto the ground, weak, unstable knees and all.

  I look up at him, breathing hard, to find him looking back at me. For a while, we simply stare at each other. “You never told me why,” I finally say. “Why did you set up the DSF in Laguna Cortez?”

  “Because Laguna Cortez is the only place I was ever truly happy.” His eyes lock on mine. “I would have thought you could figure that out on your own.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Do you want to go with me after breakfast?” I ask Brandy. I hold up the yellow-pad I’d taken with me yesterday to see Chief Randall so she can see my long list of names. Devlin and I had returned from Newport Beach just before four, and I’d gone straight to the station and holed up in one of the interview rooms with the material Randall had pulled for me. There’d been a lot to sort through, but by the time I left around eight last night, I’d scored several leads.

  Brandy squints at my list from where she’s making muffin-sized frittatas. “These are all the people Peter worked with? Drug customers?”

  I shake my head. “Some of them, maybe. The list was compiled as part of the investigation into the shooting. But most were never interviewed because Ricky Mercado confessed and the investigation shut down.”

  “And you’re going to ask them what?”

  “What they remember about Peter. If they knew of anyone with a grudge. Anything to get a lead on who might have killed Peter. I won’t directly ask them if they were buying or dealing drugs with him, but I’m hoping to get a sense.” I tap my pencil on the pad. “Believe it or not, I’m pretty decent at this. Investigative reporter, remember?”

  “I’m sure you’re aces at it. I just wonder if anyone will remember. It’s been a long time.”

  “True, but I’m still going to make the rounds, and I’d love company. I’m going to head out about nine and wrap up about noon. Then after lunch I’m going to the foundation.”

  “To see Devlin?” She waggles her brow, grinning. “I’m psyched, you know.”

  I pretend to be annoyed, but since I’m the one who told her everything about yesterday by the marina, I don’t pull it off very well.

  Still, the truth is, I could be wrong. Right now, I think that Devlin and I slipped back toward the together side of the equation—at least until I go back to Manhattan—but I’m not a hundred percent sure.

  Our time on the boardwalk may have been a wild mix of testosterone and lust, but since we didn’t sit down and have an actual where do we stand conversation, I don’t know for certain that anything truly shifted.

  “You have that look,” Brandy says, sliding the muffins into the oven. “What?”

  I lift a shoulder casually. “I just wish I knew where we stood. I mean, no matter what, I’m going back to New York soon, so…”

  I
trail off, not wanting to think about the fact that Devlin is one of the few men who actually could pull off a long-distance relationship. He has a shiny, fast jet, after all. But even before the alley, we both knew that there was an expiration date on this fling. I’m glad we’ve moved on from our past, but that doesn’t mean we’ve landed firmly in the future.

  “Anyway,” I say, wanting to get the conversation back on track, “I’m not going to the foundation to see Devlin. I’m going to do some more research on Peter. Promise not to say anything to Christopher, but there are some documents Devlin doesn’t keep in the circulating collection. He said he doubted they’d help, but he also said it was my time to waste.”

  As it turns out, waste is right. Devlin acquired many of his father’s documents and records after his death, but nothing I find in the depths of the boxes gives me any lead on Peter’s killer.

  I’m wrapping up when Tamra joins me.

  “I’m glad he told you the truth,” Tamra says, and I immediately look around, worrying that someone will overhear us.

  Tamra laughs. “And I’m glad you’re watching out for him, too.”

  I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. “Reflex,” I say, because of course we’re completely alone in the research room. I bite my lower lip. “You know, too.”

  “About his father. The Wolf.” She nods. “Yes.”

  “How?“

  “I was friends with Caitlyn, his mother.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that, and I lean forward.

  “She met Daniel when she ran away. She ended up on the streets doing drugs, and somehow she caught the attention of one of his men. They brought her to Nevada, Daniel cleaned her up, and she got pregnant.”

  “Were you there? How do you know all this?”

  “She told me. After she was clean, she started paying more attention. She saw what Daniel was doing—and that wasn’t a life she wanted for her son.”

  “She ran.”

  Tamra nods. “Her parents bought her a house in the hills. They put title in a trust so it wasn’t obvious that it was hers.” I must look confused, because she adds, “She couldn’t go home. It would be too easy for him to find her. She was even planning to leave the country, but that didn’t happen.”