My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  “What’s at eleven?”

  “Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Telephone interview with one of The Wolf’s people.” I’m practically bouncing in my seat I’m so excited.

  I get up and move toward him, feeling the need for coffee. I pour a cup and sip it, trying hard not to notice the now-obvious bulge beneath his towel. Or the way my nipples have tightened in response. We don’t have time for that, but I can’t deny how alive it makes me feel being around this man again.

  I’m so busy trying not to react to him that it takes me a moment to realize that he’s frowning. “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m afraid that the more you learn about Peter, the less you’re going to like. At the end of the day, he’s still your uncle. And he loved you. Do you really need to flip over the rocks and see the dark side?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do. I need to know. I need to understand.” I let my shoulders rise and fall. “Cop. Reporter. I’m the kind of person who needs answers. It’s in my blood.”

  He nods, but he doesn’t look happy, and my heart squeezes, knowing that he’s worried about me.

  I put down my coffee, then rise on my toes. I put my hands on his shoulders for balance and then, very gently, I kiss him. “I appreciate the concern,” I say. “Now go get dressed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The back tower is accessed with a keycard, and once in the lobby, it feels as though we aren’t even in Vegas. The main floor is set up as an office, complete with a reception desk, a waiting area, and glass-fronted offices that line the perimeter of the oval-shaped space.

  I can see inside the workspaces—efficient-looking employees in conference, on the phone, working diligently on computers. And when Devlin takes me in to meet some of them, I’m equally impressed by the actual people as I am with the persona they project.

  We make the rounds through each of the departments, and I learn about the research that goes into assisting the trafficking victims, the process by which the DSF liaisons with the organizations to which it provides funding, like the Beyond Project, and the method by which it assists law enforcement, and so much more.

  It’s lunch time when I finish meeting everyone, my hand is cramped from taking notes, and my phone is full to the brim with recordings I’ll sift through later that will hopefully fill the gap where my handwriting fails.

  Since he’s in town, Devlin is taking the opportunity to talk to the staff, so lunch is catered sandwiches in the conference room, after which we’ll be going up into the tower to meet some of the residents.

  Now, I sit in the back, nibbling at a turkey sandwich and watching Devlin in his element. There’s a podium for him to use, but instead, he’s leaning against a table, looking stunningly professional in his bespoke suit, even as his casual posture reflects a man who is approachable and comfortable with both his role and his mastery of the subject matter he’s discussing.

  He reviews the progress the Vegas branch has made since his last visit, speaking from memory instead of notes, and even mentioning many of the residents by name. He engages in dialogues with the employees, addressing funding issues and corporate sponsors, analyzing the effectiveness of certain educational programs and offering alternatives and additions, and digs deep into the overall well-being of the residents.

  The point is to help them, not to simply give them a physical place to recover, and from what I can tell, the DSF and its partner organizations are accomplishing that goal.

  “We exist for you. Which means that for as long as you need it,” he tells the residents, “the Phoenix is your home and we’re here to help you. Never hesitate to ask for what you need.” It’s obvious he means it. And I can tell from their applause that the residents know it, too.

  After lunch wraps up, Devlin takes me up to the tower’s recreation floor.

  “There’s an outdoor playground, too, but most of the kids prefer this space.” As he speaks, we step into what feels like a huge rec center. A group of kids are playing basketball in one corner. In another, little kids sit at small, colorful tables drawing and pasting and generally being kids.

  “Those women over there are studying for their GED,” Devlin says, pointing to a group of women in another corner. “And those are getting help putting together resumes, then doing mock interviews. We have a tech center on the third floor with computers open for anyone’s use. They can play games, submit resumes, or get specialized instruction.”

  “This is incredible,” I say, as he calls over a lanky blond woman who looks to be headed toward a group of kids goofing around on a tumbling mat.

  “Mr. Saint!” The pleasure in her voice is obvious, and he gives her a side-hug as she comes over to greet him. “I heard you were on-site. I was hoping you’d come by.”

  “Stacy Blake, meet my friend Elsa Holmes. She’s writing an article on us for The Spall Monthly.”

  “That’s great,” Stacy says as we shake hands. “The DSF saved my life, literally,” she tells me. “This man really is a saint.”

  “Do you mind telling me your story?”

  “Not at all.”

  As Devlin leaves to go circulate, she leads me to a couple of chairs where we park ourselves while we talk. I learn that she’s twenty-four and was taken six years ago when she hailed an airport taxi in Mexico, only to learn it wasn’t a taxi at all. “Like something out of a movie,” she says, then tells me about her ordeal. Put on the block. Sold. Transported to the buyer blindfolded and tied up in the back of a truck. Used sexually.

  The more she talks, the more nauseous I feel.

  “The Beyond Project worked with local authorities and Interpol and all sorts of agencies. The DSF supported them and then funded the rescue mission. I didn’t know that until later, though. All I knew was that we were rescued. For a while, that was all I cared about.”

  She nods across the room, then calls out, “Amy! Wave to Mommy!”

  A dark-haired little girl’s head pops up. She grins, then waves wildly.

  “I kept her,” Stacy says. “When I was rescued, I was too far along to have any choice but to give birth, and once I saw her face, I couldn’t let her go.” I see the pain on her face. “It was hard, though, even knowing that the man—the one who—well, he didn’t want to, either. He—he’d been taken, too. They were, you know, watching us. Like for sport. It was—”

  I put my hand on her arm. “It’s okay.”

  “I don’t know anything about him. I never saw him again. But when I decided to keep Amy, the DSF did everything for me. Medical care. Counseling. It was rough at first. Now she’s the light of my life. She’s hope that good things—wonderful things—can come from rot. Like flowers that fight their way out to bloom in muck.”

  She flashes me a watery smile, then shrugs. “So that’s me.”

  “I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve met,” I tell her, thinking that her pain certainly puts my own in perspective.

  “Is it strong to shoulder what you have to? I don’t know. I think Mr. Saint’s strong. He’s shouldered more than his fair share, you know. All of this is personal to him, and while I doubt he knows everyone’s name, he’s here a lot, he talks, he cares.” Another shrug. “Put that in your article.”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking over at where he sits reading to a group of preschoolers. “I will.”

  “Today was great,” I tell him as we’re heading back to the room to change for dinner with Anna and some of the other staffers. “Talking with everybody, meeting Stacy, all of that will make a difference with the article.”

  “There’s more I can show you. Hell, you could write a whole series of articles.”

  My brows lift. “Trying to get me to stay, Mr. Saint?”

  His face, which had been animated, turns to stone, and I immediately regret the quip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  He takes a breath. “I’m worried about the other article. The story you’re doing about Peter.”

  “Oh.” I pause as we
turn into the elevator bank. “Why?”

  He takes my elbow and steers me to the elevator, which has just arrived. We step onto the empty car, and as soon as the doors close, he says, “You need to stay clear of that world, Ellie. Those people, they’re vile. I saw what it did to Peter being around the edges of that organization. I ran, remember? These are not people that you want to mess with.”

  I turn his words over in my head, trying to understand exactly what’s bothering him. But I don’t get it. “I’m not messing with anybody. I’m not on the edges. I’m a reporter, remember? I report. I write stories.”

  “This isn’t a story you should chase. I don’t know how to say it more simply than that.”

  “But you’re not making any sense,” I say as the elevator glides to a stop. Our conversation does, too, as there is a couple waiting to get on. I wait until we’re in our room, then continue. “Daniel Lopez is dead. The Wolf is gone. His organization doesn’t exist any longer. What kind of danger could I possibly be in?”

  He pauses inside the door, then presses his fingertips to his temple. “You don’t understand how long the tentacles of these organizations are. And like worms, they don’t necessarily die when you slice them in two. Daniel Lopez might be dead, but his minions are still running around, trying to get that organization up and running again. You step in and stir that pot, and you’re going to wake the hornets.”

  I frown and move toward the kitchen, then grab a sparkling water from the fridge. “I think there were about a thousand mixed metaphors in what you just said.”

  “Ellie, please.” He’s come up behind me, and he presses a hand to my shoulder. “I’m not joking. I need you to take this seriously.”

  The pleading tone in his voice actually gets to me, and I turn to look at him. His expression is as serious as his tone, and I nod. “Okay. I promise. I’m taking it seriously. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving it up.”

  His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. “Listen, I know that you’re going to do what you’re going to do. I know you’ve got that fire in your gut that sends you chasing after injustice and exposing bad people. And believe me, I know why. But please understand that organizations like this never die. Someone will want to protect their reputation, and you’ll end up in the crosshairs.”

  I step back, then lean against the counter and take a sip before I answer. “Do you think that’s a deterrent to someone like me? My father was killed because someone aimed a gun at him. My uncle, too. I became a cop anyway. And now I’m a reporter. A solid one, Devlin. In five years, I’m going to have a reputation for writing articles that blow the lid off some seriously criminal operations. And you’re trying to scare me with crosshairs? Fuck that.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to give you perspective.”

  “You’re worried I don’t understand the risks,” I say. “But I do.”

  He takes a step toward me. “Understand? Bullshit. I think you like the risk. I think you get off on it.”

  I actually laugh. “Oh, please. So what? So what if that’s the fire that makes me do my job well?”

  “So what?” he repeats, his voice hard and harsh as he reaches out and clutches my upper arm. “Because, dammit, I don’t want—”

  He releases me suddenly, taking a step back with a hard, sharp, “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  I watch as he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he finally says.

  He slowly meets my eyes, and what I see there makes my chest ache with both longing and loss. I swallow, then lick my lips. “I’m careful,” I tell him. “But I’m also curious. And I’m going to do my job.”

  “What you are is stubborn.”

  I smile. “That, too.”

  He drags his fingers through his hair, and I step forward, then run my hand over his jaw. He catches it and holds it in place.

  “I don’t think I’ve told you,” I say, my voice breathy. “I like this. Your beard. Your hair. The way it looks. The way it feels.”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, and he laughs.

  I scoot around him to grab one of the muffins from the hospitality basket. It’s blueberry and it’s warm and I’m in love with this hotel. “Can I ask you something?” I say, ripping a chunk off and then holding out the muffin to him.

  He takes a piece, then pulls out a chair and sits, while I hop up onto the kitchen counter.

  “What’s the story with Ronan?” I try for casual even though my mind’s been whirring all day.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I—well, just how well do you know him?”

  “Pretty well. He’s like a brother to me.”

  I narrow my eyes. “So he knows about Alex?”

  He drags his fingers through his hair. “He does. And you’re asking me all of this because…?”

  “Bell,” I say. “Lorenzo Bell.”

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that Ronan arrived so late on the night Bell is killed?”

  He chuckles, covering his mouth with his hand. “You really do have a suspicious mind. Where is this coming from?”

  “Ronan,” I say, kicking my heel against the cabinet. He’s right. All I have is a weird feeling in my gut that something’s off. No proof. Not even a solid basis for a hunch. Not really. But I tell him what I do know, anyway. “In LA, he talked about not understanding what Sue went through unless you’d experienced something like it yourself. I got the impression that he had. Experienced something, I mean.”

  “And that makes him a killer?”

  I slide off the counter. “No. It makes me wonder. Because if he did suffer like she did—like the residents in the back tower did—wouldn’t that be a motive to take out someone like Bell?”

  “I think you have a suspicious mind. And,” he adds holding out his hand for me. “I think you’re far too sexy to be so cynical.”

  He tugs me toward him, and I take the hint, putting my hands on his shoulders as I straddle him. “Well, I was a cop.”

  “Ronan drove to Vegas. The murder was when? Around midnight?”

  I nod.

  “He was in Victorville about then. He texted me to ask about my meeting.”

  “Uh-huh.” I close my hand around his tie and tug him toward me. “And where were you, Mr. Saint?”

  “You know what, officer?” He closes his mouth over my breast, biting down through the thin knit of my blouse and making me see stars as I squirm in his lap, already wanting more. He obliges, easing his hand down the back of my slacks. “You can interrogate me any time.”

  I gasp, rising a bit as his fingers slide down my crack, his thumb teasing my ass as his fingers slip easily inside my already wet pussy. “We’re supposed to be changing for dinner, remember?” I can barely get the words out.

  He uses his free hand to grapple for his phone, then dictates a text as I slide my hand between our bodies. “Sorry to miss dinner,” he says as I cup his cock through his jeans. “But Ms. Holmes and I have our hands full.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I wake to the scent of coffee, then push myself up, taking the sheet with me for modesty, which is ridiculous considering everything we’ve done the last two days.

  “Good morning,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding the mug for me.

  I take the mug. “This is a nice way to wake up,” I say, before taking a sip.

  “I wanted to warn you that Anna’s out there. In case you were going to come out in a robe. Or without a robe,” he adds with a sly grin.

  “Glad you told me,” I say airily. “I might have been tempted to. I think we wore out the bed. Probably time to try something sturdier. Like a countertop.”

  He tugs the sheet down, exposing my breasts. Then he lightly teases my nipple, making me go soft and needy all over. “You think you’re teasing…”

  “I’m not,” I assure him. “And what happens in Veg
as,” I trill, making him laugh.

  He rises. “Come out if you want, but feel free to stay hidden away. But right now, I need to finish signing my name to at least a dozen pieces of paper, then deal with a few other minor crises.”

  I nod, and when he leaves, I decide to get decent and go out. I’m not sure why, except that it seems rude not to since she obviously knows I’m back here.

  She looks up when I enter wearing the DSF Tee I’d taken from Devlin’s drawer and my comfy leggings.

  “Good morning,” she says, with that bright smile. “I hope we didn’t wake you with all our talking.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “And I won’t disturb you. I just came for a refill.” I hold up my mug, then move around them to get to the coffee maker. As I do, I notice that the door to my bedroom is wide open—and the bed very obviously not slept in.

  Which means that Anna knows I shared a room with Devlin. And Devlin doesn’t seem to mind that she knows.

  And that, I think, means that it’s not that unusual an occurrence. Her coming to his hotel room to brief him in the morning. Her finding a woman in his room—and in his bed.

  The thought doesn’t sit well, and I mumble something about going to take a shower.

  “Oh, wait,” Anna says, as Devlin eyes me, tugging on his beard in that way I’ve noticed he does when he’s pondering something.

  “I’m heading out, too. But before you go, I had an idea. Since you missed dinner last night, why don’t we try again tonight before the flight?”

  “Great idea,” Devlin says before I can reply. “But I lined up an interview for Ellie’s article. And we’ll be driving back after. We still haven’t had the chance to talk in-depth about how I created the DSF. I thought we could do that on the road.”

  Anna’s smile is a little too bright, but there’s not a hint of irritation in her voice when she says, “Not a problem. Well, I should run. I’ll see you downstairs soon,” she tells Devlin, then snaps her folio shut before heading out.