My Fallen Saint

by J. Kenner

  “Yeah, he said that, too.”

  I’d been looking at my toes, but now I look up at her. “He did?”

  She nods. “But since you did, he says the way you found out was really bad. He says that he should have been the one who told you.”

  I scoff. “Bullshit. He’s just pissed I learned the truth at all.”

  She puts a hand on my knee and squeezes lightly. “He also said that you could tell me everything. Because he knows you need someone to talk to.”

  “What?” I must have heard her wrong.

  “He said he knows you, and you probably haven’t told me a thing. But that you can. You didn’t tell him that I know he’s Alex?”

  I shake my head, irritated. Like I need his permission? Please. He should be grateful I’m not telling the whole damn world, much less Brandy.

  I stand up, then take a step toward my satchel. It would be so easy. Just pull out my laptop, open up Twitter, and post from my official account at The Spall.

  But I can’t seem to take that first step.

  “Ellie, please.”

  But I can’t, and when the tears start flowing, she puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close until exhaustion wins and I slip away into the refuge of darkness and dreams.

  When I wake, it’s the middle of the night. I’m still on the couch, but Brandy’s covered me with the afghan, and Jake is snuggled up close. I stay still for a moment, relishing the feel of his furry warmth, then sit up, holding the afghan around my shoulders like a cape as I take deep breaths and lightly pat the tender, tear-ravaged skin beneath my eyes.

  I stand, intending to go to my bedroom. Instead, I find myself in Shelby. I fire up the engine, then pull out of the garage to the end of the driveway. I send Brandy a quick text to let her know I’ve gone out driving. I doubt she’ll wake before morning, and by then I’ll be back. But just in case, I want her to know. I’m coherent enough to know that it matters, so I guess that’s a good thing.

  My rental is still parked on the street, and I vaguely think that I need to return it. But mostly, I don’t think at all.

  Mostly, I just need to drive. I need the wind in my hair. The noise and the rush either bringing me back to life or whisking all the dark thoughts from my head. I don’t want to want him. I don’t want to think. And the only way I know how to free myself is to lose myself in speed and the hills and these tight, winding turns.

  I go slow until I’m out of the neighborhood, then I head to Sunset Canyon Road and take it away from town, to the turnoffs that lead into the foothills and the wild and winding unpopulated roads that go up and up until you’re high enough to touch the sky or go flying out over the hills toward the sparkling waters of the Pacific.

  Mindlessly, I navigate the curves, my hand on the gearshift, my foot working the clutch. I whip around hairpin turns, fly along winding curves, and push Shelby harder and harder until my body and my car are one and it’s me who has the power, me who’s flying, me who’s cheating death and pain and loss and I’m fucking winning, dammit. I. Am. Winning.

  Fuck.

  With the curse screaming in my brain, I hit the brakes and skid to a stop in a turnabout. I’m breathing hard, and I should be free now. I should have sloughed it off, this feeling that I have to push and push and break through if I’m ever going to feel again.

  But I’m not. I’m not even close. I’m not winning at all, and I could drive all night and it would still be a lie.

  Because these hills aren’t where I need to be.

  This isn’t the danger I crave.

  I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, because I know what I have to do.

  I have to go see Devlin.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I park Shelby in front of his house, somewhat amazed that I’d been able to find it again. I’ve only been the one time when I dropped him off after the Terrance Myers press conference.

  It was dark then, too. But not this late.

  I glance down at the dashboard clock and realize that it’s three in the morning.

  Well, hell.

  I sit for a moment, debating whether I should go pound on his door or wait until morning. I’m about to drive away when his front door opens, and there he is, silhouetted by the light in his entrance hall.

  I hesitate, knowing I should be afraid. I know his secret now, and it’s a dangerous one.

  But that’s why I came here, isn’t it? That was the fuel that had pushed me.

  I draw in a breath, then get out of the car. I walk slowly toward him, my gaze never leaving him as I try hard to interpret those damnable, stoic features. But I can’t read a thing on his face.

  “Text Brandy,” he says. “Tell her you’re here.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because when you come in, I’m shutting the door behind you. And I want you to know that you’re safe.”

  I nod, then take out my phone, shoot her a text, then meet his eyes. “Okay?”

  He nods, but I think I see disappointment on his face. And, damn me, right away I regret sending the text. Because, foolish or not, I don’t actually think he’d hurt me. I came here expecting danger, but not the physical kind.

  No, the danger I’m confronting is the kind that gets you in the heart.

  I’m numb enough that I don’t pay attention to the house as I follow him to a large, open living area. The television is on one of the classic movie stations, and there’s a black and white movie playing, the sound muted. There’s a coffee table in front of a sofa. An ice bucket and a half-empty decanter of whiskey sits next to a glass with a melting ice cube and just a hint of lingering brown liquor.

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Damn right,” he says. “Want one?”

  I nod, then sit on the couch. There’s a throw pillow, and I tug it into my lap as I curl my feet up under me.

  He comes back from the bar on the far side of the room with a glass. He drops a cube in, pours a healthy shot, then hands it to me before refilling his own.

  “To secrets,” he says, and, dammit, I laugh.

  “Don’t,” I say, irritated with both of us. “Don’t make light of this.”

  “I’m not. I swear.” He reaches for me, and I shrink back, and as I do, his face goes hard.

  “Tell me,” he says. “What you know. Who you talked to.”

  I consider arguing, but that’s why I’m here, right? For the confrontation? “I’m not revealing my sources,” I say. “Not even to you. But he told me that The Wolf had a son who went to work for Peter. That might not have been enough,” I continue when he says nothing. “I mean, Peter had people working for him all over town. But I also knew about Caitlyn Devline. And, well, I put the pieces together.”

  I take a long swallow of my drink. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Daniel Lopez’s son. The Wolf.”

  He cups his face in his hands, obscuring most of his beard. His eyes are closed, and he nods. “This isn’t the way I wanted you to find out.”

  “Bullshit,” I snap. “The way? You didn’t want me to find out at all.”

  His short laugh has the ring of irony. “Well, that’s true.” He draws a breath. “How the hell do you know about my mother?”

  “Turns out I saw her. You, too. I was three. And Peter went to a house in the Hollywood Hills. She answered the door.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That your father took you from her.” I look at him. “Do you remember that?”

  He shakes his head. “I learned about it later. And that he killed her. Drugged her. Got her behind the wheel of a car. Made it look like an accident.”

  I sit shocked. I had no idea about that.

  He rubs his temples. “She was rich. Fell out with her parents before she met Daniel Lopez. Ran away, got caught up in his net. He fell for her, so maybe that made her lucky. Maybe it didn’t. And she had me. Ran when I was about a year old. Went back to her parents.”

  “Your grandparents?”

 
; “Dead now. Another accident. Right after my father took me to Nevada. I can’t prove it, but I’d lay a solid bet my father arranged that. Punishment for keeping him away from her money.”

  His smile is thin. Murderous. “Their fortune—and it was massive—was managed through trusts. Ultimately, my mother’s and my grandparents’ assets ended up in the trust they set up for me when she brought me back to LA. It was rock solid. Still is. My bastard of a father tried to break it, but never managed.”

  He shrugs. “That’s the money I live on now. Clean money built up through generations of hard work and solid investments.”

  “And your father’s money? My, um, source says you inherited it. He says you’re running your own syndicate now.”

  He almost laughs. “Does he? Well, he’s wrong, if that makes you feel any better. I shut my father’s business down the moment I inherited, and I did everything I could to shut down the networks and pipelines he used and to get his lieutenants on the government’s radar.”

  He draws a breath, his expression hard. “I’m not my father, and woe be to anyone who suggests that I am. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape from that man’s shadows, to make up for just a portion of the bile he pumped into the world.”

  He tosses back the rest of his drink, then slams the glass onto the coffee table before standing up. “So no. I don’t have my own syndicate. Unless you want to call the Devlin Saint Foundation a syndicate, because that is the only thing my father’s money has ever, ever been spent on. But the purpose of the DSF is to help people. To try to sweep up some of the shit my father spread through this world. Fuck.”

  He lashes out and kicks the table. I make a grab for the decanter, steadying it before it topples onto the floor.

  “Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” He stalks across the room to the glass doors that open onto the canyon, the lights from dozens of streetlights flickering below, the twinkle of stars shining above. I can see his reflection, and I watch his face as he says, “I’m not the man you knew, Ellie. Back then, I thought I could completely avoid the path I was born to walk. I was wrong.”

  He turns to look at me, as if gauging my reaction, and I do my damnedest not to show any emotion on my face. I don’t know what he’s telling me, but I know him well enough—his vocal cues, his mannerisms—to know that whatever he’s saying is important.

  “This man,” he continues, indicating himself with an air of disgust, “this philanthropist. He doesn’t exist. He’s an illusion. Pulled out of the air like a magic rabbit. Because I promise you, Ellie, this body? This blood? It’s tainted. And it always has been.”

  My heart squeezes, and I stifle the urge to go to him. To try to staunch some of the pain that flows off of him in waves. “You just said the foundation is legit. Like laundering your father’s dirty money for good.”

  He actually laughs at that. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s one way to put it. But don’t try to paint a halo on me. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of. Plenty of things.”

  “What are you saying? Were you helping Peter? Selling drugs?”

  “No.” The word is both harsh and heartfelt. “That was my line in the sand with my father, and he caved because he was more interested in me learning the business side. How to cook the books. So, yeah, I helped that way. But I never touched the drugs, and I never will.”

  I pour myself another drink. “Have you killed people?”

  He hesitates, then meets my eyes. “Yes. In the military. And—and when my father made me.”

  I swallow, and my voice is shaky when I ask. “You shouldn’t be telling me this. It’s dangerous.”

  He meets my eyes. “Is it?”

  Heat flows through me. Not sensual, though. This is something richer. Something deeper. I lick my lips, no longer sure what to think, much less what to do. Finally, though, I ask the one question I have to ask. “Did you kill Peter?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. And though I had no choice, I’ll never forgive myself for running like I did.”

  “Then why did you?”

  He paces the room, pulling his hair back with a tie from his pocket. “Because I might have been next. Because I saw an out. That was the night I ran from everything. You. My father. My past.”

  “Oh.” I lick my lips. “You couldn’t take me with you?”

  “Maybe I could have.” He meets my eyes as he speaks, and I can’t tell if it’s pain or regret I see on his face. Maybe both. “But we were both so damn young.”

  “I get that,” I say. “But now…” I trail off, not wanting to sound needy. But if this is what’s been holding him back—hell, if this is why he left—then that changes everything between us.

  But then there he is shaking his head, and I know that just like when we were kids, he’s read my mind.

  “I’m not the same man, Ellie. I’ve seen too much. Hell, I’ve done too much. Life fucked me up, and I set up the DSF to give me some peace. I cherish every damn moment I’ve ever spent with you, but the DSF’s my mistress now, and I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “Yes. You were.”

  My chest tightens, and I expel a weird little laugh. “Yes. I was.”

  He comes to me then, and when he sits beside me and takes my hands, I want to fall into his touch. “I’m so, so glad you came back. At first, I thought it would tear me apart—us both apart—but now I know I needed this. You. And I’m so damn grateful for Vegas and what we shared. But it’s a memory now, and that’s all it can be.”

  I nod, not liking that reality but understanding it.

  “You’ll be going back to New York soon.”

  “Right,“ I say. “That’s where my life is now.”

  He slides his hands into his pockets. “Exactly. That’s where your life is now.”

  I nod. Even if I could stay—even if he wanted me—I don’t know that I would. There are too many ghosts in Laguna Cortez.

  He cups my cheek. “I’m not going to ask if you will because I know you’ll keep my secret. And I know you must have more questions, but it’s already past four and you look exhausted.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He grins. “Do you want me to drive you home? Or you can sleep here. I have a guest room.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  He brings me one of his T-shirts to sleep in, then leads me to the spare room. Then he kisses me on my forehead. “I never wanted you to know. But now that you do, I’m glad.”

  He shuts the door behind me, leaving me to my thoughts and fears and the empty creak of an unfamiliar house at four in the morning. A lost, lonely time.

  I try to sleep, but it’s no use. And though I know he doesn’t want me to—and though I truly only want comfort—I quietly move through the house to Devlin’s bedroom.

  I hear his slow, even breaths from the doorway and move quietly to the bed. I slide under the covers so that we are back to back, and as soon as my head hits the pillow, sleep begins to settle over me.

  The last thing I feel before I drift away is the shift of the bed as Devlin rolls over, and the warm press of his body spooning against mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I wake on Thursday to the feel of Devlin’s hand lightly stroking my hip. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing even, unsure if it’s desire or melancholy that’s guiding his touch, and even more unsure which I want it to be.

  I continue to play possum as he gets out of bed, and the sound of the shower lulls me back into sleep. When I finally rouse again, the house is empty, but Devlin’s left a note for me by the coffee maker.

  I’m glad you came, and I’m glad we talked. There is a bit more sunshine in my life now that I’ve told you about my past - D

  * * *

  PS - you are temptation personified. I never knew how strong I was until I resisted you this morning.

  The last makes me laugh, not only because it’s sweet, but because it’s bullshit. I’ve always known he was strong. No
w, knowing his story, I understand more fully just how strong he is.

  I head back to the bedroom to get dressed. There’s a patio off the master that’s accessed through a sliding glass door. It’s hidden behind blackout drapes, and when I pull them aside, light floods the room and I find myself looking at a huge patio with a seating area on one side and a home gym on the other, complete with weights, a rowing machine, and a punching bag. I remember Devlin’s knuckles, and think that he gets a lot of use out of that bag.

  When I turn away from the view, I notice the three framed pictures on his chest of drawers. Small frames tucked in around the wooden bowls he uses for loose change, keys, that kind of thing.

  I hadn’t noticed them before because I wasn’t exactly in the room to inspect the interior design. But with the light reflecting off the brass frames, they glow. I don’t recognize the people in two of them. One a woman standing beside a little boy who I think might be Devlin. The other of Devlin with an older man in jeans and a T-shirt, a Special Forces tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve. The final picture is one I remember of me standing by myself at the beach, looking back at Alex who was being a pain in the ass by insisting he take my photo.

  Unlike the others, he’s not in the photo, and I feel a little stab when I realize why—because he couldn’t use any photo of the two of us together. Because the boy in those pictures would be—is—Alex.

  Which means he went out of his way to search for one of me alone. A photo he’s saved all this time. And thinking that I’m part of his little gallery makes me smile.

  I’m still smiling when I leave the house to head back to Brandy’s place. I grab a coffee, then sit on a stool in her sewing room while she works on some custom bag orders and tells me about Christopher. How he’s smart and sweet and funny. “He gets me,” she says. “It’s nice.”

  “And still no pressure?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. None. He says that I’m worth waiting for.”