My Beautiful Sin

by J. Kenner

  Since the last time I saw Devlin, though he’d been Alex at the time.

  We’re linked together, he and I, and after our hard-fought battle to get back to being us, he had no right to keep such a big secret from me.

  I take a bite of an Oreo, then toss the part still in my hand across the kitchen, where it lands in the stainless steel sink with a metallic clink.

  Part of me wishes that Brandy was here, but she’s in San Diego with her parents for a couple of days. I’m sure her mother is thrilled, but Brandy’s dad has been distant since she was raped. I told her to call me if she wants to talk, and there is no way in hell I’m going to dump my own problems on her right now.

  And, honestly, I’ll have to think long and hard before I tell her anything about Devlin’s newest revelation.

  I sigh, then grab a fresh cookie. I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Mostly because I don’t know what I’m feeling. Am I angry that he’s the kind of man who can take a life? A man who is arrogant enough to take on the responsibility of being judge, jury, and executioner, fully confident in the morality of his choice? Or am I angry that he kept the secret, not trusting me to either understand or stay quiet?

  Or maybe I’m frustrated with my own hypocrisy. I knew Max would die in that New York alley all those years ago, and I felt only two emotions. Gratitude for the man who protected me and fear that some evidence would be left behind that either implicated me or my savior. More recently, I’d watched Devlin pummel Walt, and the only emotion I’d felt was fear that he’d get skewered by the press or sued by Walt for assault.

  The actual attack? Well, that Walt had coming to him.

  But unlike Max and the others Devlin has assassinated, Walt is still alive.

  Fuck.

  My thoughts are spinning, wild and fast. But there in the middle, like the eye of the storm, is Devlin. Always Devlin.

  I love him. I do. And even knowing what I now know can’t change that.

  So the question is, can I live with what he’s done? The secret he kept from me? The life he lives beneath the surface?

  I don’t know the answer to that. But I do know that there’s only one way to find out.

  I need to go talk to the man I love.

  I don’t call or text. I just go over and let myself into his house. I expect to be waiting a while, and I’m surprised when I hear the rumble of the garage door in under half an hour, followed quickly by the sound of the door into the house opening and closing and Devlin calling out, “Ellie?”

  My breath catches as I rise from the couch, and I immediately feel like an idiot. Of course he gets notifications when someone punches in a code. And of course he has cameras surrounding the house.

  I’m looking toward the hallway that leads to his garage, and my heart stutters the moment I see him. He freezes in place, his eyes on mine and full of hope. He takes a tentative step toward me, then stops. “Why are you here? Are we—”

  “Don’t ask me that,” I say. “Not yet.”

  For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. But then he nods before gesturing for me to sit down again.

  I do, then point to the bag of Oreos I brought with me. “In case you need some chocolate, too.”

  A smile flickers on his lips as he sits opposite me, then reaches for a cookie.

  “All right,” he says, then draws a breath. “Say what you came to say.”

  Immediately, I feel stupid. “It’s not that.” I rush to reassure him. “I’m not here to tell you to go to hell. I’m not here to tell you I’m going to call the authorities or write a damn expose.”

  His jaw tightens. “That’s good to know. Why are you here?”

  “I have questions. Before—I wasn’t thinking clearly. I am now.” I lift my chin. “Tell me the details. How it works. How you’re funded. Who’s on your list.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “My list.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. I do.” He nods toward the cookies. “I need something to drink. Something stronger than milk. You?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  He gets up, then returns with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He pours, hands me a glass, then sets the bottle firmly on the table. “I have a feeling we’ll both be wanting a refill.”

  I fight a smile. “I don’t doubt it. Go on.”

  “You know I was in Sniper School after I joined the military. I was good. My father had trained me well.”

  “You were Alex then.”

  “Alejandro, yes. I was. Then he fell off the map.”

  “And that’s when you became Devlin. And I guess you used shell companies or something to launder Alejandro’s inheritance so Devlin could have it.”

  He nods.

  ”Okay.” I nod, processing it all. “You said you’re not working for the government. So what are you doing?”

  “I said Myers and Bell weren’t government operations, and they weren’t. But I started in intelligence. So did Ronan. We were ghosts, sent in to take care of problems that needed a particularly deft hand.”

  I lick my lips. “Go on.”

  “After my father died—”

  “After you killed him,” I say, voicing what he hasn’t told me, but what I’m certain is the truth.

  “Do you blame me?”

  I hesitate. “No.”

  “Would you turn me in for that? Should I be prosecuted for murdering that swine?”

  “No.” The answer comes immediately to my tongue, and I lift my chin defiantly, daring him to say that I’ve just proved his entire point.

  “After that, I started the foundation. You know this part, too.”

  I nod. “But you use the foundation for more than charity work.”

  “No. I told you the truth about that. Saint’s Angels was initially funded by me personally. Now it’s self-sufficient.”

  “Saint’s Angels.” I can’t help but smile. “Is that what you call it?”

  “I’m not one for modesty,” he says, and I burst out laughing.

  We share a smile, and I gesture for him to go on.

  “I do use the foundation, though. I use it to find people who need to be taken out.”

  “People like Myers or Bell,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  “Or Adrian Kohl.”

  His face goes hard. “No. My people had nothing to do with his assassination.”

  “Oh.” I’m surprised, but it’s not as if he and his team can take out every bad guy. “Okay. Tell me this—when you say it’s self-sufficient…” I trail off, gathering my thoughts. “I thought you weren’t a gun for hire.”

  “We’re not. We step in when it seems necessary. Like Bell. Like Myers. But we don’t advertise and we don’t solicit. You’re not going to find us on Yelp.”

  I take a sip of my bourbon as I roll my eyes. “Then where is the income coming from?”

  “Those jobs weren’t sanctioned, but we do take assignments from the government on occasion. Sometimes through private referrals as well. And we’re paid well when we do, especially since part of the price includes the risk.”

  “Risk?”

  He lifts his glass, then swirls the liquid. “The government jobs come with full deniability.”

  “They toss you to the wolves if you’re caught.”

  “Which is why we don’t get caught.”

  “How many. How often?”

  “Maybe a dozen operations a year. Sometimes I’m in the field. Sometimes not.” He meets my eyes. “Most of the time, I’m exactly what I seem to be. A wealthy man running a charitable foundation.”

  My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I run my hands over my jeans, then draw a breath as I look at him. “And the rest of the time you’re a killer.”

  “I prefer sniper. Vigilante has a nice ring, too.”

  “Don’t joke about this.”

  His expression hardens. “Never.” He leans forward. “I told you I had secrets, Ellie. I made tha
t perfectly clear.”

  “You did,” I agree. “And you told me you loved me.”

  “I do love you,” he says. “Probably more than you’ll ever truly know.”

  “When you showed me Devlin, you said you were trusting me with the truth of who you really are. But you never did. Not really.”

  “No.”

  “You stayed silent,” I continue. “You dangled the promise of a future in front of us, knowing full well that one day the gauntlet would fall.”

  He draws in a breath, then nods. “Yes.”

  For a moment, I simply sit there, soaking up the ramifications of that single word. Then I stand. “Thank you for being honest now.”

  He rises, too. “Ellie.” He reaches for me, but I stay perfectly still, and he pulls his hand back, then slips it into his pocket. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  I drop my gaze, my attention on the pattern in the hardwood floor. Only when I’m sure that I’ve erased all expression from my face do I lift my head. But I say nothing.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  “I won’t turn you in for what you’ve done,” I tell him. “I understand your code, but it’s not mine.”

  “For what I’ve done,” he says. “Not for what I will do.”

  I stay silent, because the truth is, I don’t know what to say or how to feel. Right now, it’s taking all my effort to stand here and not cry. To see past this minute into the one after it, and the one after that until I’m out the door and can breathe freely. Anything beyond that is a blur.

  “And what about us?” His words are level, but I hear the emotion buried beneath them, and I force myself not to cry as I meet his eyes.

  “Like I said, your code isn’t mine.”

  He flinches, as if my words are a blow. “So how do we move forward now?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I honestly don’t know if we can.”

  Chapter Forty

  “You’re surviving?” I ask Brandy when she calls the next day.

  “It’s nice seeing Mom. She said to tell you hi. But Daddy…” Brandy trails off, and I can practically hear the shrug in her voice. “He’s my dad.”

  “Sorry. I know it’s never easy being around him.”

  “Yeah, well.” Brandy had been Mr. Bradshaw’s little angel growing up, but after she was raped—after she got pregnant—it was as if something had broken in him. Her mom, Sally, told Brandy that it wasn’t her. It was her dad’s self-loathing and regret that he hadn’t been able to protect his little girl.

  Maybe that was true and maybe it wasn’t. All I know is that he pushed Brandy away, and as far as I can tell, he’s never been much interested in fixing that.

  “How did it go with the various meetings?” I ask.

  “So great,” she says, then proceeds to give me a blow by blow of the meetings she took and the orders she collected.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I tell her. “And for the record, I want to point out that I only asked about work. I figure you’ll tell me the personal stuff in your own sweet time.”

  “I never realized you had such a dirty mind.”

  I laugh. “So you’re saying that dirty things happened?”

  “Not dirty. Wonderful.” Her voice is singsong and I can imagine her smile.

  I’m smiling, too. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “I’m going to bring him down here soon. At the very least, I want him to meet Mom. Maybe at lunch or something. But until then…”

  “Until then there’ll be a lot more Christopher at the house?”

  “I think that’s a fair bet.”

  “I’ll be sure and only wear my PJs that don’t have holes,” I promise, making her laugh. “When is the article about Christopher coming out?”

  “I’m hoping in a couple of weeks. I talked to Tamra yesterday, and she said she’d been dealing with some crises at work, but was going to set aside some time today. So fingers crossed. How’s the romance of the century going?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Fine,” I say, not managing to keep the unnatural pitch out of my voice.

  “Uh-huh. So what’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just a stupid disagreement. It’ll all be worked out by the time you get back.” I immediately regret the lie. Devlin surely told Anna what happened. And Anna’s become good friends with Christopher. If she tells him there’s trouble in paradise and he tells Brandy…

  I shake my head, forcing myself to stay silent. If Christopher spills my secrets, then I’ll fess up. But Brandy’s hours away and dealing with the fallout of being in close proximity with her dad. She doesn’t need my shit on her mind, too.

  “I got some more information about Peter,” I tell her in a not so subtle change of subject. I fill her in on Cyrus Mulroy. “I’ve called twice, but he hasn’t called me back.”

  “Porn,” Brandy says. “Wow. I wouldn’t have thought it of Peter, but we were just kids then, so maybe it’s true. For that matter, maybe it wasn’t just one blonde he was dating. Maybe it was several. Maybe he filmed them and then sold the tapes to this Cyrus guy.”

  I open my mouth to tease Brandy about this new cynical side of her, but then I realize she could be right. I don’t like thinking it, but that’s the thing about secrets. Most of them you don’t see coming. And they’re almost always unpleasant.

  We wrap up the call, with Brandy promising to split a bottle of wine with me and give me all the details as soon as she gets back. Then, since he’s on my mind, I try Cyrus Mulroy again. This time, however, I can’t even leave a message since his voice mailbox is full.

  I spend the rest of the day either avoiding writing or staring at the image on my laptop. Though Devlin had paused the process, I’d started it up again after he left out of spite or futility or just because I’m a glutton for punishment.

  Now, the render is complete, and I’m staring at a slightly fuzzy but perfectly recognizable image of Devlin on the side of the building. Ronan’s image is less clear, but I can still tell it’s him. And I stand for a moment looking at the two of them, thinking that Corbin is a damn good programmer despite being an ass, and wishing I knew how I was supposed to feel about this.

  Then, without really thinking about it at all, I sit on the bed and pull the computer into my lap. I shut down the program, then shoot off a quick email to Roger.

  Render complete. Tell Corbin he may be a shit reporter, but he knows his way around a computer. Too bad the photo doesn’t help us. The figures are facing the wrong direction. No identifying features.

  Was worth a shot, though.

  I hit send before I have the chance to talk myself out of it. Except that’s not really true. I could have days to contemplate and engage in internal debate and self-reflection, but the result would still be the same. I’m not outing Devlin. Not like that.

  Probably not ever.

  I roll onto my side, then pull down a pillow and curl up against it as I wonder what kind of person that makes me.

  More, I wonder what this tiny bit of help I just gave to Devlin and Ronan means for Devlin and me in the long run. Am I sliding back into his arms? Or am I simply doing what I can to clear a path so that I can walk away, leaving nothing behind except the status quo?

  I wake to the sun streaming through the windows, my laptop’s battery run dry, and me still in clothes and on top of the covers.

  I sit up, groggy, then jump when my phone chimes, recognizing the sound that had pulled me from sleep. I grab the phone from the far side of the bed where I must have pushed it in sleepy protest, then fumble to connect the call, only half acknowledging Tamra’s name on the screen.

  “Um, hello?”

  “Oh, sweetie, how are you?”

  I sit up quickly, then put the phone on speaker as I rub my hands over my face, trying to eradicate the last wisps of sleep. “Devlin told you.”

  “He did.”

  I nod, expecting the answer. Of course he told Tamra. What I kno
w now affects both Tamra and Anna deeply. But more than that, Devlin knows that Tamra cares about me, and that the feeling is mutual. He’d want me to be able to talk to her.

  I smile a bit, appreciating that he’d thought of it even as I’d pushed him away.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  “I understand that. Sometimes a thing can be talked to death. Sometimes it’s not about words at all, but feelings.”

  “I think it’s always about feelings,” I counter. “Right now, though, I’m still trying to figure out how I feel.”

  “And then trying to find the words to describe it,” she adds with a laugh. “It all circles back again.”

  “Maybe. For a writer, words are failing me.”

  “I’m not surprised. Your head must be overflowing with emotions and facts and moral quandaries.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Forgive me for adding to the morass, but I realized I never told you how I came to join Saint’s Angels. And I think the story might interest you.”

  “It does,” I say, then slide up the bed so that I can sit more comfortably.

  “I’ve known of Devlin since he was very young. But he didn’t know me until after he ran from his father. I told you that before, of course.

  I nod, then say, “Right,” since, of course, she can’t see me.

  “My husband led a military rescue mission. His team—they—they became trapped.” Her voice breaks, and I pull my knees up and hug them, anticipating what was coming. “They were taken. Held hostage. Ransomed. And tortured. We know because their captors sent pictures.” I hear her swallow. “We, however, sent no one. No rescue team. No support.”

  “Devlin’s team got them out?” I hear the hope in my words.

  “No. Devlin had no team. Not then. And soon I had no husband.” She pauses. “Devlin came to me a year later. He told me what he was doing with the foundation. He told me that it was both real and a front. He told me about Saint’s Angels. About the work he was doing on both sides. The foundation helping the kind of people his father’s enterprise turned into victims. And his invisible team helping to eradicate men like his father in the first place.”