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 the 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.