Home > My Fallen Saint(9)

My Fallen Saint(9)
Author: J. Kenner

“Well, yeah. But I never thought my actual friends would call it.”

I force myself not to bang my head against the rough exterior of the pub. I’ve known Brandy since preschool, so we’re both well-familiar with each other’s quirks. Then again, considering she spends most of each day on social media promoting herself and the online store where she sells handmade purses and tote bags like the one she’s carrying now, the “less tethered” thing had always seemed like a dubious goal to me.

“Inside,” I say. “I need a drink, and I want to hear all about how BB Bags is doing.” The initials are for her—Brandy Bradshaw—and though it’s not the most original brand name in the world, I thought it up, so I feel personally invested in the success of her company.

“Really good,” she says as we nod thanks to a cute guy who holds the door open for us.

The Cask & Barrel is a new bar, down the hill from where Brandy now lives, and try as I might, I can’t remember what used to be in the space. It’s a strange feeling, underscoring the fact that this isn’t my town anymore. But maybe that’s a good thing. I ran far and fast from the Laguna Cortez I knew. Maybe the reboot will sit better with me.

The place is essentially a pub dominated by an oval-shaped, polished oak bar with seating all around.

“Define really good,” I demand after we’ve snagged the only two empty seats at the bar and put in our order.

“Great online sales. Plus, I’ve got them in a few boutiques here and in LA.”

“That’s amazing, though I’m not surprised.” That’s not just a platitude, either. The bags she designs and makes are fabulous, and if I didn’t love my dad’s satchel so much, I’d carry one regularly myself.

I’m totally convinced that Brandy’s going to explode on the scene one of these days. Until then, she’s a starving artist. A lucky starving artist with a great house, an angelic landlord, and bare minimum rent.

“I’ve already paid off my student loan, and next month I’m going to hire someone part-time to help with the piecework.”

“Wow,” I say as she flashes a broad grin, obviously pleased with herself.

She should be. For someone who got the wind knocked out of her at sixteen, my bestie’s done pretty well.

The bartender slides our drinks in front of us, a bourbon for me and a margarita for Brandy. I take a quick sip as Brandy sucks on the end of her straw before pointing it at me, her head titled to one side so that her pink-tipped hair brushes the tiny tattoo of a feather decorating the swell of her left breast.

“Okay, I can’t pretend to be uninterested any longer,” she finally says. “What is Saint like? Did your mouth go dry? He’s hot as hell in photos, but people say he’s so good-looking in person your mouth will go dry.”

I screw up my mouth, then reach for a Brazil nut from the bowl in front of us. “I wouldn’t know. He had a conflict, and it’s being rescheduled.”

“That sucks.”

I lift a shoulder. “It happens. Only…” I trail off, reaching for another nut, because, apparently, I’m hungrier than I realized.

“What?”

I swirl my glass as I swallow the nut, watching the single ice cube go round and round. “I saw him watching me when I was leaving. At least, I think I did.”

“You mean he blew you off? He didn’t have a conflict at all?”

“I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things.”

She shakes her head. “No way. Cop instincts, right? You’re supposed to act on the evidence but trust your gut. Lamar’s always telling me that.”

Detective Lamar Gage and I were in uniform together in Irvine. About the time I quit to go to New York, he quit to join the force in Laguna Cortez. I introduced him to Brandy and we’ve formed a friendship trifecta.

“I’m not a cop anymore,” I remind her.

“Bullshit. It’s in your blood.”

I shrug. “He probably was in his office but doing some big deal thing. Like a conference call with the Pope.”

“When’s it rescheduled for?”

“Supposedly Monday, but I’m not waiting that long. I’m going to tomorrow night’s gala. Hopefully, I’ll corner him there.”

“Look at you being all Woodward and Bernie.”

“Bernstein,” I correct, and she rolls her eyes.

“I know. I was being amusing. Changing subjects,” she continues firmly. “Why are you here?”

“Because you said we should get drinks.”

“Forget journalism. Standup comedy. That’s your true calling.”

I scoff, then see the concern on her face and turn serious. “You think I should have stayed in New York.”

Her expression is a study in sadness so evocative it should hang in a gallery. Girl: Profoundly Sad. “I want you back,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here right now, and I feel so guilty about being happy. Because you left for a reason, Ellie. Hell, you left for a lot of reasons.”

“I’m not back to stay.” She knows that. We’ve had long calls and text conversations. “I’m here for Peter and the DSF article, and then I’m gone.”

“That is such bullshit. We both know it’s just going to end up being a nice little profile piece, and big fucking deal. You’ve been telling me you want bigger and meatier. Not some fluff piece about a foundation that’s doing good work.”

“You don’t—”

She holds up her hand, her fierce expression forcing me into silence. “And as for your uncle, as hard as the reality is, after ten years it’s probably going to stay unsolved. Mercado’s dead. Which means you’ve hit a wall before you’ve even begun.”

I wince but say nothing. Because, of course, she’s right.

“What happened to following in your father’s footsteps with a pen instead of a badge? Investigating horrible things and then exposing them on the page? All those things you say drive you. Don’t you know that’s what I love most about you? I mean, come on. I’m driven to make handbags. And I’m good at it, sure. But it’s not like I’m doing life-changing work.”

I open my mouth, but she tosses up a hand to silence me.

“I’m not,” she says firmly. “But you are. Or you should be. You never wanted to simply write about people who’ve made a difference. You wanted to be that person and make a difference with your words. And no matter how you spin it, that’s not why you’re here. Bullshit me if you want, but don’t bullshit yourself.”

“Wow,” I say.

She winces. “Sorry. I know. I’m a bitch. I shouldn’t—”

“I think I’m looking for closure.” I blurt the words out so fast they sound like gibberish.

“Alex,” she says, and I nod. Brandy’s the one person who knows that I slept with Alex—and that he bolted. It’s a secret she swore she’d take to the grave. Even Lamar, who knows about Alex and the way he left doesn’t know that he took my virginity. Only that a boy I’d fallen for blew me off on one of the worst nights of my life.

“I honestly do want to know what happened to Uncle Peter,” I say slowly. “I swear I’m going to do everything I can to dig out the truth. And I’m going to write a kickass, in-depth profile that finally tells the public something real about Devlin Saint and about the horror of that Nevada trafficking ring. But, yeah…”

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