Page 17 of My Fallen Saint

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.

I use my cash for a cheap black pair. It’s not the most amazing fashion statement, but neither am I at the moment. I’d only planned on a coffee, so I’m super casual in my favorite jeans and a plain white T-shirt. But it’s a V-neck, and it’s just a little snug. I consider that a plus.

I head back to the Cask & Barrel, then hit the ladies’ room first thing. I unhook my bra from the back, wiggle it out through the sleeves, then toss it in the trash. It’s the cheap kind that shows up in the sales bins at Walmart, so I don’t mind the sacrifice.

I stand sideways, check my profile in the mirror, and give myself a mental thumbs-up. Now that my girls aren’t squashed, I’m filling out the tee rather nicely. Even better, my nipples are hard and visible against the cotton, which is what I’m really going for. Because I’m not here to flirt and play games over four rounds of drinks.

One bourbon max to loosen me up, and then I want what I want. I don’t know a thing about catching ants with honey, but over the years, I’ve learned very well how to quickly catch a man. Especially if all I want is a man to use for the night. Or even for an hour. Or fifteen quick minutes.

To be honest, I don’t even need the bourbon tonight. I’m buzzing already. And it’s all because of Alex. Devlin. Whoever the fuck he is.

I don’t understand any of this. Why he’s someone else. Why he walked away without a word to me. How any of this happened. It’s crazy, and my head is pounding from the sheer magnitude of this revelation.

He thinks he can just waltz back into my life and send me reeling? That he can play games? That he can spy on me?

That he can pop up in the night like a spook in a horror movie and send my emotions reeling?

No. No way.

This is the guy who whispered that he loved me. That he would take care of me. Who kissed me so gently. Who made me believe for one night that my world hadn’t completely shattered. But it was all a lie. Because he was the one who dealt the final blow and took every last thing from me.

So fuck him. For that matter, forget him.

And that’s exactly what I intend to do tonight. I’m going to fuck Alex Leto right out of my mind. I just need to find the right guy to help me with that.

In the end, it doesn’t take long. It never does. Very few men come by themselves to a bar if they aren’t looking to get laid. They might say they’re coming to watch the game or chat with the bartender or just chill after work, but that’s never the truth, not even if they think it is.