Page 9 of My Fallen Saint

But that’s the thrill, right? And when I finally pull into the foundation’s parking lot, I’m back in control. Because once again, I’ve shown that bitch Fate my middle finger.

I’ve won.

For a moment, I simply sit in the driver’s seat, relishing my victory. Then I adjust the rearview mirror, grab the brush I keep in the glove compartment and go to work on my loose, dark brown curls. I always drive with a cap, which tends to prevent the worst tangles, but since the thing went flying, right now, I’m a mess.

I end up opening the trunk and getting my toiletry bag out of my suitcase. It has a small bottle of Argan oil, and I use a few drops to ease the tangles free. After years of driving Shelby, I’ve learned what necessities to have on hand.

I take the opportunity to fix my makeup as well, using the rearview as a cosmetic mirror. Even having driven from LA with the top down, I’m still pretty put together, which is probably because I don’t use that much makeup to start with. Some golden eyeshadow to highlight my brown eyes. A smidge of gloss. Mascara of course, and just a hint of blush.

Normally I’m not particular about my face and hair. Or my clothes for that matter. Sure, I enjoy dressing up for a night out, but my favorite part of being a reporter is living in jeans and a T-shirt. Because most days I’m sitting at my desk writing or working the phone.

Today, though, I want to look as professional as possible. I’ve never seen a photo of Saint where he doesn’t look sharp. Hell, dead-to-rights perfect. And I’ll be damned if I’ll walk in there without looking like his equal. If nothing else, Roger expects that.

I stayed with friends in Los Angeles yesterday after taking five days to drive from New York so I’d have Shelby with me in California. This morning, I’d done lunch with my friends, then meandered my way down to Laguna Cortez. My plan is to bunk with Brandy while I write the article about the foundation and research the facts surrounding Uncle Peter. She moved back after college, and I called last night to tell her I’d meet up with her after my interview.

I dressed for the interview before leaving LA. A simple black pantsuit with a white silk tank and a loose-fitting blazer. I’m wearing flats at the moment, but I reach into the back and grab the killer Christian Louboutin pumps I’d stashed there earlier.

Designer shoes are my weakness, and since I can’t actually afford them, I’ve made them a game, searching them out in consignment stores, thrift stores, and online sites like eBay. I found these a few months ago at an estate sale. A total score. They also have the advantage of adding much-needed inches to my usual five-foot-five frame, which is always nice in an interview. I can hold my own, but extra height gives extra confidence.

Once I’m all set, I grab my dad’s battered leather satchel that I use as a briefcase, then slide out of the car. I pause for a moment to look at the impressive building rising from what was once the slab of a long-demolished grocery store, the concrete baked and cracked. It had been an eyesore of disputed ownership, and Alex and I would walk across it some nights when we’d head out together for ice cream.

We’d walk from Uncle Peter’s house to Pacific Avenue, the east-west street that serves as the access point for the Arts District. We’d get our ice cream from the corner store, then walk south along the Pacific Coast Highway for about a mile before crossing the highway to this lot. Then we’d keep walking toward the ocean and our tidal pools.

“What a wreck,” Alex said once, looking around at the cracked concrete and sunbaked weeds that marred the empty lot.

I’d looked around, then shrugged. “It’s just concrete.”

“It’s an eyesore. Right here between the Coast Highway and the ocean. It deserves better.”

“Well…” I cast about for a piece of discarded chalk. Kids used the lot to draw, so it wasn’t hard to find. I bent down and wrote El and Alex’s place, careful to use the nickname he’d started calling me a few weeks after our first kiss. Everyone else called me Ellie.

Then I’d grinned up at him. “It’s ours now. We can imagine it’s anything. Does that make it better?”

“Oh, El,” he’d said, with that sweet, sexy smile. “It does. It really does.”

Now, I stand frozen, lost in the memory. Then I swallow the lump in my throat and pull myself from the past. The building that now rises in front of me is all cement and steel and glass, with sleek lines and sharp angles. Five stories that sparkle in the sunlight, complemented by a wide swath of eco-friendly landscaping that peters out as it reaches the sandy beach.

It’s absolutely stunning, but I don’t like it at all.

Because this building isn’t supposed to be here. And I don’t care about the environmentally responsible xeriscaping or the locally sourced materials. I don’t give a shit about the beauty of the angles or the way such a massive structure rises from the ground as if it is as native to the coastline as the craggy cliffs and rocky coves.

And I could care less about how the amazing Devlin Saint took a stretch of undeveloped land with disputed title, got it sorted out, and built something as remarkable as the DSF’s offices.

Because this was our space. Our lot. And I hate Saint for stealing the memory from me.

A fresh burst of anger cuts through me. Not at Saint this time, or even Alex. No, this time, I’m angry at myself. Because Alex Leto was a prick. A manipulative son-of-a-bitch, and I don’t owe him a thing, much less warm and fuzzy memories.

If I could banish him from my mind, I would, but at the very least, I need to exorcise the power he has over me. And, dammit, I’m going to start right now.

I draw in a series of deep breaths, purposefully gathering myself. Then I cup my hand over my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun as I reconsider the building. And this time I have to admit that it’s not so bad. At least Saint got out there and built something. Took an eyesore and turned it into something stunning. All Alex Leto did was run.

I’d trusted him, and he’d ripped me to shreds.

But I’m smarter now. Stronger, too. Just like he said.

And you know what?

Fuck Alex Leto. Fuck him for leaving me during those already dark days. For slinking away without a word and never getting in touch again. For casting the final blow when I was already cracked and broken.

Mostly, fuck him for breaking my heart.