Page 24 of My Beautiful Sin

A muscle in his cheek tightens, but to his credit he doesn’t say anything.

“We haven’t spent a lot of time together,” I point out. “The three of us, I mean. I’ve either been with you, or I was in a shit mood.”

“Because of me,” he adds, with enough humor that I know he’s not annoyed.

I shrug. “Yeah, well, the bottom line is we’re getting together tonight. You can amuse yourself?”

“I think I can manage. I need to check in on something at The Phoenix, anyway.”

“You’re going to Vegas?” Considering he has his own fleet of jets, it’s not an off-the-wall possibility.

“No. I think the power of the internet will suffice. But I need you to do one thing for me.”

“Sure. What?”

“Kiss me. Tide me over until I see you tomorrow.”

“With pleasure,” I say, as move closer, then rise up onto my toes, not even caring if someone snaps a photo. I hold onto his shoulders as my mouth closes over his, and as he pulls me close and kisses me hard, all I can think is that despite having one of the most miserable childhoods imaginable, I seem to have finally earned a little bit of happiness.

Chapter Ten

Since I still have plenty of time before I’m meeting Brandy and Lamar, I sit in Shelby, the dark blue 1965 Shelby Cobra that’s only been pushed out of the number one spot in my life now that Devlin’s in the picture, and flip through the file that Devlin gave me. My eye immediately notices a reference to Cotton Building Supply, a place that is already at the top of the list I’ve been compiling of businesses Peter worked with on a regular basis.

In the days after I learned that Devlin—Alex—had killed Peter, I’d forced myself to do some actual work. If I couldn’t heal the ache in my heart, at least I could try to ignore it. Mostly I didn’t succeed, but I did manage to sort through some boxes of old records.

With Peter’s death, Chief Randall and his wife Amy stepped in as my guardians. They’d hired a lawyer to wrap up Peter’s construction business, boxed up all the business files, and stuck them in storage in case I ever wanted them. I’d brought a few of those boxes home, and as my numb brain pored over paperwork, I’d realized two things. First, that my uncle was smart enough to keep very clean books. There was nothing in those papers that indicated any ties to The Wolf, to drug money, to anything untoward at all.

And second, that Uncle Peter had business connections in Laguna Cortez long before he moved here to look after me. That was about all I could manage, though. Digging deep just made me remember the man, his death, and Alex—the boy who had pulled the trigger.

I close my eyes, warding off the shadow of those days that seem so long ago, but were really only so many yesterdays. Devlin and I are past it now, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a wound. It was. It’s just scarred over. And that’s the interesting thing about scars—the healed area ends up a lot tougher than the original skin.

I guess that’s why I can look now. Why I’m heading out to chase leads from both Devlin’s and Peter’s records, including Cotton Building Supply, a business Peter frequented when he was based in LA and then later in Laguna Cortez.

Cotton Building Supply is located inland, past the Five, and though it’s technically within the Laguna Cortez city limits, this definitely isn’t the part of town that goes on postcards. The operation is the low-overhead kind, with a shack that fronts a lumberyard that seems to get more intense the deeper you go, so that the area closest to the street is for the DIY crowd, and the stuff in the far back is for the commercial clients.

I only see one employee—recognizable by the brown vest and brass nametag—and since he’s inside ringing up a customer, I wander the DIY area, thinking about what I could do with the house I own here once my tenant moves out. I’ve never lived in the house as an adult, but it was my childhood home until my father died. I inherited it, but Uncle Peter managed it, renting it out and using the income and my dad’s life insurance policy to pay off the mortgage and then putting the income away for me. It’s not a lot, but it made a nice dent in my Manhattan expenses, that’s for sure.

Right now, I don’t have any expectation that my long-time tenant is going to give his notice. But I do know that his current lease ran out a few months ago, and he hasn’t yet renewed. He’s told the management company that he wants to be “flexible,” and so he’s currently month-to-month.

All of which is fine by me, but at the same time, part of me wants him to just go. I’m enjoying living with Brandy, but I miss having my own place. And the truth is I can’t stay with Brandy forever. She doesn’t own her house, and she doesn’t rent it. Instead, she acts as a caretaker for the mostly-absentee owner whom she calls Mr. Big.

Originally, I was only planning on being in Laguna Cortez temporarily, so bunking with Brandy was no big deal. Now that I’m staying, I need to make some decisions.

Even with Devlin in the mix—and he’s very much in my mix—I’m thinking about looking for my own place. Maybe a guesthouse or a rental in Lamar’s condo building. Someplace where I have my own space as Devlin and I grow in our relationship. Other than rooming with Brandy in college, I’ve been on my own all of my adult life, and it’s weird to feel like I’m camped out in someone else’s nest.

I push the thoughts out of my head—it’s not something I plan to deal with today—and I wander back inside, hoping that the guy on duty is free now. Luck is with me, and he lifts a hand as I enter.

“I was just coming to look for you,” he says. “Sorry for the wait. How can I help you? Let me guess,” he continues without a pause. “You’re thinking about adding a patio to your house.”

“No, but it’s not a bad idea. My name’s Elsa Holmes. I’m a reporter with The Spall Monthly.”

“Right. Right. I’ve heard of you.”

“The magazine, you mean?” Even folks who only read magazines like People and Entertainment Weekly have usually heard of The Spall, since it’s right there next to The New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly at grocery store checkouts. But it’s a rare person who actually knows the names of individual contributors.

“Huh? Oh, no. From Instagram. You’re the gal’s scre—dating Devlin Saint, right?”

I manage not to cringe. “Right on both counts,” I say with so much enthusiasm that he actually blushes.