Page 12 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Six

“You’re here!”

I hear Brandy’s squeal at the same time I see her running down the sidewalk, her pink-tipped blond hair flying as she launches herself at me. Six feet tall and curvy, she has almost seven inches on me, and it’s a wonder we don’t topple over.

“You bitch!” Brandy’s musical voice is laced with humor, plus a hint of genuine irritation. “You were supposed to be at my place yesterday. We were going to drink and gossip and you were supposed to tell me all about your assignment, and then we were going to have a run on the beach this morning before you did the whole reporter thing.”

“That’s completely untrue,” I protest as I extricate myself, then tug her toward the exterior wall of The Cask & Barrel so that we’re not blocking the sidewalk from customers trying to get inside. “Never in a million years would I agree to go running.” Brandy knows this. As far as I’m concerned, running constitutes one of the primary torments of hell.

“Okay, fine. You were going to play catch with Jake while I did the running.” She leans against the stone and wood facade, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Poor Jake.” Jake is Brandy’s ancient lab-mixed-with-mutt who is still convinced he’s a puppy. I was there the day she brought him home from the shelter, and I definitely count Jake among the few friends that I truly missed after leaving town. “Does he hate me?”

“Not as much as I do,” she tells me. “Come on, Ellie. Where the hell were you? First you tell me you’re coming yesterday, then all I get is a text this morning saying you’ll ping me when you’re free.”

“I did ping you when I was free. And I called yesterday. I left you a message that I was staying overnight with friends in LA.”

“Message, my ass. You didn’t leave me a message.” She grabs her phone from her waxed canvas bag, then taps the screen. “Not a single voice mail, and—”

“Your machine, Brandy. The one you insisted on getting at the house so that you could be—what did you say?—less tethered to your cell phone?”

“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?”