Page 25 of My Fallen Saint

The only reason we haven’t had it yet is that she was asleep when I got home last night and gone when I woke up. Well, that and I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to say yet. Or, more accurately, how I’m going to say it.

Which means that she doesn’t have a clue that I bumped into Devlin Saint last night. Or Alex Leto. Or if I went back to the bar and got another guy. Someone, perhaps, like Mr. GT.

Instead, I tap out that Lamar says hi.

Hug him for me.

Will do & gotta run!

I send the text, then slide my phone into my bag, thinking how weird it is that I’ve yet to be together with the two of them. Both have visited me in Manhattan, but at different times. And once I met up with Lamar when I’d gone to LA to cover a story. But we’ve never had all sides of the triangle together at the same time.

I’m here now, though, at least for a little while, and the knowledge that my two besties have my back lessens some of the weight I’ve been carrying since last night.

“So, do you miss it?” Lamar asks, depositing coffee and donuts on the table. He settles into the seat opposite me, his large body looking a bit ridiculous on the tiny metal chair.

I shake my head, knowing he means the job and not the town. “I thought police work would be my life. God knows I was motivated enough—bring the assholes to justice, make the streets safe for kids, right wrongs, all that stuff. I mean, you know. When we met that first day at the Academy, I was still giddy over getting my degree in criminology. Actually, becoming a cop was going to put me over the edge.”

“I remember. I felt it, too.”

“And you still do,” I point out as I pluck a donut from the box and start to rip off a bite-sized piece.

“Don’t you?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’m just fighting with a pen now instead of a badge.”

Wasn’t that how Brandy put it? And she was right. That’s what I’m doing, hoping to make a difference by shining a light into the dark that most people never even see.

“I’m proud of you, Sherlock. The Spall. That’s solid.”

“It is, Watson. I still pinch myself sometimes.”

The nicknames began as a riff off my last name when we’d gone out drinking with some other recruits. They’d teased us about being such good friends that Lamar should be named Watson and not Gage. Somehow, the names stuck. And knowing that Sherlock and Watson are together again makes my return to Laguna Cortez that much more palatable.

He studies my face for a moment, his expression full of compassion. “Give it to me straight, Sherlock. You doing okay? This thing with Peter?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I want answers. I’ll be doing better when I have them.”

He nods, obviously weighing my words. “Does that mean you’re going to write an article about your uncle?”

I concentrate on ripping apart my donut. “The jury’s out on that one. I want answers, but I’m not sure I want to write up something so personal.”

“I get that.”

“Right now, I’m just focusing on the DSF profile.”

“Which is why you’re going shopping. And who’s your escort?”

“I just have the one ticket. I couldn’t—” I stop myself, leaning back in my chair as I study his face. “Hang on. Are you going to the DSF gala? Never mind, of course you are.”

Lamar Gage loves his life as a detective, but he’s also got a shit ton of money and is a regular and frequent contributor to various charities. Especially when the contribution scores a ticket to an event that allows him to see and be seen. “Have you got a date?”

He meets my eyes, and I see a flicker of heat. “I do now.”

I shoot him a sharp glance. “You know that’s not happening.”

“Would it be that bad?

“Yeah,” I say. “It would.”