My Cruel Salvation (Fallen Saint # 3) - J. Kenner Page 0,52
can watch whatever you want.”
“Let’s just not make it a spy movie or a thriller, okay?”
“I second that,” Devlin says.
“Deal,” Brandy and I say together.
We end up on the couch watching The Hangover and laughing our asses off. I snuggle against Devlin, enjoying the comfort of his arm around me. It feels safe, and as this silly comedy plays out on the TV I can’t help but note the dichotomy between that fiction and the reality of our life right now.
I know I should be scared, but somehow I’m not. That’s one of the things I love the most about Devlin. Just being around him makes me feel safe. Like nothing in the world could go wrong.
Except I’m a person who should know better.
For most of my life, everything did go wrong. I lost my mother, my father, my uncle. Hell, I even lost Devlin. Though he was Alex back then. Of all the people in the world, I should know never to let down my guard. With Devlin I have. And I can’t help but fear that somehow that’s going to come back to bite me.
After the movie, Devlin and I head upstairs to give Brandy and Christopher their space. Since Devlin let about a million calls roll to voicemail during the movie, he’s at the desk, doing crisis management triage.
I’m on the bed, listening to music and scrolling through my own less-urgent emails, when my phone buzzes in my hand and Corbin’s name pops up on the screen.
“You take over my lease and suddenly we’re besties?”
“Nah,” he says. “I just figured you missed me by now.”
“Nope,” I say, and we both laugh.
He clears his throat. “Listen, I’m actually calling to say I’m really sorry about what happened to Devlin’s intern. I’ve been following the story and it’s brutal. Are you okay?”
“Me? It’s hard. I really liked Tracy and we were becoming good friends. It’s sweet of you to ask.” And surreal, considering it’s Corbin, but I don’t say that much.
“I’m not an idiot, Ellie. I’m sorry about your friend, but I meant, are you okay? I mean, Devlin’s got to be worried you’re the target, right?”
“I guess you really aren’t an idiot,” I say, after acknowledging that he’s right.
“Well, stay safe. I mean, I guess Devlin’s all over that, but watch your back.”
“I will.” I clear my throat. “So, well, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” An awkward silence hangs between them, and I wonder at the irony of this strange budding friendship.
“Yeah, right. And I wanted to know if I should have a mover haul your stuff to you by truck, or if there’s anything you need faster. I was going to offer to bring a few things to the press conference tomorrow, but it turns out I can’t come. Minor emergency here. But I’ll still write something up based on the wire reports.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t even realized Devlin had put him on the list. “By truck is fine, thanks. And sorry I won’t see you tomorrow. Everything okay?”
“My girlfriend got hit with appendicitis last night. Emergency surgery. I’m calling from the hospital. She’s fine, but I’m not going to leave her now.”
“No,” I say, giving Corbin more points in the Not An Asshole column. “You shouldn’t. But, um, thanks for writing it up. The more his speech circulates, the more impact we’ll have.”
“Got an exclusive for me?”
“Other than that you’re not the complete jerk I thought you were? Not really.”
“I’ll make that the headline,” he says, and we share a laugh. “Listen,” he continues, “I’ve been thinking about your situation.”
“My situation?”
“Yeah, you know. Jobless and sitting on one of the biggest stories of the decade. Honestly, Franklin was an idiot to let you go, and I think he realizes it. Or he will after this press conference.”
“No argument from me.”
“So write it. The truth about Saint. Do a juicy piece that shows him the way you know him.”
“Freelance for The Spall? Not in a million. Not even if they were willing to pay me triple my salary and give me the cover.”
“No, not that. But there’s no denying that the story is huge. People will want to read about how the son of The Wolf managed to reinvent himself into a philanthropist. What are you doing about that?”
“What do you mean what am I doing?”
“You’re in the perfect position to create the best PR the man’s ever had. Write a series of articles and freelance them to The LA Times or Fortune Magazine, I don’t know. Hell, write a proposal