J. Kenner's Blog, page 18
September 18, 2020
JK Recommends… Sept. 18th! Recommendations for all the book lovers…
So many awesome new releases including my own – MY FALLEN SAINT! Have you met Devlin yet?
JUST CLICK ON THE COVERS BELOW TO CHECK OUT THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDATIONS!
Who did I miss… what was your favorite release this week?Do you have a favorite read that you always recommend?Comment below…Come back next FRIDAY for more of my recommendations!!The post JK Recommends… Sept. 18th! Recommendations for all the book lovers… appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
My Fallen Saint one of Barnes & Noble’s Favorites this Week!
Grab your copy here!• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
The post My Fallen Saint one of Barnes & Noble’s Favorites this Week! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
September 12, 2020
#SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 7!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
CHAPTER SEVEN
“He bolted. The son of a bitch bolted.”
“Seriously?” Brandy leans sideways, as if maybe I just missed him. “What the hell? So maybe he really was blowing you off this afternoon.”
I make a face, then stifle the urge to order another drink. “What now? Should I try to find him? He’s probably outside right now. We could—”
Brandy tilts her head to the side. “Um, no. Neither one of us wants to sprint around the Arts District trying to find a man who probably hopped in a car the second he stepped out the door.”
True enough.
“Let’s forget the asshole and go back to my house. I liked the pizza plan a lot.”
So did I, but that was before. Now I’m antsy. Frustrated. And very pissed off.
I shift on the stool so that I have a better view of the interior of the bar. And the truth is, there are a lot of hot guys in here.
Brandy puts a hand on my arm. “Ellie.”
I tense. That’s the blessing and the curse of a lifelong bestie. “Don’t handle me, Bran. I’m not you. I don’t need the roses and flowers and wining and dining.” I just want the rush. I just want to forget.
“I know. And that’s a good thing.”
I look at her. “Seriously?” Easy acceptance of my less than prudent quirks has never been high on Brandy’s list.
“Sure. It’s great that you’re not me. The world couldn’t handle that much awesome.”
I roll my eyes, careful not to smile.
“It’s just that I worry about you.”
Her voice is so soft—so genuine—that I can’t help but sag under the weight of it. “I know.”
The truth is, I worry about me, too. Fast cars. Fast fucks. I’m a therapist’s wet dream, or I would be if I ever saw one. So far, I’ve kept far enough ahead of my demons that I haven’t felt the need to lie on that iconic couch. Maybe someday, but not yet.
And thanks to my bestie, I won’t hit it tonight, either. I curve my lips into a smile as I let my body sag in defeat. “Just not a rom com, okay? I really couldn’t stand the cuteness.”
“Bound?”
I think about it. The movie’s over twenty years old, but it’s one of my favorites. “Two hot girls getting the better of an asshole guy? Yeah. Sounds perfect for tonight.”
And it is, actually.
Once we’re back at Brandy’s place, we make popcorn, then settle on the couch on either side of Jake. We sip wine and snack on the popcorn and by the time the movie ends, I’m feeling less edgy and seriously pumped up on girl power.
I’m also feeling at loose ends. And a little buzzed. “I’m going to walk down the hill for a coffee.”
Brandy’s house is the kind of place that real estate agents would love to get their hands on because the commission would be so sweet. It’s tucked up in the canyons, but still a short walk from the Arts District and the beach.
It’s a two-story, three-bedroom stone and wood house that belongs to some guy who travels about forty-five weeks out of every year, and who Brandy calls Mr. Big Shot. In exchange for very cheap rent, Brandy keeps the house in order, sorts and forwards his mail, takes care of the house-related bills and maintenance, and generally runs the place. My job pays more, and I live in a sixth-floor studio walk-up with dicey plumbing in a neighborhood that is on the scary side of iffy.
Jake whines as Brandy shifts so that she can gape at me. “Coffee now?”
“It’s not even nine yet. And I want something other than instant.” Brandy has somehow managed to get through life without owning an actual coffee maker. How we’re such good friends is beyond me.
“I’m so glad that’s your vice, not mine.” She waves a hand imperiously. “Go ye forth into the world and seek thee the blessing of the great god of caffeine.”
“You have drunk way too much wine.”
“So have you.”
Can’t argue with that. “Don’t wait up. I’m probably going to take a walk on the beach.”
Her brow furrows. “Do you want company?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks for the offer, though. I just—you’re the good part of being back. I’m still dealing with the rest of it.”
“I get it.” She flashes a quick, sad smile.
I change out of my comfy PJs into jeans, then head out. It’s a gorgeous night, with crisp air and a moon that provides more than enough illumination for the short walk down the hill to Brewski.
I take my coffee to go, then aim myself toward the tidal pools and the exact spot where Alex kissed me for the very first time.
It’s a bit of a hike, but I don’t mind, and I take off my shoes and dangle them as I walk the length of shoreline between the Arts District and the DSF.
As soon as I reach the tidal pools, I drop my shoes. The tide is out, so there’s only a few inches of water in the pools and the craggy rocks are mostly dry.
I sit on the edge of one and sip the last of my coffee as I look out at the waves, the froth shining silver in the moonlight as I lose myself in memories. The way his fingers slid through my hair as he cupped the back of my head. The flutter in my chest that told me that I was alive.
And though we hadn’t done more than kiss, a bond had been forged between us that night, and to this day I don’t understand how it had been broken.
Without consciously intending to do it, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the slim card wallet that holds my driver’s license, a credit card, an emergency fifty, and the tattered slip of paper that’s lived in there for years.
The paper’s still white, and the ink is still readable, but the tape that holds the two ripped halves together has browned with age.
I don’t have to read it. I know exactly what it says. I’m sorry. Remember that you’re strong.
That’s it. Just two simple words and a bullshit platitude. Not even a signature.
And I never saw Alex again.
My uncle was dead. The man I loved was gone. And I didn’t understand any of it.
I was confused. Lost. I wanted answers.
I wanted Alex.
As the days passed, confusion turned to anger and then hate. Or I wanted to hate him. I’m not sure I ever truly managed. Mostly, I just felt numb.
Considering Peter’s execution-style murder, Alex had probably gotten scared and bolted. At least, that’s what Chief Randall told me after Ricky Mercado turned himself in.
So, yeah. I knew why Alex left. But I still don’t understand why he never came back. Or why he slunk out while I was sleeping. Or why he left me with nothing but two useless sentences even though he had to know that he was breaking my heart.
Part of me wants to believe that he’d simply used me. That he’d been a teenage psychopath who’d fixated on me the day we met, and then he wove a vile plan to pop the cherry of the naive little girl who’d fallen so desperately in love with him.
It would probably be easier if I could believe that. But I don’t. What had burned between us was real and magical. He’d betrayed us both by leaving, and I don’t understand why.
More than that, I’ll never understand why. Because the only one who knows is gone.
During my time in uniform, I tried to track him down. I wanted to find him. To stand in front of him and force him to tell me why. Why he’d left. Why he’d hurt me. But I hadn’t been able to find him. Not even a trace of him.
Maybe if I’d thought to play detective in the days immediately after he left, I would have discovered more. But I’d been broken then, lost in a deep pit of grief. And when I’d finally pulled myself out of the hole, all the strings leading back to Alex had been cut.
Maybe that was for the best. It’s not like I could ever forgive him.
But I wanted—needed—closure. I guess I still do.
And the knowledge that I may never have it eats at my soul.
With a sigh, I take the last sip of my now-cold coffee and stand up, ready to make the trek back to Brandy’s house. I keep my head down as I turn my back to the ocean, watching my footing so that I don’t trip and fall on the sharp rocks.
As soon as I’m safe in the sand, I lift my head, scanning for my shoes. But all thoughts of shoes and Brandy leave my head in a whoosh when I see him. The man standing in the dark at the edge of the sand, his face tilted down so that I see only dappled shadows and the glow of moonlight on his glasses.
Devlin Saint.
In the instant before I recognized him, icy fear had flooded my body, and I use that lingering adrenaline to lash out. “You son of a bitch! You cancel my interview, and then you follow me?” I stalk toward him. “What? It wasn’t good enough to look down on me from your goddamn concrete castle? Or sneak peeks of me at a bar? You have to—”
He takes off his glasses, lifting his head at the same time, and my words catch in my throat.
Oh, God, I see it now. The tilt of his head.
That half-smile of bemusement curving up on those wide, sensual lips.
And those sandy, deep-set eyes, so full of pain and regret and not even a hint of green.
It’s impossible. Completely unbelievable. And yet…
“Alex?”
Grab your copy now!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
And remember: for EVERYONE who pre-orders and submits proof of preorder through this form, I’ll be sending you a BONUS prequel short story that is EXCLUSIVELY for readers who preorder the book! It won’t ever be offered again! So don’t miss out!
Be sure to PREORDER NOW! Release day is on 9/15, so there’s not much time left to claim your bonus story!
The post #SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 7! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
September 10, 2020
JK Recommends… Sept. 11th! Recommendations for all the book lovers…
What new read are you grabbing this week??
JUST CLICK ON THE COVERS BELOW TO CHECK OUT THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDATIONS!
Who did I miss… what was your favorite release this week?Do you have a favorite read that you always recommend?Comment below…Come back next FRIDAY for more of my recommendations!!
The post JK Recommends… Sept. 11th! Recommendations for all the book lovers… appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
September 5, 2020
#SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 6!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
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?”
I swirl my glass as I swallow the nut, watching the single ice cube go round and round. “I saw him watching me when I was leaving. At least, I think I did.”
“You mean he blew you off? He didn’t have a conflict at all?”
“I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things.”
She shakes her head. “No way. Cop instincts, right? You’re supposed to act on the evidence but trust your gut. Lamar’s always telling me that.”
Detective Lamar Gage and I were in uniform together in Irvine. About the time I quit to go to New York, he quit to join the force in Laguna Cortez. I introduced him to Brandy and we’ve formed a friendship trifecta.
“I’m not a cop anymore,” I remind her.
“Bullshit. It’s in your blood.”
I shrug. “He probably was in his office but doing some big deal thing. Like a conference call with the Pope.”
“When’s it rescheduled for?”
“Supposedly Monday, but I’m not waiting that long. I’m going to tomorrow night’s gala. Hopefully, I’ll corner him there.”
“Look at you being all Woodward and Bernie.”
“Bernstein,” I correct, and she rolls her eyes.
“I know. I was being amusing. Changing subjects,” she continues firmly. “Why are you here?”
“Because you said we should get drinks.”
“Forget journalism. Standup comedy. That’s your true calling.”
I scoff, then see the concern on her face and turn serious. “You think I should have stayed in New York.”
Her expression is a study in sadness so evocative it should hang in a gallery. Girl: Profoundly Sad. “I want you back,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here right now, and I feel so guilty about being happy. Because you left for a reason, Ellie. Hell, you left for a lot of reasons.”
“I’m not back to stay.” She knows that. We’ve had long calls and text conversations. “I’m here for Peter and the DSF article, and then I’m gone.”
“That is such bullshit. We both know it’s just going to end up being a nice little profile piece, and big fucking deal. You’ve been telling me you want bigger and meatier. Not some fluff piece about a foundation that’s doing good work.”
“You don’t—”
She holds up her hand, her fierce expression forcing me into silence. “And as for your uncle, as hard as the reality is, after ten years it’s probably going to stay unsolved. Mercado’s dead. Which means you’ve hit a wall before you’ve even begun.”
I wince but say nothing. Because, of course, she’s right.
“What happened to following in your father’s footsteps with a pen instead of a badge? Investigating horrible things and then exposing them on the page? All those things you say drive you. Don’t you know that’s what I love most about you? I mean, come on. I’m driven to make handbags. And I’m good at it, sure. But it’s not like I’m doing life-changing work.”
I open my mouth, but she tosses up a hand to silence me.
“I’m not,” she says firmly. “But you are. Or you should be. You never wanted to simply write about people who’ve made a difference. You wanted to be that person and make a difference with your words. And no matter how you spin it, that’s not why you’re here. Bullshit me if you want, but don’t bullshit yourself.”
“Wow,” I say.
She winces. “Sorry. I know. I’m a bitch. I shouldn’t—”
“I think I’m looking for closure.” I blurt the words out so fast they sound like gibberish.
“Alex,” she says, and I nod. Brandy’s the one person who knows that I slept with Alex—and that he bolted. It’s a secret she swore she’d take to the grave. Even Lamar, who knows about Alex and the way he left doesn’t know that he took my virginity. Only that a boy I’d fallen for blew me off on one of the worst nights of my life.
“I honestly do want to know what happened to Uncle Peter,” I say slowly. “I swear I’m going to do everything I can to dig out the truth. And I’m going to write a kickass, in-depth profile that finally tells the public something real about Devlin Saint and about the horror of that Nevada trafficking ring. But, yeah…”
My shoulders rise and fall as I take a breath. “Yeah, I came back because I need some closure. Facing this town. Facing those ghosts. I think I need this.”
And then, maybe, I can finally let it go.
“Closure,” she repeats, and I nod.
Her smile starts slow, but in the end, it could light up this dim room. “Well, there you go. That’s all I wanted to know.”
And that, I think, is the thing I love most about Brandy—she doesn’t dwell. As soon as something is over, it’s over.
“Should we order food?” She reaches for the bar menu. “Potato skins, maybe, to soak up the alcohol for the next round?”
“Let’s finish these, then go back to your place. We can order pizza.”
“The way to my heart,” she says. “Can we do both a veggie and—Oh.”
“What?” I sit up straighter, as if the tone of her voice is a taut string tugging the top of my head.
“Opportunity knocking. Cute guy at eleven o’clock eyeing you. Other side of the bar.”
“I don’t think I—”
“Just look. You can’t get back in the saddle if you avoid the horses.”
“What does that even mean?” I protest, but I do look, to no avail since my view is obstructed by the intricate shelving unit filled with colorful, shining bottles of spirits.
“Lean this way,” Brandy whispers when I say as much.
I do, then suck in air as I quickly move back to upright, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised my shirt isn’t vibrating. “That’s him,” I whisper.
“Him? Who?”
“Saint.”
Her eyes go wide. “Seriously?” She starts to lean over to see him better. “No, surely I would have—”
I pull her back.
“It’s him,” I whisper. “He’s looking this way.”
“So go over there. Tell him you can do the interview right now.”
“You really think I should?” But even as I ask the question, I know the answer: Hell yes, I should. If it was a legit conflict, he should be fine with that. And if he’d intentionally blown me off this afternoon? Well, at least I’ll know.
“Go on.”
“Right.” I slam back the last of my drink, then nod. “Okay, then. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
And I do, too.
Except by the time I get to his side of the bar, Devlin Saint is gone.
Grab your copy now!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
And remember: for EVERYONE who pre-orders and submits proof of preorder through this form, I’ll be sending you a BONUS prequel short story that is EXCLUSIVELY for readers who preorder the book! It won’t ever be offered again! So don’t miss out!
Be sure to come back next Saturday for Chapter 7 — the final chapter before release!
The post #SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 6! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
September 3, 2020
JK Recommends… Sept. 4th! Recommendations for all the book lovers…
So many fabulous releases this week! Which one were you most excited for?
JUST CLICK ON THE COVERS BELOW TO CHECK OUT THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDATIONS!
Who did I miss… what was your favorite release this week?Do you have a favorite read that you always recommend?Comment below…Come back next FRIDAY for more of my recommendations!!
The post JK Recommends… Sept. 4th! Recommendations for all the book lovers… appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
August 29, 2020
#SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 5!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
The lobby of the Devlin Saint Foundation is essentially nothing more than a well-designed box, austere but impressive. The glass wall on my right faces the ocean and provides a ton of natural light that helps to accent the various pieces of artwork that line the brushed concrete walls.
A hallway snakes off from the left, but turns so quickly that I can’t see where it goes. Presumably offices. There’s an unobtrusive elevator that exists in sharp irony to the massive floating staircase that leads up to the landings for the floors above us.
I pause inside the doorway and glance up at the fourth floor. That’s where Devlin Saint’s private office is, and I see the glass windows, currently opaque. I remember reading that the foundation’s interior windows didn’t have blinds for privacy, but instead utilized some kind of technology that allows the glass to shift between opaque and transparent.
I assume the tech is expensive, and I can’t help but wonder why an organization that is dedicated to providing financial help to needy institutions around the globe would choose to spend funds on magic glass instead of buying blinds at Walmart.
Even though I’d researched the foundation, part of me still expected it to be a shoestring operation, with battered government resale desks and cheap paper calendars tacked on the walls. Where every dime scraped together was sent out into the wild to do good deeds.
This ultra-modern, somewhat intimidating set up is more than a little off-putting.
I wonder if that’s the point and make another mental addition to my list of questions for Saint.
I march across the lobby to the large reception desk that sits under the arch of the cascading stairway. Nearby, two upholstered benches form an L, presumably offering respite for those like me who haven’t yet been offered passage into the heart of this operation. Two rectangular tables sit, one in front of each bench, both covered with a colorful array of hardback books and a few flimsier pamphlets.
“May I help you?” A man about my age smiles at me, showing the kind of perfect teeth that any actor would envy.
“Elsa Holmes,” I say, showing him my equally bright and shiny press credentials. “Actually, just Ellie. I have an appointment with Mr. Saint.”
“Of course.” He taps at a hidden keyboard while looking down, presumably at a computer screen embedded in the desk’s glass surface. His brow furrows. “I’m sorry, it looks as if Mr. Saint is unavailable.”
“Oh.” I check my phone, but that’s just out of habit. I know what time it is—four on the nose. And I know what time my appointment is scheduled for—four fifteen. “I’m sorry, I called to confirm the appointment this morning. Did something come up?”
Red starts to creep up his neck, and I have the feeling that things are expected to—and usually do—go much more smoothly at the DSF. “If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be right with you.”
I nod. I’m not sure if they double-booked an appointment or if Saint had a whim and skipped out on his staff, but something is definitely not going on an even keel here.
“I apologize again for the delay. Would you like anything while you wait? Coffee? Water?”
I want coffee, but in light of my white shirt, I opt for water. As I sip the bottled seltzer, I sit on one of the benches and flip through the books. Each is about the foundation and represents a year of work. They’re oversized coffee table books, filled mostly with images of the various projects with just a bit of text describing the goal of the grant and how the project is progressing.
I page slowly through the one for the last year, searching for a picture of Saint himself, but there aren’t many. The man clearly likes his privacy.
Still, I’ve seen enough to recognize the man if I bumped into him at the grocery store. And to know that he’s ridiculously good-looking with a mane of wavy dark hair that’s long enough to brush his jawline, emerald green eyes he hides behind dark-rimmed glasses that accentuate his angular face, and golden brown skin with a thin scar that bisects his eyebrow and mars his cheekbone, then cuts a line through his close-trimmed mustache.
Bottom line, he’s not only hot, he’s totally my type. And there’s something about him that reminds me of Alex, though I can’t put my finger on it. They have the same coloring, but Alex was blond and clean-shaven. His face was rounder, his nose a bit wider, and while he had beautiful eyes, they were a sandy, golden brown, not a vivid green.
Even so, Saint’s picture conjures Alex’s memory, and I can’t decide if that will be a help or a hindrance during our interview.
The truth is, I know very little about Saint. But then again, who does? He’s hardly a shut-in, but when he holds interviews, he keeps the focus on the foundation and its mission, carefully steering any personal questions back to the work, so deftly that most of the time the reporter asking the question doesn’t even notice the shift. I’ve noticed, though. I spent much of the last week watching replays of foundation press conferences, and the man is an expert at manipulating the press.
I smile to myself, certain he’ll try the same tactics on me. Too bad for him that I’ll not only see him coming, but I desperately love a challenge.
At the same time, I’m no fool. It won’t be easy to tease out personal details for my article. My research has turned up next to nothing about Saint’s personal and professional life before he founded the DSF. Or any aspect of his life, actually, other than the most basic of facts. Birthplace. Parents’ names. Education. Military service.
His parents are dead, the few professors I was able to reach over the last few days remembered him as quiet but studious, and the Army’s press liaison confirmed that his military record is bright and shiny. No red flags at all. But there was no meat to the facts. No embellishments. I know that his personal net worth is over a billion dollars, but other than that, Devlin Saint came off impressive, but bland.
Odd description for a man who built a charitable foundation that now boasts an endowment in excess of thirty billion dollars.
I’d told Roger that he seemed like Oz’s wizard. And I can’t wait to get a peek at the real man behind the curtain.
“Ellie!”
I look up at both the sound of my name and the hauntingly familiar voice. A dark-haired woman with a single streak of gray framing one side of her face is striding toward me, her smile so wide it’s almost blinding.
She looks to be in her early fifties, with high cheekbones, and the kind of facial structure that magazines classify as elegant. She’s impeccably dressed, about four inches taller than me, and walks with total confidence on the titanium heels of a pair of pink Stuart Weitzman Nudist sandals that I totally covet.
She looks like the kind of woman I’d want to know, but I’m completely clueless as to who she is.
I’m about to admit defeat, when everything suddenly snaps into place. “Mrs. Danvers?”
Her smile is like sunshine. “I was hoping you’d recognize me.” She holds out her arms, and I hurry to her, allowing myself to be folded into her embrace. “It’s been far too long.”
“It has,” I say truthfully, because she’s one of the people I missed when I left Laguna Cortez.
My father always said to never judge anyone on a first impression—but my first impression of Tamra Danvers had been of a scary stoic lady, thanks to my dad’s love of the movie Rebecca, which featured the crazy Mrs. Danvers. And it had taken me a while to warm to her, but once I had, I was in all the way.
“I remember when you were helping me write community bulletins. And now you’re writing for a magazine like The Spall. Is it too corny for me to say I’m proud of you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. From you, that means a lot.” Tamra Danvers started working as the community liaison at the police station about the time I started my junior year. I was interning there during my off-period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, already thinking I wanted to be a cop like my father.
When she told me that her husband died in a military operation, I’d felt an unexpected jolt of connection. We’d both lost people we loved unexpectedly.
She quit about a month after Alex bolted. She didn’t leave without a trace, though. She’d moved to Phoenix to take care of an elderly parent. I’d missed her, but by then I had one foot out of town, too.
“It’s so great seeing you, but why are you here?” I wince, belatedly realizing the question is probably too blunt to be polite.
“To apologize to you for the scheduling snafu. I only noticed you on his schedule this morning—my intern booked the original interview. And when Mr. Saint’s schedule changed, I should have called you. But to be honest, I selfishly wanted to see you myself.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say. “But I meant why are you here.”
“Oh! I missed this town. I’ve been the publicity director for the foundation since Mr. Saint launched it.”
I nod. Roger had scheduled the interview for me. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have recognized her name.
“Let me check with Mr. Saint’s assistant about rescheduling your interview for next week,” she says now. “I assume you’re staying in town for a while?”
“I am. And I’d also like to book some time in the research room. Maybe I could do both tomorrow?” One of the major assets of the Devlin Saint Foundation is its library of research material about all aspects of the causes it supports and the horrors it fights. I’m eager to look at documentation regarding the Nevada human trafficking ring that will be at the heart of my article.
“I’m afraid not. We have a gala tomorrow, so we’re closed to the public to prepare.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Officially, we’re out of tickets. But…” She trails off, then opens her leather folio. “Contraband,” she says, handing me one. “We hold a few back for VIPs.”
“Ooh. I’ll take it. So long as you won’t get in trouble.”
“Not a chance,” she says. “But even if I did, it would be worth it.” Then she winks. And try as I might, I don’t understand the joke.
* * *
If I hadn’t seen Tamra, I’d be in a crappy mood for having the interview canceled. But I not only scored a ticket to the gala—which is an event I can easily work into the article—but I also connected with a friend. Someone who, like Brandy, is one of the few good things I associate with my years in Laguna Cortez.
Besides, this way I have all day tomorrow to focus on Peter instead of being camped out in front of my laptop working on the Saint story. And I have the rest of this afternoon to enjoy the crisp fall air. Summers in California are delicious, but fall here has always been my favorite time of year. The town is a little sleepier, the sunsets are incredible, and there are fewer tourists walking the beaches.
In fact…
I pause in the process of heading back to the parking lot and Shelby, then turn to follow a stone path toward the rear of the building. Though I’ve never been to the foundation before, I’ve done my research, and I’m following a map in my mind, filling in the small details so that in the end, I’ll know this place as intimately as anyone who works here.
The back of the foundation faces the Pacific, and that wall is made entirely from folding panels of glass that open onto a huge, covered flagstone patio, the focal point of which is a stunning fire pit. Beyond the patio is a landscaped garden filled with walking paths that meander down toward the beach.
I cross the patio, clearing the south side of the building. To my left, I now have a straight-on view of the SeaSide Inn, the small hotel on the other side of PCH that has been a fixture of Laguna Cortez for as long as I can remember.
At one point, my uncle actually owned it, along with a few others around town. I even helped decorate the office, in so much as going to Home Depot and looking at paint chips counts as helping. Or decorating.
I turn the other direction so that I’m facing the ocean. The tidal pools are only a short walk away, and I take a step that direction, then stop. The tidal pools had been our place, mine and Alex’s, and I’d cherished that time among the clusters of porous gray rocks that rose out of the long, empty stretches of sand. It was the place he’d first kissed me. A place I always felt safe.
More, it’s a place I haven’t been back to since he left.
I’m not sure if it’s in defiance of or protection for those memories, but I can’t bring myself to go back now. Instead, I turn once again toward the highway and start walking forward, the south wall of the foundation on my left.
From this perspective, I can see the fourth floor balcony, and I know from the article I read about the building’s architecture that I’m looking at Saint’s private office. Not that I can see much. From where I’m standing, my view is of the underside, a hint of the balcony’s glass barrier, and only the tiniest glimpse of the glass door leading inside. Even so, I pause for a moment, imagining that Saint’s standing at his window, and that he’s watching me, too.
I frown, wondering what came up that forced him to postpone our interview. Did he leave town? Or is he right now in his office? Hell, maybe he really is at his window looking down at me.
There’s no reason he would be, of course, and so I continue walking the length of the building so I can circle around and get back to Shelby.
But with each step, that tingling sensation becomes stronger, the uncanny sense of being watched. It’s not something I can ignore. Hell, I was raised by a cop and was on the job for two years myself before going back to school.
Mid-stride and without warning, I turn and look behind me. At the ocean. The path to the tidal pool. And the balcony off of Devlin Saint’s office.
That’s where he’s standing.
A man lost in the shadows cast by the building that shelters him.
It has to be Saint.
And he’s watching me.
Coming 9.15.20:
Preorder here … don’t worry! You’re not charged until the book comes out!
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
And remember: for EVERYONE who pre-orders and submits proof of preorder through this form, I’ll be sending you a BONUS prequel short story that is EXCLUSIVELY for readers who preorder the book! It won’t ever be offered again! So don’t miss out!
Be sure to come back next Saturday for Chapter 6!
The post #SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 5! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
August 27, 2020
JK Recommends… Aug 28th! Recommendations for all the book lovers…
Lots of new fun reads this week… what are you grabbing this week?
JUST CLICK ON THE COVERS BELOW TO CHECK OUT THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDATIONS!
Who did I miss… what was your favorite release this week?Do you have a favorite read that you always recommend?Comment below…Come back next FRIDAY for more of my recommendations!!The post JK Recommends… Aug 28th! Recommendations for all the book lovers… appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
August 22, 2020
#SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 4!
Coming 9.15.20:
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
It’s Uncle Peter’s murder that’s dragged me back to Laguna Cortez. At the time, the police believed the perp was a guy named Ricky Mercado, who’d lost his shit after Peter called him out for dealing drugs at one of the apartment complexes Peter owned.
They believed it because Ricky Mercado turned himself in the day after the murder, and the evidence backed him up. He ended up with a sentence of twenty-five to life, lasted about a decade in prison, then was killed in a prison fight last month.
Just shy of a week ago, I learned from Chief Randall that new evidence shows that Mercado couldn’t have committed the crime. Turns out he was in Long Beach at the time of the murder—caught on camera beating the shit out of a clerk at a local convenience store.
So who did kill my uncle? And why the hell did Mercado confess to a crime he didn’t commit?
I don’t know. But I came back to find out.
My cell phone rings, and I return from the cliff’s edge to Shelby. I see that the call’s from my editor, so I bend over and grab the phone off the passenger seat. “Hey, Roger. Checking up on me?”
“Checking in on you. How’re you doing, kid?”
With anyone else, the nickname would grate on me, but Roger’s been my mentor since the first day I arrived at The Spall Monthly as an intern after quitting my job with the Irvine Police Department to start a new life in New York as an investigative reporter.
Now I’ve got a Masters in Journalism and a job as a staff writer, but he’s still my mentor and friend. And a little bit of a father, too.
“It’s weird being back,” I confess, because I know he’s worried about me. He doesn’t know my entire story, but he knows how my family’s ghosts haunt this town. And he knows I’d left Laguna Cortez in my rearview mirror about five minutes after I got my GED during the first semester of what would have been my senior year.
I’d packed five boxes into Shelby, gotten an apartment in Irvine, then worked as a barista until I could start college at UCI in January. I was still seventeen, but Chief Randall and Amy signed off as my court-appointed guardians.
I haven’t been back to Laguna Cortez since. I’m not sure I’d be back now if Roger hadn’t pushed me.
“Deep breaths,” he says. “I’ve watched you for three years and there’s nothing you can’t handle.”
I cringe. I hate seeming weak, and I’m convinced that’s how he saw my reluctance to return. “I’ve got this,” I say firmly. “But I may not turn it into a story.”
I pace in front of Shelby, as if moving will ward off the creeping anxiety that’s nipping at my heels. “I want to know what really happened to my uncle. But that doesn’t mean I want Spall publishing it. It’s still my life. My family. You get that, right?”
I know he does. But I can’t seem to pass up any opportunity to remind him.
“I want you to have closure, Ellie. If that means writing a story, then write it. If it means finding the truth and locking it away, then that’s your choice. I won’t push you. Not for this story. But you damn well better turn the profile piece in on time.”
Now I laugh, because Roger truly is a clever bastard. “I’m on my way to the interview right now,” I assure him.
My last argument against coming back was that I had work to do in New York. So my devious editor assigned me to write a profile of the Devlin Saint Foundation, focusing on the success it’s had in rescuing and rehabilitating women and children caught up in a Nevada-based human trafficking ring. To that end, he lined up an interview with Devlin Saint—the Devlin Saint—for this afternoon.
It’s not an investigative piece, but it’s still important. Despite being relatively new, the Devlin Saint Foundation has become one of the world’s foremost philanthropic organizations, with fingers in educational projects, criminal rehabilitation efforts, global development, anti-hunger, the arts, and so much more.
Its success, of course, is attributed to Saint himself, the mysterious, young, and extremely private founder of the organization. A man who started the DSF only five years ago and grew it into a world-renowned philanthropic enterprise. Whose reputation as a brilliant and generous global philanthropist is counterbalanced by his notoriety for being an arrogant and enigmatic loner whose business acumen and exceptional looks have paved the way to his foundation’s success where his chilly personality could not.
I hesitated when Roger assigned the story, but ultimately agreed. After all, Saint is so enigmatic and well-known that the whole country will read the story, and that can only be good for my career.
Now, I wrap up the call with Roger, ostensibly because I need to get moving, but really because as soon as my mind turned to the foundation, it also turned to Alex. With a sigh, I take one more look at the town below.
From up here, it looks small and fragile. Like an architectural model. But I know the truth. Beneath its bright sunshine and sparkling waters, Laguna Cortez is nothing but death and loss, sharp edges and pain.
* * *
Despite having only two lanes and soft shoulders, Sunset Canyon Road is the main east-west thoroughfare for this Orange County town. With its gentle curves, it’s also the easiest route down the hill.
But I don’t need easy. Not now. Not even remotely.
So instead of meandering like someone’s grandma down the main road, I hook the first left onto a tiny canyon road with no shoulders, serious drop-offs, and hairpin curves from hell.
I fly down the road, losing my cap in the process so that my hair whips around, stinging my cheeks. I ignore the discomfort. My attention is entirely on the road, on navigating this path. Right now, all I need is the wind in my face, the roar of Shelby’s engine, and the euphoria of knowing that for this moment at least, I’m in total and complete control.
That’s an illusion, of course, and no one knows it better than me. No one is ever in control of their destiny. Lives are lost. Dreams are shattered. Hearts are broken. Right now, I could hit a pothole and flip the car. I could die before I ever make it into Saint’s office.
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.
Coming 9.15.20:
Preorder here … don’t worry! You’re not charged until the book comes out!
• Amazon – https://jklinks.co/mfs_amz_aff
• AppleBooks – https://jklinks.co/mfs_apb_aff
• Nook – https://jklinks.co/mfs_nook
• Kobo – https://jklinks.co/mfs_kobo
• GPlay – https://jklinks.co/mfs_gplay
And remember: for EVERYONE who pre-orders and submits proof of preorder through this form, I’ll be sending you a BONUS prequel short story that is EXCLUSIVELY for readers who preorder the book! It won’t ever be offered again! So don’t miss out!
Be sure to come back next Saturday for Chapter 5!
The post #SaintOnSaturday – Chapter 4! appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
August 20, 2020
JK Recommends… Aug 21st! Recommendations for all the book lovers…
So many fun new releases this week… which one(s) are you grabbing?
JUST CLICK ON THE COVERS BELOW TO CHECK OUT THIS WEEK’S RECOMMENDATIONS!
Who did I miss… what was your favorite release this week?Do you have a favorite read that you always recommend?Comment below…Come back next FRIDAY for more of my recommendations!!The post JK Recommends… Aug 21st! Recommendations for all the book lovers… appeared first on JKenner/Julie Kenner.
