The Sinner and the Saint, page 1
The Sinner & the Saint
Ellery Mountain, Book 8
RJ Scott
The Sinner & the Saint
Ellery Mountain 8
Copyright 2018 by RJ Scott
Cover design by Meredith Russell
Edited by Sue Laybourne
All Rights Reserved
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file-sharing peer-to-peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Dedication
Always for my family.
Contents
The Sinner and the Saint
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
A Letter from RJ
All books all links
Meet RJ Scott
Chapter One
Loud banging, with added yelling, pulled Nick out of a nightmare. After a restless, irritable, messy night of tossing and turning, he had finally fallen asleep sometime before dawn. Only to wake up at fuck o’clock in the morning to someone pounding on the front door. And some asshole shouted words that he couldn’t make out. Was this part of his dream? He couldn’t tell.
For the longest time, he lay flat on his back, unwilling to move. He was bound up in the sheets like a mummy, the quilt on the floor, and he was still in that half world between nightmare and reality. Even closing his eyes didn’t help dispel the vivid images of him walking up to the Oscar podium completely naked with the Queen pointing and laughing at him.
He’d been naked as the day he was born, hanging loose and free, and no one said a thing. Apart from laughing at him, that was.
And the Queen was throwing popcorn at him.
Yep, it had been that kind of nightmare, and it wasn’t the first time he’d had it. And where the Oscar fear had come from, he didn’t know. There would never be a chance at an Oscar for him. Not for the guy whose acting career had come about by accident and developed only because of a personal rebellion against his straitlaced family. His résumé included two sequels to the highly profitable, but formulaic, shit-bad, Angels of Bedlam franchise, with his entire fee going to charity because he didn’t need the money.
Nick hadn’t been in the first UK-funded Bedlam film. That film had been praised for its ingenious twist on a dark horror romance. No, he had played the handy British villain in the two sequels, the studio cashing in on any money that might be left out there in a saturated market, by ticking all the boxes. Explosions, tick. Strong, but mostly naked, female lead, tick. Sexy, down on his luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time, male lead, tick.
And him, the ubiquitous bad guy with the English accent.
The follow-ups were certainly not Oscar material, and once Nick pulled his fragmented sleep-addled thoughts together, he focused on the statistical likelihood of his even being nominated for an Oscar in the first place, let alone accepting it naked.
“Fuck me,” he muttered to the empty room and rolled onto his front. No one actually knew he was staying at Jason’s house, so he wasn’t going to answer the door.
Jason McInnery and his husband, Kieran, lived in this stunning home, in the small town of Ellery, Tennessee. With glass from floor to ceiling, wide open rooms, a pool in the garden, and the most comprehensive jungle gym he’d ever seen for their son, Jonas. Even the damn guest room was beautiful—a huge wood carving took up nearly one wall, and the view from the window to the mountain was stunning. At least that was the adjective he was supposed to use for what he could see in the daylight. Objectively, he could imagine it was spectacular from the photos he’d seen on Jason’s private Snapchat, but he was too exhausted to think about it now. A quick glance at the clock showed him it was five a.m. and still dark in the shadow of the mountain, so he rolled over and pulled the covers up to his neck.
Even amidst the chaotic remnants of his nightmare, he welcomed the heat that cocooned him and willed whomever was knocking to fuck right off. The mess of dreams forgotten, he drifted on as many good thoughts as he could muster and was very nearly asleep when the banging started again. He groaned and hid his face under the pillow, willing the person creating the noise to go away. Then it ceased, and he closed his eyes but didn’t remove the pillow. Dawn was too close now, and the room would fill with light because he hadn’t even taken the time to pull the drapes.
Unfortunately, his bladder had other ideas about what he needed to do, and cursing, he grabbed the sheets and untwisted himself. Feet planted on the floor, he scrubbed a hand over his face. The untamed beard was just another reminder of everything that was horribly wrong about his life. Normally, he would have just the right amount of stubble, but the last installment of Angels of Bedlam, cunningly entitled Bedlam Adrift, called for him to be a castaway, hence the beard, which he’d left to tangle.
No point in worrying about it anyway. He’d left London to get away from the paparazzi with their incessant need for more, and he was in unofficial hiding. Therefore, no one would see his beard or his bloodshot eyes.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror.
“Jesus, you look fucked.”
Bedhead. Bags under his eyes. Beard. It was a whole cacophony of B-shit. Yawning widely, he padded across the bedroom to the half bath, emptying his bladder and washing his hands. He’d gone to bed as nature intended. Well, warm nature anyway, completely naked, which had probably led to the nightmare. Packing back home had been done in less than five minutes; his priorities had been money, passport, his phone, laptop, and associated chargers. It seemed as if his messed-up head hadn’t thought any kind of pajamas were needed or indeed underwear.
The next choice was shower or bed, and with the exhaustion of the past few days, the media attention, plus making sure Heather was okay, fleeing the UK, ending up here in the middle of rural Tennessee, it was all too much, and he sighed.
“Bed it is,” he muttered to his reflection. As soon as he woke up, he was going online to order everything he’d forgotten to pack. Jason had said to help himself to anything he needed but helping himself to his friend’s clothes didn’t feel right.
He yawned again and stepped out into the cooler bedroom, eyes only half-open.
“Hands where I can see them,” someone shouted, and Nick, startled, his heart pounding, fell backwards into the bathroom, catching himself on the doorjamb as best he could. He blinked to focus on the man in front of him.
A cop.
With his hand on the holster of his gun, ready to pull it out and shoot him.
He raised his hands and then lowered them to cover his junk and then raised them again when the cop didn’t move.
“Can I just…?” He began to ask if he could at least get a towel, and then it hit him. Why was a cop in Jason’s house? He went on the defensive. “Why the bloody hell are you in here?”
“Officer Ryan, Ellery PD,” the cop said. “What’s your name?”
Nick was tired, naked, and beyond pissed off, but he stayed polite. “Officer Ryan, a pleasure to meet you, but you have me at a disadvantage.”
“You’re English,” the cop summarized. “British,” he corrected as if he wasn’t sure which was appropriate. Given that any time he was in the States Nick was asked either of these questions, he just nodded. Next would be a question about where he came from, and he knew as long as he said London, then everyone would know where that was.
No point in telling them he was originally from Oxfordshire, but that he hadn’t been born in Oxford, or that yes, he was a Brit, but that didn’t mean he had to sound like Hugh Grant or say bloody hell all the time as Ron from Harry Potter did.
“British, yes,” he confirmed.
“I need a name.”
“What? Why are you even in the house?” he asked. Because hell, the cop didn’t seem to recognize him, but what if, weirdly, he was a Bedlam fan or knew anything about the wealthy Merrick family? The name might well strike a chord, and then all anonymity in this town would be gone.
Officer Ryan’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Evidently, he couldn’t believe that this Brit was the one asking questions.
“Your name,” he ground out with determination.
“Nick,” he finally answered, “I was not causing a disturbance unless you count snoring, which I can’t defend as I was asleep.”
Another voice came from outside the bedroom.
“Finn? Was there someone in there? Do you need help?”
Officer Ryan, or Finn as the other guy called him, six feet of sexy, ignored the question.
“Your full name?”
“Look, this is sensitive, okay. The guy who owns this house, Jason McInnery, he knows I’m here,” Nick explained. “He gave me the code to get in, said I could use the place as I wa
He offered the information with a put-upon sigh and hoped to hell that was enough. Then he edged back into the bathroom a little, conscious he was naked, and that this was way worse than going up on a stage for a damn Oscar.
Someone appeared at Finn’s side, tall, in a suit, with narrowed eyes, and a fixed expression. “Who the fuck are you?” the newcomer asked, all brash and bristling.
Finn stiffened, “Wait outside, Ben.”
'Ben' rounded the corner and stared at Nick, his eyes wide, and then his gaze dropped to where Nick was completely exposed. That was the last straw. Nick dropped his hands and covered himself.
“Could I get a towel?” Nick asked, oh so very patiently, and inclined his head toward the cotton softness hanging on the heated towel rail, which of course, Officer Ryan wouldn’t be able to see.
“Slowly,” the cop warned, his hand still on his holster.
Call him stupid, tired, or pissed, Nick made a comedic and exaggerated show of reaching for the fluffy cotton and then pulling it toward himself like a magician showing he wasn’t hiding anything.
“Can I?” he asked and gestured with the towel. Then he stared at Ben, who was still casting glances from his face to his junk. “As long as your friend here has seen enough?”
Ben had the grace to look away, but that didn’t mean he’d put down the hockey stick he was holding. Only when the towel was in place did Nick step into the bedroom. He got a better view of the cop and the other guy and wondered what would happen next. Officer Ryan’s radio crackled, a female voice asking for a follow-up on the call.
“Sue, get me Jason on the line; ask him if he has houseguests while he’s away. Some guy called Nick.”
Great, now they were getting somewhere. Jason would confirm that he had indeed offered a place to Nick.
“Who are you?” Ben asked as the cop waited for confirmation.
Nick wasn’t here to play nice with a cop, particularly one with a non-cop at his side. He wasn’t interested in giving his name, or his connection to Jason, or to answer any god damn questions from a perfect stranger.
“That is none of your business,” Nick said, evenly.
“It’s my business when I’m tasked with watching over a neighbor’s house and I see some idiot sneaking around, see lights go on, and no one answers the freaking door.”
Ben sounded pissed off, way more annoyed than Nick was. It seemed as though he took this neighborhood watch business very seriously. In fact, he was edgy, wary, and after checking Nick out, he seemed less able to look at him.
I wonder what this guy’s story is?
“I was asleep, and it’s the middle of the night.”
Ben’s lips thinned. “You always sleep with the outside lights on? Like, all the lights?”
Nick loved finding out what made people tick; it was part and parcel of being observant. He’d been taught to do it since he was a kid, cataloging expressions and trying to understand motivations. A useful tool in business, his dad had reminded him, “know your enemy”.
Ben was holding the hockey stick in a combative position; his knuckles were white and his jaw set. He was fierce standing there as if he wanted to take Nick down. His shoulders were back, stance wide and steady, with styled but short hair, his face was clear of stubble. He was primed and ready for action, and Nick immediately had him pigeonholed as military. Not a cop otherwise, Officer Ryan would have let him in on the scene and not asked him to wait outside.
Soldier? Sailor? Airman? Who the hell knew, but his eyes were wide and lips thinned, and Nick really thought that if he made a move Ben would knock him to the floor. He’d seen the look before in his research for the latest Angels film. Hyperawareness, wariness, focus.
Maybe this Ben guy was Special Forces, a hero, someone who had seen things that no man should or done things for his country that would stay secret until the day he died. Maybe he’d rescued a village of women and children and—
“What the fuck are you staring at?” Ben snapped.
Nick had just begun to lose himself in a very nice fantasy of tall, blond, and sexy rescuing kids and yeah, he had been staring. But, no worse than being checked out himself.
“I don’t know,” Nick drawled, “I can’t see a label.”
Ben’s eyelid twitched. Nick had never seen that happen before. He’d just read about it in books.
As if to emphasize that he was the armed one, Ben patted his leg with the stick and stared some more.
This is good. I can use this. When Curt in Angels 4 comes back from the war against the Rat Army, he’d be like this, wary, closed-off, war-weary. That is, if I still have a job. Or rather, if I want the job.
“Stop staring, freak,” Ben demanded, and that time Nick actually looked away.
Officer Ryan was talking to whoever was on the other end of his radio, but he had his back to Nick, and his voice was down low. Familiar exhaustion flooded Nick, and he leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. The flight from London had been ten interminable hours, long, miserable, and full of self-recrimination. As they’d flown above the clouds, leaving the city behind, he couldn’t help but watch social media explode with the news about Heather Pemberton, daughter of senior government minister Clive Pemberton. And about her newly gay fiancé, Nicholas Merrick. Hell, as a couple they’d even made today’s BBC news bulletins
Of course, Heather and Nick weren’t as big as Angelina and Brad splitting up, so he doubted the news had made a dent in US shows. But in the UK, they were news. Heather was a daughter of a Minister of Parliament, rich off the back of banking and investments. Nick came from a family with ‘old money’ that went back generations.
All of this meant that the wedding between the children of two moneyed English families had been covered by the best magazines.
Only no one knew the real story.
And now he was hiding away in this beautiful house, courtesy of his friend Jason, to wait until the dust settled from the mess he’d had to leave behind.
Officer Ryan turned to face him and coughed to clear his throat.
“You check out as Jason’s house guest.” He extended a hand for him to shake. “Nick, welcome to Ellery. My name is Finn Ryan. I’m a friend of Jason’s.”
Nick could have shaken the hand, forced out his best manners, and they would have left. He could have ignored Ben, and that would have been the end of it. But something about the other man, the one who stared at him and dared him to move, left the manners option invalid.
Instead, Nick shook Finn’s hand, then deliberately held out his hand to Ben and waited. Finally, Ben stepped forward, and they shook.
“And the reason you are the house watchdog is?” Nick asked.
Ben ignored the question, squeezed Nick’s fingers none too gently, and stalked out of the room, hockey stick over his shoulder.
“That’s Doctor Rockwell,” Finn said. “He’s in the guest house on the property.”
“His bedside manner leaves much to be desired,” Nick said.
Finn quirked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He just nodded and then tipped an imaginary hat. “Have a good day, sir.”
Nick followed him downstairs and locked up after he’d gone. He assumed Finn had the same code for the door as he’d been given and imagined Ben had no code at all. Otherwise, he could have come in without waiting for a cop.
Unless he wanted a cop there as a witness to killing Nick. Who knew?
His cell showed a message from Jason, a simple, “Should have told everyone, sorry,” with an added “I saw the news, call me if you need me.”
He grabbed water from the fridge and a banana, knowing he had to eat something, and ended up back in the bedroom, banana eaten and water placed by the bed. This time he drew the blind because dawn was right in his face, and he wasn’t ready for daylight yet.
