8: Bolt Saga, Book 8

by Angel Payne

  “Bienvenue. Isn’t that swell?” She bites it out this time, and there’s no concluding sob. There’s action. She sets her roller bag free with a brutal shove, letting it collide with a little table in the hallway adorned with a single daisy in a bud vase. Shockingly, the vase and flower jiggle but don’t fall or shatter. I take that as a good omen—and yeah, right now I’m desperate enough to grab at stupid symbolism like that. At every damn reinforcement I can get.

  “Emma.” Including the dictator’s growl in my own voice. “This isn’t—”

  “What it looks like?” Her retort cranks her bitterness nozzle higher, which reopens the spigot for my frustration too. “Hate to say this, buddy, but you’ve exhausted the quota on that one.”

  At first, I don’t say or do a thing. After a few seconds of steadily studying her, I retrieve her bag from under the table. My attention doesn’t veer from her by an inch. “I was going to say this isn’t my first choice of a solution either. But Angelique has earned her place on Team Bolt, and if even I can see that, you owe it to me to do the same.”

  I stop and wait again. I know my conclusion must feel like a kick in the gut for her, especially after subjecting her to a figurative version of brass knuckles to her heart.

  You owe it to me because you already promised you’d try.

  And though the curved angles of her face waver, declaring how she remembers uttering that oath to me, her stance stays as rigid as the iron legs beneath the hallway table. Her gulp is resigned, thudding down her tight throat.

  Well, what the fuck now?

  For a second, I toy with the idea of just checking us into a hotel anyway. If we stay away from the Virage, maybe the media won’t get wind of us being in the city. The Vernet and the Georges V are both discreet, but there’s still the chance of a greedy busboy or valet willing to sell tips to the highest bidder. Still not a travesty—until we really do need to disappear.

  My second option is feeling better by the second. I’m about to put it into motion, gauging exactly where I need to plow my shoulder against Emma’s midsection to land her safely over my shoulder, when Angelique herself presents a third option.

  “Please, Emmalina. Just come inside for five minutes. If you are still distressed after that, I shall call for a car to take you back to the airport.”

  Well, who knew?

  Sometimes, common sense from one female to another really does work.

  At least that’s what I’m hoping, as Emma lurches the roller’s handle out of my grip, barely breaking her stride, to follow Angelique inside the apartment.

  The place is exactly how Angelique described it over the phone. The décor is a little faded but comfortable, mismatched traditional pieces in tones of dark blue and cream, with big throw pillows that add to the overall comfort factor. In the living room, there are built-in bookcases stocked with classics in French and English. In the kitchen, modern granite surfaces are mixed in with the art deco cabinetry. There’s a gas stove, a microwave, and a large refrigerator. The floor plan is reminiscent of the place I rented with Foley in New York six months back, with opposing sides of the main room branching off into large bedrooms.

  We walk in, and Emma all but flops onto the couch. I join her there, able to see her renewed conflict right away. Her mind doesn’t want to rejoice in the fact that she’s finally getting to rest after walking half of Paris, but her body is clearly on board with the plan. Though I sense that Angelique knows this too, the woman keeps her observations closeted. On the outside, she’s almost as composed as a psychologist who’s about to launch us into couples’ therapy—and on the inside, I’m sure she might be wondering if that’s scarily close to the truth. I’m sure as hell on the brink of thinking it.

  “Emma.” She takes a seat as well, crossing her long legs and leaning on the arm of the Queen Anne chair. She’s dressed in faded blue jeans and a baggy sweater, though her makeup is still piled on like she’s about to change into a sequined dress and club heels. Her blond curls are piled on top of her head. “I know how you must be feeling.”

  Her empathetic tone inspires me to reach for Emma’s knee, but she jerks away before spitting, “You don’t know a thing about me, Angelique, and I’m too tired to pretend otherwise.”

  Angelique raises her own hand, manicured nails catching the sun streaming through the arched windows. “Of course. I meant no offense. And please be assured that I do not mean to stay, either.”

  The statement works at least one magic trick. Emma finally slackens, at least by a little. When I cover her knee once more, she no longer looks ready to bite it off finger by finger. “But…isn’t this your place?” she asks, peering around again.

  “Yes and no,” Angelique answers. “I am renting it through an alias identity. It…” She cuts in on herself with a choked sputter but recovers with a petite cough. “It is where…” She pushes to her feet and spins from us. “Dario and I used to meet here.” With one hand, she swipes beneath both eyes. “When…when we could. When the Consortium was not watching so intently.” Her shoulders visibly tauten, even beneath the thick sweater. “It was only possible for a few times, but we were so happy. There was never a need to go out, to go anywhere. All of Paris just floated by on the river, outside the bedroom windows. As for getting to see the rest of the world…I only had to look into his eyes.”

  As soon as she whispers it, I rivet my gaze back to Emma. And watch the conflict race across her twisting profile. And see every thought that races across her mind, as plain as every new angle that takes over her graceful features. At first, she looks ready to give in to another sob. She’s hit by Angelique’s heartache like it’s ridden another sunbeam down to the couch. But all too quickly, she hardens her jaw, clearly fighting the empathy she feels for the woman who delivered me to the Source and into the hands of Faline and her flunkies. Not to be ignored is the final monster who invades her countenance—the not-so-little green monster that reminds her exactly how the woman led me to my damnation. By my cock.

  A truth that Angelique unknowingly rubs in while stepping back around, her posture elegant and her long legs eating up the room’s floor space despite the sorrow still brimming in her huge green eyes. “Je désolée. I wanted to stay and show you where everything is, but…I just cannot…”

  “It’s all right, Angie.” I rise, compelled by the anguish in her eyes, yanking her into a hug. “I’m sure we’ll figure it all out.”

  She doesn’t return the embrace. Her form is as stiff as wood, and her reply is like a puppet carved from the stuff. “Ummm…all right.”

  And only then, like the idiot I really am, do I realize I’ve just doubled the size of the big dog shitpile and have rolled every inch of myself in the damn stuff.

  Angie.

  Fuck.

  Angie.

  Then this hug.

  Especially this hug.

  “Goddamnit.” I’m saved from having to hurl Angelique away by her own determined jolt back—but by the time I whirl to try to save my own bacon with the only woman in the room who really matters, I’m gaping at an empty couch. “Goddamnit!”

  And because the universe really wants to put a cherry on the fuck-up sundae, my final syllable is overshot by the slam of the bedroom door across the living room.

  Angelique clears her throat with delicate care. The sound is comforting, and I’m beyond grateful she has the tact not to back it up with any more physical moves—unlike the dumbass with whom she’s standing.

  “I suppose I shall leave now,” she murmurs. “If you have any questions about the apartment, you have my new cell, mon ami—but please remember, if she is holding a knife and you are holding your penis, the emergency line in France is one-one-two.”

  “Thanks.” My mutter coincides with the slam of the door, leaving me to slide into a chair for a few minutes to weigh out my goddamned options.

  The problem is, I’m not clear about what those are.

  I’m not usually the one in this fucking position.r />
  Okay, revision…

  I’ve probably been the one in this position plenty of times but have simply chosen not to be anymore. In my life, the exit door has always been clearly marked, well-oiled, and happily used.

  The exit door is not a fucking option here.

  Which means…plan two.

  Fighting for the right to stay.

  Fighting…for us.

  There’s just one little hitch to that particular plan.

  I don’t have a clue how to start. And something—like, ohhhh, the voice of goddamned reason?—tells me that a Google search isn’t the key for quality content there either.

  I’m going to have to do exactly what I promised Emma I would.

  Come clean.

  Expose all that’s really me.

  And holy fuck…I hope like hell it’s enough.

  Chapter Four

  Emma

  I drift in the Neverland between sleep and consciousness, not wanting to leave—especially because my first rational thought has consisted of nothing but uck.

  I know, I know—not the most mature way of describing the situation, though probably the most accurate. And regrettably, because most of that shit is aimed right back at myself.

  Uck.

  Because I was dumb enough to start thinking that maybe, just for a little while longer, Reece and I could continue playing the Paris honeymoon ruse. That we’d come to this beautiful place just to get more of each other, thinking of nothing but drinking great wine, eating a thousand kinds of cheese, and madly fucking each other’s brains out.

  Uck.

  Because I also lost my respect for the real reason we came. Reece’s anticipation of getting back on good footing with his family again so we can get to the truth behind the bizarre evidence linking both Tyce and Lawson back to the Consortium.

  Uck.

  Because even after promising Reece that I’d work on being more benevolent to Angelique, I shut down the very second I laid eyes on her. No. That wasn’t just shutting down. It was freaking out, ramping up, and checking all the way out.

  Leading to the last and most awful uck.

  Her heartfelt confession. Her heartbreaking tears. Her heartrending goodbye—all the way up to the point that Reece felt like giving her “heart” some extra attention of his own.

  And the way my heart had instantly reacted.

  Not seeing a woman who was hurting or the generosity of the man needing to comfort her.

  Only feeling like the dorky girl from the OC who didn’t belong in the same room with “the worldly ones.” The woman who couldn’t show him half the moves in Angie’s sexual repertoire. The one who’d always be less sophisticated, less knowledgeable, less elegant, less connected…

  Just less than.

  “Uck.” The need to acknowledge it with volume overrides the yearning to stay hidden in the bedroom—where I’ve been avoiding the confrontation he and I will eventually have to face. Though I’ve heard him come and go a few times, he’s never stayed, for which I’ve been both grateful and regretful. While the man is being respectful of my need for “rest,” I also know he won’t let this tension fester. I’ve known this about him ever since learning he’s the man in the Bolt leathers. In many ways, watching the man zero in on criminals is a lesson about how he deals with relationship issues. Direct attention. Complete demand. Laser focus on identifying and then destroying the core of the problem.

  Even if that core is just going to regrow itself.

  Because I can’t seem to figure out how to make my mental weed killer work.

  Seven months into this superhero girlfriend gig, and I’m still sprouting a garden of insecurity—sprinkled with a lot of I-don’t-belong-here dandelions.

  Especially when I watch him with perfect roses like Angelique La Salle.

  “Uck.”

  Although I mutter it into the pillows this time, the bedroom’s door creaks open. And before he even angles his head in behind the panel, I feel his complete focus on me. How he just seems to know the expression I crave on his face, intense but tender, seeking but not pushing…

  Damn it. Don’t just know this, Reece. Don’t just know me. Please. Please…

  But he enters anyway, virile and breathtaking in the track pants and T-shirt into which he’s changed. His feet are bare and his hair is mussed, an electrifying god despite the fact that no part of him is silver or blue right now.

  Shit.

  It just can’t be right that he’s so damn gorgeous all the freaking time.

  His face changes as if I’ve let that slip out too but babbled it in Klingon instead of English. Or maybe he just likes tormenting me with his mussed-and-perplexed look, which he’s rocking the crap out of right now.

  “Hey.”

  I scoot over a little, anticipating he’ll want to sit. He usually does when it’s time to laser torpedo into the truth between us. “Hey.”

  Bizarrely, he stays on his feet. Still, he leans over and squeezes my foot through the crimson throw blanket under which I’m still nestled. I have no idea where the covering came from, having stormed in here without anything but my hissy rage and my prideful confusion, too embarrassed to emerge even after I heard Angelique take off as she’d promised. It hadn’t taken long for exhaustion to set in, and then…

  “What time is it?” My eyes are grainy and my muscles stiff, so it feels like I’ve been sleeping for a few hours.

  “Almost four in the afternoon.”

  Okay, more than a few.

  “Shit.” I shoot upright, stabbing a hand through my hair. “I’ve been out for most of the day?” That’s way more than a few hours. Essential sightseeing hours. “Damn!”

  “Because you needed the sleep.” He grips my foot again, as if ordering me to believe it.

  “I slept on the plane, Reece.”

  “On the plane, Emma,” he counters. “Which only took care of the fact that you’d been up a lot of the night before that.”

  “You mean the night you didn’t sleep at all?” I hit him with a charged-by-eight-hours-of-sleep glower.

  He sucks in a full breath. Releases it. I’m not going to get pushback on my argument, for which I should be chalking up mental atta-girl points—but instinct holds me back on the celebration. An awareness I can’t attribute to any outward observations of him but know with the same certainty. There’s a difference in him now. A new cadence to his vibrations on the air. A new smell of his skin in my nostrils. A vast difference in how he holds himself, although his muscles are all still in the same place. It’s as if he’s peeled off the old containment system and replaced it with…

  What?

  “I didn’t come in here to argue sleep tables, Velvet.”

  I sit up straighter. “I know.” I don’t hide the dread from my tone. Wonky changes or not, I don’t expect his MO to be that different. The man is here to clear the air; that much is evident in the set of his jaw and the steely focus in his gaze. “Okay.” I pull the blanket up around my waist, uncaring that it’s wrinkling my skirt even more. After two eight-hour naps, the thing is beyond ready for the cleaners. “Park it, mister. Let’s do this now, because my day of touristy goodness is wrecked.”

  Yeah, it’s a little bossy, probably because I know it’s my last chance for guiding any part of this for a while. But damn it if Monsieur Richards doesn’t even let me have that concession. With that peculiar energy still changing his aura, he moves from the foot of the bed to a spot where he can extend his hand, palm up, looking for all the world like a beautiful knight asking his lady to dance with him at court. Yeah, even in his track pants and T-shirt. And yeah, even with me in all my rumples and tangles.

  “Will you come with me?”

  And yeah, flipping my heart just like that nervous medieval maiden.

  “Where are we going?” I rush it out even as I slide my fingers against his. But his only answer is to walk me out of the bedroom with slow, careful steps. His pace doesn’t change as we traverse through the livi
ng room and then into the kitchen—where one of the chairs from the dining nook has been yanked over and positioned in the middle of the floor. When he circles me around, positioning me in front of the thing, I finally grab him by the forearms. “Reece? What’s going on? Why—”

  “Will you sit here for me?”

  I oblige because I’m a little scared not to. Maybe more than a little. Though his voice is far from a monotone, I can’t help but feel like he’s in some automaton mode. What the hell happened to him while I was playing Sleeping Beauty in the bedroom? I heard Angelique leave, so I know she didn’t have anything to do with it. So did he hear back from his father? From Tyce? Or did Wade and Fershan uncover more shit about either of them off the deep web?

  From there, my mind takes off in crazier directions. Why am I on a chair in the middle of the kitchen? Did our wild episode during the flight inspire him to think up some new kinky stuff? Just because I don’t see any rope and handcuffs doesn’t mean the man hasn’t had the chance to order something up and have it delivered—and that I might be just a little tingly about it. Does stockroom.com deliver in Paris? Not that I’ve ever looked at anything on the site except out of curiosity. Yeah, curiosity…

  Which the man himself takes to DEFCON status the next moment.

  By falling to his knees in front of me.

  “R-R-Reece?” I’m unable to control the stutter. It’s not just the action of his body. It’s the totality with which he’s committed to it. The desperation in every inch of his limbs. The burden across his shoulders. The torment transforming his face into a sight worthy of some tortured angel in a painting down the road in the Louvre. “Hey.” I cup both sides of his face, curling my fingertips into his thick hair. “What’s going on?”

  But he drops his head anyway, continuing the plummet until he’s laid his face in my lap, hunching his shoulders over my knees. “Emma.”

  Hard swallow. I’m not sure what to do with this strange voice from him, his thick emotion mashing into a growl and a groan at the same time.

  “Reece?” I manage to rasp.