Bolt Saga, Volume 2

by Angel Payne

Her head snaps up. Her gaze flashes turquoise fire. “A penalty you partly brought on yourself, mister.”

  “Affirmative.” I dose it heavily with my contrition. “You should have known about Foley from the start. I’m sorry.”

  “And Angelique?” She folds her arms, pursing her lips so hard it’s adorable.

  “Is a necessary asset for us right now.” It’s businesslike because, unbelievably, I’m already fighting new pressure in my balls. Fuck. How can one woman possess the power to do this to me even with my gas tank damn near empty? “One I’ve had as much trouble accepting as you, okay?”

  She folds her arms. Kicks at the floor. Finally mumbles, “Okay. Whatever. Fine.”

  “Now who’s the one going private chat with the honesty?”

  “All right, so it’s not fine. And I’m not happy about it. But do you want me to try getting over myself to support you here or keep skipping down my hideous path into the forest of possessive girlfriends?” She tacks on two seconds of an agonized grimace before hunching away. Well, damn. Karma’s been a funny but profound bitch this week, having just brought us both back to the same place: confronting our uglier sides and working to get past them for each other.

  Maybe now we can accomplish that with each other, as well.

  I push off the counter and press myself to her, running my hands along her rigid shoulders. “Possessive is kind of sexy.”

  “Said no normal man, ever.”

  “Normal hasn’t spoken to me in nearly two years, Velvet.”

  Though she yields to that truth with a tiny glance back, there’s no more change to her posture. I rub the lengths of her arms, hoping to stroke some reassurance into her, but the woman remains stoic and stiff and silent. Weirdly, the hush provides the few seconds I need to pull at a mental thread. Though I hate the place it’s unraveled to, this beautiful, brave woman has just shown me that necessary isn’t always fun and honesty isn’t always comfortable, but love is always worth the pain.

  So I drag in a deep breath, delay releasing it as long as I can, and then finally utter, “Who was he, Emma?”

  She peeks back at me again. This time, it’s with a couple of nervous blinks. If I haven’t hit the target on her truth, I’ve come damn close.

  “He…who?”

  “The one who took your trust and stomped all over it.” When the muscles beneath my fingers strain to the point of trembling, I revise my estimation. I’m not just close to her target. I’ve landed a bullseye. “You fell for him in—what—college? Maybe even high school? And he was…let’s see…probably captain of the debate team. Maybe the future business leaders. Or maybe, if you were busting way outside the mold, the water polo squad.” I step quietly to the side, threading my fingers with one hand of hers, and lean against the partition between two stalls. Now, I can at least see her profile—and something tells me I’ll need the insight as I wade into her deeper emotional waters. “You wouldn’t fall for a cliché like the star quarterback or the lead guy in the play.” I weave lightness into my tone, immediately observing that I’ve struck the target’s center again. “But he was driven and determined and just amazing enough to fascinate you and then to capture you.” I wrap my fingers tighter around hers. “Right before he broke you.”

  My effort at the connection isn’t enough. She twists her hand free before backing away, her head and shoulders low, until her backside bumps the counter again. As soon as she’s there, it’s as if a switch gets thrown. In place of her cowering stance and furtive glares, there’s a lioness rising to full height, head rolling as if she really is about to let loose a roar.

  Instead, her lips curl on a droll rebuttal. “Wow. You really figured all that out on your own, hotshot?”

  Every inch of my psyche bellows at me to stomp over and kiss that sass out of her—if only that’s all her issue was. But I see right through her, and it doesn’t take a mountain-moving effort. I see through her because I have damn good reason to. “Figured it out and locked it up, sweetheart. A long damn time ago.”

  It’s my last sentence that ushers the sheen of tears into her eyes. “Because you were that guy.”

  “To more Emmalinas than I can remember.” I swallow hard. Funny how penance tastes like glass. “To more than I want to admit.”

  Her face pinches as she rests with that for a long moment. Okay, “resting” isn’t the right verb. Wrestling. That fits better. So does struggling. And yeah, maybe mourning—though that’s not going to change my mind about refusing to sugarcoat this shit. Do I hate going into this much detail with her about my past? Hell yes. But lying to someone is easier than wiping my own ass. I can do it for days. I did do it for years. She’s worth more. She’s worth the truth. She’s worth the hard.

  She’s worth me sucking up my pride enough to quietly pace across to her and scoop a gentle finger beneath her chin. And yeah, she’s worth using my other hand to thumb away a lone tear down her cheek before I softly ask, “Who was he, Emma? What was his name?”

  Now, she gulps—though her effort to get even that accomplished is rough. Rough breaths puff in and out of her nose. Her lips quaver but still part and allow her to offer up one word of answer.

  “Dad.”

  EMMA

  The moment is nothing like what I imagined. I’m not drenched by sudden catharsis or soaring on clouds due to my suddenly unburdened soul.

  I’m only standing here, watching a storm’s worth of reactions cross Reece’s face. The plummet of his brows over a gaze gone dark as thunder. The defined tick in his hardened jaw. The clench of his teeth, so white in contrast to his dark, heavy stubble.

  “What in hell are you saying?” His voice has dropped to the territory of low but lethal, scorching to the very marrow of my bones like flames in logs. Because of that, I discern every thought behind it, as well as his growing intention to fly back to California and Bolt-pulse my father into the Pacific.

  “Not what you’re probably thinking.” I wrap both hands around the one he still has raised to my face. When he forms a fist beneath my grip, I push my cheek against it, coaxing him to stand the hell down. “Seriously, Reece. Let me explain.”

  “I’m listening.”

  By tiny increments, he relaxes the fist. By matching increments, I let myself breathe. How I still believe the man is going to stomp out of here and take out a wall or two without thinking, even though he still stands here in nothing but his burnished skin and that ominous stare.

  “I…I still love my dad, okay?” I jerk a quarter turn to the right, just enough so I can drop my gaze to the molding on the bathroom’s wainscoting and not a penis that would earn the man serious flow if he ever auditioned for the male strip revue up the street. “He’s just a different guy than the man who was my king when I was a little girl. And before you ask, I know that nobody’s father can be their perfect Prince Charming forever. I knew it long before…”

  “Before what?” Reece supplies when I descend into a fidgety silence.

  “Everything,” I rush out, giving myself something to do by tracing the patterns in the wainscoting. The Obelisk’s décor theme is marketed as Nuevo Egyptian, and I roll my finger over stylized lotus blooms while force-feeding new words to my lips. “Just…everything.”

  “Everything how?”

  His tone is less growly, lending me the courage to keep talking. To speak things I’ve never said aloud to anyone before—not even Lydia. Shit—especially not Lydia.

  “Life, I guess.” Easing into it with the noncommittal flair, complete with a fuck-whatever toss of one hand, isn’t working one damn bit. “As soon as Dad landed the job at Telson, everything changed so fast for us. At least that was what it felt like.” I shrug, using the motion to pivot back around and slump against the wall. “One week, we were ordering pizza and wings for board game night, and the next we were at the country club’s regatta gala, learning how to gracefully bite into crostini loaded with caviar.”

  Reece snorts. “Quick answer. You don’t.”

/>   “No shit.”

  “I hate caviar.”

  “And I just fell a little more in love with you.”

  His snort turns into a smile. Small but sultry and lined with just enough intent that I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. God, I want him to kiss me.

  Instead, he prompts, “So you were all in zero-to-hero mode.”

  Shrug. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “And your dad…really got into being that hero.”

  A caustic sound escapes from between my teeth. I nod with the same intent. “Two for two, champ. Nice job with the crystal ball.”

  He shakes his head, loosening thick damp strands across his forehead. The hair doesn’t diminish the impact of his sad gaze. “No sorcery. Just life experience. I spent a lot of afternoons at our own country club in New York watching the exact same thing.” From his own lips, he copies my acerbic tsk. “Funny what power and money do to people. Funnier still when they get it in a big rock star rush. They think all the privileges of a rock star come with the package too…especially the naked groupies.”

  That officially takes him to three for three—a home run, if I give him credit for the pain lobbed right into my heart. And while it’s been ten years since that summer and I’ve grown into an adult who realizes my parents are as human and fallible and, yes, forgivable as anyone else, that little keystone in my core will forever be worn away. That innate trust in the world will be eternally tarnished.

  I fight my way out of the mope by rubbing my hands along opposite shoulders. A chill has set in again, and I don’t delude myself about its source—or my need to truly get the hell over it. “Well, nobody’s perfect,” I finally state. “And it’s not like I didn’t need to learn that lesson sooner or later.”

  “Not like that.” His snarl is just a rasp of sound but consumes the air with its violence. “Not from your own fucking father!”

  “Okay, sparky. Whoa.” I reach out, grabbing him by the wrists. Fortunately, he slackens the tension right away, and I’m able to slide my hold down, flattening our palms and meshing our fingers. “It’s water way under my bridge, okay? And for the record, Dad wasn’t the only one who had groupies.” I actually suspect Mom might still be keeping a few under the radar but wisely decide against sharing that little fuse with my walking bomb of a boyfriend. At least for the moment. “And I’m not dredging it all back this way because I’m suddenly in a space to dissect it. I’m doing this for you, Reece. Period.” I tug on him a little, bringing his gaze up to meet mine as I finish in a whisper, “You need to have this piece of the puzzle. You deserve it.”

  When I tug again, he moves in with quiet purpose. He releases my hands to brace his on the wainscoting behind me, making me the filling of a sandwich between the polished stone wall and his harder, sleeker body. “I’m not sure I’ll ever deserve anything about you, Velvet,” he confesses. “But I’m thankful for this and the bravery it took for you to give it to me.”

  When he fills in the last few inches between us, taking my mouth beneath his with tender impact, my bloodstream races and my senses spin. Sometimes, his softer kisses incite the most gigantic riots inside me. Now is definitely one of those times. I don’t hesitate to prove it by fastening my arms around his neck and opening my lips wider. Take me. Dear God, please. Reece moans as if I’ve begged it aloud, plundering every corner of me with his decadent, demanding tongue—but after invading me for just a few seconds, he pulls back with a reluctant growl.

  “What is it?” I get it out between taking gasps to recover the air he stole with that incredible kiss. “Reece?”

  He pulls in a strict breath and anchors my face by forming an L with his hand against my cheek and chin. “Your honesty deserves my reciprocation.”

  Awkward smile. “I’m not sure whether to be thrilled or freaked about that.”

  Another deep breath raises the plateaus of his shoulders. “Well, you’re not going to be thrilled.”

  “Shit.”

  He allows me to duck down and then swoop free of him. When I reach the end of the counter and spin back around, he’s at least still looking at me—which provides weird consolation despite my solid case of freaked. “If it makes you feel any better, I said the same damn thing.”

  “The same damn thing when?” I charge. “And why?”

  Annnnd forget the consolation. The new tension in his posture thoroughly sees to that. “When Foley barged into my office in LA,” he explains. “Looking like he’d just hauled ass in from a zombie apocalypse.”

  I straighten, not bothering to hide my bewilderment. “Why?” Picturing the tanned-over, Zenned-out Sawyer as anything above a three on the stress scale is impossible.

  “He’d just met with Angelique—who’d given him the real mother lode of intel that put us on the plane here.”

  And yes, freaked has turned out to be the most useful word of the day. At least of this hour. I use copious amounts of it to finally stammer, “Wait. What? But—”

  But what? My mind hits replay on our conversation so far. I instantly assumed that Angelique had forewarned them about the runaway ambulance—right before accusing her of orchestrating the whole accident as her ticket into Team Bolt. But if she’d really been on the level and really had told Reece about the incident…

  “Holy crap,” I blurt. “You…you weren’t wearing your leathers tonight.” My confirmation comes in the form of six-feet-plus of rippling sinew and lustrous skin braced before me into a pair of black shitkickers and crispy noodle socks. “Which means…what? That the ambulance thing was really just an accident?”

  Reece helps me out in the focusing-on-business department, scooping up his trench and sliding it on. “Right now, that’s an unknown,” he states. “But we’re going to move on as if it wasn’t—and that the Consortium chose to try it as a replacement, or even a prequel, for the original hit they’re planning.”

  I’m grateful for the counter now, supporting the weight of my stunned sag. “The original hit? On what?” Comprehension snakes its way into my belly—then sinks its fangs in. “No. Not on what. On who.”

  On me.

  As the fastest, most painful way to get to Reece.

  “Shit,” I blurt.

  “Yeah.” Reece closes his overcoat with a sharp cinch of the belt. “Shit.”

  “When?” I issue it quickly before my resolve gets acidified by my bile. “Where?”

  Reece nods. His jaw hardens in a clear commitment to the rip-the-bandage tenet. “Night after tomorrow,” he supplies.

  “The night of the gala?” Now I grip the counter—tempted to rip the whole thing off the wall. “Holy. Fuck. The night of the gala.”

  And that sure as hell answers my question about where.

  I wave my hands in front of the sink sensors. When that doesn’t work—because who except a contortionist gets it right with these damn things—I pound a fist at the porcelain bowl. As soon as the faucet turns on, I scoop as much water as I can and drench my face. Then again. And again.

  “Emmalina.”

  He’s come up behind me to murmur it. Bad idea. I rise up, throwing an elbow backward. I don’t mean to hit him, but I do, and the beautiful man just takes it—and the next two—with barely a flinch. I can’t decide whether to scream at the ceiling in frustration or spin around and drench him in my sobs of rage. My boyfriend is a superhero, meaning I can use him as a punching bag whenever I damn well want. But my boyfriend is a superhero—meaning a gang of loon factory scientists are intent on turning one of the biggest events of my life into their freaking battlefield.

  He cups my shoulders from behind as I sag against the counter and watch forlorn drops plop out of the spigot. “We haven’t even validated that the threat is real yet,” he says quietly. “My first concern was just getting here to make sure you were safe. But Foley’s working on it with some trusted contacts at the bureau, and if he discovers anything substantial, we’ll ensure that RRO still gets the money it needs to—”

  I
silence him by cracking the towel. The snap hits the air like a whip. In the ringing silence it leaves behind, I utter through my teeth, “The money?”

  The syllables sound as insignificant as they are—as meaningless as the dollar signs are to the RRO event. But going on from there, trying to explain what this is all really about, is going to come up just as short. He either gets it or he doesn’t. He either sees that the growth of the event, from twelve to fifty to two hundred in just a few weeks, isn’t because of him or me or his dad. It’s because of passion and heart and people who believe in this…who believe in these kids. RRO’s “blind application” process—shielding the applicant’s name, ethnicity, and gender from the acceptance panel—has given us a first wave of apprentices from so many corners of the world, including a lot of US cities. The fundraiser, featuring video interviews with all those kids, is going to be the official start of all their journeys. Their launch into their more.

  It’s a hell of a huge message to ask a man to read just by looking at my face—but as the Almighty likes to remind me, in a moment like this, I haven’t given my heart to an ordinary man. Reece Andrew Richards shows me that stunning truth with the new compulsion of his hold, fitting as perfectly around my shoulders as his presence fills my heart—and his commanding murmur brims at my ear.

  “You really want to throw your party, bunny?”

  I press back against him, hoping he sees and feels that—caviar crostini be damned—I really am more in love with him now. “It’s not my party, Reece. It belongs to the kids we’re going to help. And the staff. And all the vendors who have donated so much because they believe in this…”

  Again, I stop because I’m daunted. There’s too much to say and no good starting point to go in.

  And yet again, the man of my heart conveys that I don’t have to.

  While dipping his head in to press his lips to the special spot just behind my ear, he wraps the perfect cords of his arms around my waist. With equally unwavering confidence, he murmurs against my neck, “Then that’s what we’re going to do. Now, you’ve just got to add fifty names to the gala dinner count.”