by Angel Payne
The violent zings of bullets being shot through a suppressor.
The guttural poofs as they solidly hit their target.
Chapter Four
Emma
“Reece!”
Twenty minutes after my husband first led the way out of the command center looking like the phone in his hand had turned into a ticking bomb, I’m still having to nearly yell every word before he notices me. Even now, in the haven of our bedroom, he’s acting like Armageddon’s looming and he’s just been filled in on exactly when.
But that’s just a hunch.
All right, maybe more than a hunch.
“Reece.”
He finally stops, pivoting between our bed and the bathroom, and looks at me. This time, really looks. I’d say the action was a nice change of pace, considering all he’s done since getting off the phone is race back up here and yell orders at me, but his stare gives me no more reassurance than his crazed-out energy.
No.
It gives me even less.
The last time I saw him like this—as if he’s yanked out his mind and played a sudden-death round of rugby with it—he was barging into Faline’s lab at the mansion in RPV and fully absorbing what the witch had chosen to do to me that night. Like then, I wonder if he’s preparing to zap the roof down around our heads. His body is a massive throb of violence. His teeth are bared, exposed by lips fixed in a feral snarl. His hands are like Tesla coils molded into fists. His eyes are twin reactors of nuclear-force fury.
Now that I’ve pulled up the memory, I’m forced to realize it pales to the present moment—which finally prompts sound to my lips again.
“Reece?” I take a tentative step forward as he returns to his previous task: shoveling everything out of our dressers and cabinets into the three huge suitcases on the bed. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” The shoveling continues without a falter. “You need to be scared.”
“Wh-What’s going on?” Instinctively, I grab at my belly. “Reece. Damn it. I’m your wife!” When he still doesn’t stop, I march across the room to bodily park myself in his way. I stand firm, planting my hands on the middle of his torso. “Who the hell was on the phone? And why did the caller show up as your father?”
He dials back his tension by a few degrees but only by visibly forcing himself to do so. I’m only getting a short—very short—reprieve from his mania. Or whatever the hell this is. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He grabs my jaw in an urgent hold, snapping my face up for the intrusion of his adamant kiss. And I’m such a puddle, even after just five seconds of that perfect penetration, that I’d even let him tackle-crush me to the bed—except that the whole thing is consumed by the damn luggage. “He’s dead now.”
Well, duh.
Except that I can’t claim the thought completely—not while witnessing how he tenses as if he’s just walked through a blood bath.
And I have to embrace my stronger impression—my certainty now—that he isn’t referring to the moment Lawson was supposedly blown up in the caverns beneath Paris along with his middle son.
I was standing beside Reece when Tyce made that detonation happen, and I was practically in the same position when he took that call today. The moments were markedly different but scarily similar. Today, when Reece’s phone call ended so abruptly, I wasn’t watching anything but him. I stayed riveted to the expression on his face. There was grief, real and raw, mixed in with his fury, confusion, disbelief, and dread.
More than anything else, his dread.
The same awful stuff that coats every inch of his face now—right after kissing me like it was the last time he’d do so.
No.
No.
Now I’m the one reaching and framing his face, fighting off terrible trepidation. My mind spins but rivets on the inescapable fact that he’s pouring stuff for both of us into the suitcases. Whatever’s happening, it’s clear he’s not planning on doing it without me this time.
A conclusion that should be more uplifting than it is.
But he’s letting me keep him locked like this, with his head dipped and our thighs pressed and his stare raking my face, so I dig my fingers tighter along the beautiful square of his jaw. If he’s offering, then I’m taking advantage for as long as I can.
“Zeus,” I plead in a whisper. “Come on. You need to throw me a bone here. And I don’t mean the one between your legs, but if that’ll help…”
He kisses me again. It’s softer this time but seems to carry more significance—if that’s even possible. But I know it is, because the intent in his gaze impacts me so much deeper than before. There’s a resonance inside of me, reaching out to the disturbance inside him. Though it’s always been this way between us, the connection is even stronger now.
In a flare of insight, I realize completely why.
Our circle of communication has become a triangle—with one of the three points still contained inside my body. It’s awestriking and amazing, but at the same time it’s troubling and painful. I can’t just tell Bean to get off the furniture. Right now, I am the furniture.
“Don’t think I’m not going to take you up on that, beautiful.” The storms in his eyes gain thicker intent, responding at once to my saucy sarcasm. “But at this second, not a fucking thing matters more than your safety.” He slides a hand down, pressing it over my stomach. “And his.”
I mesh my fingers with his. “And I’d like to help make that happen—but you’ve got to fill me in on the story so far, buddy. You’re jumping me in at volume ten of the series, but you’re hoarding one through nine.”
For a second, I almost sense I’m about to get my head ripped off for that. His nostrils flare, and his fingertips pulse like he’s about to head out and be the LA rave club king for a few hours. But then my senses start to resonate again, pulled by the intense conflict of his…the overwhelming pieces of him being torn in a thousand directions at once. I feel it all. His commitment to be brave but his temptation to crumble. His anger warring with his fear. His suspicion and his desperation and his apprehension…
But most of all, his determination.
The part I want to help the most. The kernel of courage that I see in his eyes and feel from his heart and desperately need to help him grow—if he’ll let me.
I’m your wife, Reece.
Let me in.
A hard breath shudders in and out of him, as if those very words have slammed into him. Imagine that. He pulls in two more, a hard inhale and a matching rush out, before finally capturing my hands between his. He lifts them and then smashes them against his lips. His pressure is fierce. He squeezes his eyes shut until deep crinkles are etched into his taut temples.
“You were right,” he utters. “About the satellite images we decoded from the files. What we expected to be specific neighborhoods in Barcelona is actually the Malibu and Ventura coastline.”
I examine him closely. “Which means…what?”
“Number one, that the key we were given was switched with another drive at some point.” He twists his lips, and his gaze turns to twin electric storms. “I don’t know the details. Nor do they matter.”
“And number two?” My nerves are prickles of panicky pain as I issue the prompt, already sensing what he’s going to say. No. Already sure of it.
“That Faline’s putting information together and guessing where we live.” His grip tightens as I give in to a whole-body shiver. “She obviously doesn’t have anything concrete, especially because the complex simply looks like a solar-powered industrial facility from the air.”
I attempt a heartened nod. “Thank God we’ve got the full awning over the pool deck too.”
“And we’ve built everything to be innocuous from the road, as well. Fuck.” He surrenders to a burst of frustration, letting go of me to drive a hand back through his hair. One thick lock escapes his clench, invading the space between the glowing violence in his eyes. “I’d give my left nut just to live one day without looking in m
y rearview every ten seconds.”
I slide out a sardonic glance. “I think the Bolt Bean might have something to say about that.”
He rubs a hand across my belly with silent remorse. “Wade and Fersh are scanning back through the video and motion-detector footage from the last six months. So far, all they’ve found are ground squirrels, deer, opossums, and hawks.”
“All right.” I’m steady and encouraging with it, but my follow-up isn’t as stellar. “So where does that leave us?” I plop down on the one clear corner of the bed, needing to give my fear-zapped legs a break. “Holy shit. Where does that really leave us?”
“Sssshhh.” Reece pushes forward, wrapping my head and shoulders in a fierce hold. He dips in, wrapping his entire upper body around me. This reaction, he’s been ready with. This comfort, he’s had really ready to go. As I wrestle with whether to be joyous or troubled by that, he murmurs, “It’s all right. We’re going to be okay. I’ve already set the contingency plan into motion.”
“You have a contingency plan?” Once again, should I be elated or uneasy?
“Since the day we moved in here,” he affirms, letting me nuzzle closer and cherish the thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek. “I wasn’t about to fuck around with protecting the reason I live.” He scoops a hand up through my hair, bringing me even tighter. “And now, the two reasons I exist.”
His declaration is punctuated by a rap from the bedroom’s entrance. We break apart by a few inches, looking toward a firm-faced Sawyer in the doorway. While this is a marked change from the guy’s battering ram method, I’m back at not being unable to decide on a reaction. The two men, nodding at each other like they’ve actually rehearsed this scenario a bunch of times, should make me feel shielded and assured. Instead, I’m shocked and disturbed. Have I been living a complete illusion? Even after everything that bitch has done to stalk my man, alter my body, and poison my life, have I been just pretending the ridge is our haven of safety? And if it’s not, then what place—if any—will be ever again?
But those questions have to be shoved away. I have to pack them in and zipper them off just like all the stuff I’m cramming into these suitcases. Just like I’m locking away the most vulnerable parts of my heart and spirit. I have no choice. This isn’t about protecting just myself anymore.
Or even the man who reluctantly pulls away from me to approach his right-hand man. “Everything looking good?”
“Affirmative. Alex wigged and make-upped the crap out of Lydia and Angie, and they’re on their way to stock provisions at the house. He’s gone with them and will be double-checking the perimeter as well as the security system. It’s a weekday during off-season, so you shouldn’t have too many neighbors poking around or doing the lookie-loo bit.”
I jerk my attention back to Reece, toppling a chunk of the bun I’ve formed with a pencil and a bobby pin. “The neighbors?”
“Safety in crowds,” Reece explains. With a new look at Sawyer, he charges, “The M5 is ready? With new plates?”
Sawyer dips a brisk nod. “The ownership is now totally untraceable to you. To anyone bothering to look, the car belongs to Dr. Stephen Sarsgard.”
I groan. “Cripes. Sounds like someone my parents would hang out with at the tennis club.”
The men exchange a glance that’s brief but loaded. Before I can even try to decipher it, Reece mutters, “We’ll be right down. Thanks, Foley.”
Thanks, Foley.
Not Arigato, asshole.
Or TY, Mr. KY.
Or Spasiba, spaz-nuts.
Which makes me plunk back down on the bed again—and then shoot out a hand, hooking Reece before he can pass. With a take-no-prisoners snort, I yank him down next to me. “Okay, mister. I know we’re all jump to light speed with our hair on fire here, but you need to crank down the hyperdrive for a hot second.” I drag his hand to the spot on my stomach that’s noticeably lurching. “I’m not the only one who’s asking.”
I watch, temporarily enraptured, as the face of the man I love is transformed by the same sentiment. I know this not by just watching him but feeling him. My breath catches, along with his, as the energy from his bright-blue fingertips flows through every layer of my skin and tissues, spreading into places neither of us can even see from the surface. Permeating into the new life inside me.
Speaking directly to our child.
And receiving a vibrant answer in return.
A feathering touch. An adamant kick.
Then my breath, escaping me in jolting spurts.
Then Reece’s, leaving him along with a dazed, beautiful smile.
“What can I do?” he finally asks, continuing to circle his hand across my womb. “For both of you?” He raises his head, capturing my gaze with the azure energy of his—and the neon sign of his nonverbal message.
Anything. I’ll do anything for you and him, Velvet Bunny. Any fucking thing.
But now that I have his full attention, I’m back to uneasy-ville. With a vengeance. Less than a month ago, I was sprinting across the top of Rindge Dam and frying any “bad guys” that got in my way. Four days ago, I was dictating Sawyer Foley to call me his daddy, on the verge of finally besting him in a hardcore training session. Less than a week later, I’m starting to swell with a kid determined to buck every law of human biology and wondering if and when I’ll ever again see this place where I’ve imagined, so many times, Reece and I getting to grow old together.
Superheroes protect the fairy tale endings.
That doesn’t always mean they get to have them for themselves.
But I need to just suck my shit up, get the hell over myself, and accept that fact as my reality.
Because he’s worth it.
No matter how many fairy tales I have to give up, dreams I have to change, or expectations I have to set aside…
Worth it.
This man, dark and rugged and beautiful and noble, is worth every second of this odd and crazy and capricious life.
I tell him so by lifting my face and then pulling his down for a desperate meeting of our lips. He tastes like everything that’s become precious about this home of ours, mixing on my tongue as if to comfort me one last time. Wind and dust, sage and leather, lavender and love, my man and my more…
But that part’s not going to go away.
From now on, more will simply taste differently. Once again. As it probably always will.
As soon as we pull apart, I whisper to him, “You know I love you, Mr. Richards.”
He smiles while pushing some tiny hair strands away from my face. “As I love you, Mrs. Richards.”
“All right, so…” I nibble nervously on the inside of my lip, treasuring how he stares at every iota of the action. “Where are we bound for this epic contingency plan of yours?”
Only then does his expression depart from its sultry confidence. Instead, looking a lot like he did during that weird “look” he and Sawyer just shared, he firms his lips, takes my hand, and states, “I’m going to let that be a surprise for now.” And then squeezes my fingers tight. “For now, I just want you to promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”
REECE
“Holy. Shit.”
She blurts it as soon as I guide the Range Rover off the 73 Toll Road at Macarthur Boulevard.
“Bunny.”
“Do not with the Bunny,” she snaps, at last reclaiming her stiff hand from my stubborn clasp.
“You agreed to be open-minded.”
“Open-minded, yes. Freaking insane? Hell to the no.”
So this is going well.
Okay, maybe not “well.” But better than I imagined, especially now that she knows exactly where we’re headed and hasn’t tried to throw herself out of the car.
Yet.
“You are out of your mind,” she grumbles as I turn into Newport Center. Just ahead, workers are fixing bulbs on some holiday decorations in the Fashion Island parking lot. Though Halloween’s still a good ten days off, the bastion of Southern Calif
ornia consumerism merrily glows in its solid middle finger to the calendar. Not that Emma is noticing. “Newport Beach is your idea of hiding out?”
As I brake the car in the nearly empty back parking lot of the Big Newport movie theaters, I pour all my most alluring charm into a fast wink. “Nobody will suspect you want to come here.”
“You’ve got that right.” As she drops back against her seat, seething her ways through folding her arms, I decide to drop the Jason Stackhouse and keep my balls. It’s quickly a nonissue anyway, as a couple tumbles out of a brand-new Audi nearby. The man looks like a mustached Don Draper, with glossed black hair, vintage shades, and a natty Mad Men-style bowling shirt. The woman is a va-va voom knockoff of Peggy Lipton in The Mod Squad, except in updated clothes and clunky boots. She’s also sporting semi-vintage sunglasses, and her come-to-mama pout is lipsticked in cherry red.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter, powering down the car.
Emma ping-pongs a wary look between them and me. “For what?” But the next second, pins her wide eyes on the approaching duo. “Wait…a…second. What the hell?”
“Hiiiii!” the blonde calls out, giving away her identity at once.
“’Dia?” Emma shoves her door open and hops out of the Rover. Yes, before I can scan the whole area for any dogged onlookers. Yes, before I can utter a syllable of caution for her to do the same. But as soon as the sisters embrace, I decide to stand down and motion for Alex to do the same. At least I’m pretty sure it’s Alex. I’d know the guy by his nearly perfect fake facial hair anywhere.
“Look!” Lydia exclaims, modeling off her whole ensemble. The mini skirt, resembling a ballet tutu with its springy layers, fans out around her stockinged legs. Her hair flings out like blond helicopter blades. “I get to be Princess Daenerys!”
“With a skirt like that?” For the first time in the last couple of hours, my wife openly laughs. I’ve never been more grateful for the medicine called Lydia, even if she does brandish an open pout at Emma.