Surge: Bolt Saga Volume Five (Bolt Saga #13-15)

by Angel Payne

  Dad ticks out a nod. This behavior, I recognize at once. It’s part of his all-business protocol and gives me insight as to why he’s risen so far in the high-end corporate ranks. With two seconds of action, he’s already instilled me with a new world of confidence. Maybe I really can do this…

  “So what does this mean for forward motion for you and Reece?”

  And maybe I can’t.

  Because just like that, my chest closes up. My nerves turn into needles. I straighten and tug away a little before muttering, “I think that’s what I need help figuring out.”

  He doesn’t nod this time. His attention is the same, though. Quiet, steady, strong. A rock. Exactly what I need. “Because right now, there’s no forward motion?” He cocks his head as soon as I answer that with a frown. “Or is the motion just not the direction you were ready for?”

  As soon as he says it, with such firm calm, I want to cry a new bucket of tears and then nosedive into it. He’s so right. Why does he have to be so damn right? And why does it have to feel so scary?

  “But…I should be ready.” A sob sneaks in while I’m busy trying to form words. I pound the seat, as if the motion will help beat it back. “Damn it. I’m not a victim here! I knew what I was getting into. I knew, when jumping in with this man, what I was signing on for.”

  “So that automatically makes you completely ready for everything?” He’s half teasing, like the days he used to chide me for getting ticked off about Skips in family Uno games. “My little Lina-Bina, let me tell you a secret.” With his arm draped across the back of the seat, he curls a hand in to gently massage my nape. “If everyone, us ‘mere mortals’ included, waited until we were a hundred percent ‘ready’ for every twist of life, no business would ever get accomplished. No art would be created. No babies would be born. No lives would be saved.” He tips his head a little closer, emphasizing his follow-up. “The truth is…nobody’s ready, honey. Not really. Not a thousand percent.”

  I pout. “I’m not asking for a thousand. Or even a hundred.”

  “But you have a figure in mind already, don’t you?”

  Bigger pout. “I’ll settle for anything north of fifty at this point.”

  “And maybe you’ll get it.” He extends his free hand, turning it over as if to catch raindrops. “And just maybe you won’t. But Emma…” His expression takes a turn for intense and inquisitive. “When has that ever stopped you, honey? Ever? Not when you opted to try out for plays at school instead of the tennis team at the club, despite your mother telling you to get your own rides to rehearsals. Not when you blazed your own trail about moving to LA, insisting on paying your own way for everything. And certainly not when you fell in love with a guy who shoots lightning out of his fingers and turns into a radioactive Smurf when he’s pissed-off.”

  His last sentence brings a soft quirk to my lips—and a consuming heat in my soul. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

  “I’m usually not, honey.”

  The heat ruptures into a full laugh. Has my dad just stolen a page out of my husband’s playbook? And if so, should I be scared or delighted?

  Before I can come to that decision, he goes on. “But the most important part about this whole equation is that Reece Richards is just as deeply and fully in love with you.” He’s the one resting back now, as if purposely giving himself some space to study me from a distance. Only when he fortifies his stare and firms his jaw do I realize the opposite: that he wants me to be seeing more of his determination. “He’s the man destiny brought for you, Emmalina Paisley,” he asserts. “I’m as sure of it as I am of the gravity holding us here and the forces pulling the tide to that sand down there. That man sees the Emma you don’t even see yet—the woman I’ve always known you are. The person with so much more strength, resilience, and beauty than you’ve ever given yourself credit for.” He leans back over to engulf one of my hands with his. “And the beautiful human who’s going to be an amazing mother to your miraculous baby.”

  Well, freaking hell.

  And holy shit.

  And screw the subtleties of keeping up this pretense, because now all I want to do is throw myself at my beautiful, courageous father and sob in his arms. And that’s exactly what I do, clinging to him as the waves crash on the shore, the children laugh on the beach, and my spirit finally, finally starts to speak to my soul again.

  And my heart reclaims the truth that it’s so desperately needed—but that Dad speaks for it anyway.

  “You two have the bond of a lightning love, honey. It strikes true so rarely, but when it does, it’s capable of incredible things.” He murmurs it as I pull back, even more lousy with snotty sinuses and streaky cheeks than before, but he frames one side of my face with one hand anyway. “Nothing is going to change that reality, Emma. Not that bitch Faline and her legion of lemmings, and certainly not Strawberry Shortcake hair and a dress in a color I haven’t seen since you were in junior high and praying Tony Kemper would invite you to the fall formal.”

  I accidentally spray him with laughing tears. Serves him right for invoking a cartoon character inspired by a gooey dessert. “Thank you, Daddy,” I rasp. “For all of that. For all of…everything.”

  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to express every speck of that gratitude—because now more than ever, I begin to really understand what everything truly means—but I know that I’m really going to try. Right now, that means claiming the new strength he’s shown me. Embracing the new light he’s given me. Being the person he sees in me.

  The person that Reece sees too. More than anyone.

  I snuggle against him once more, burying my nose against his shoulder. “You’re right, you know,” I mumble. “About all of it.”

  He wraps his hug tighter. “I usually am, my sweet girl.”

  I giggle and then let the sound trickle into a deep, contented sigh. A new peace settles over me, as certain as the cliff below us and as vast as the sea stretching before us.

  And as bright as the new light flaring in my heart and spirit.

  Chapter Six

  Reece

  We’re taking some space.

  It’s a term I’ve heard so many times before, from acquaintances male and female alike, usually in response to efforts at small talk neither one of us really means. Of course, most of those occasions were behind velvet VIP ropes at high-end nightclubs, when said “friends” were joining me for a night of forgetting the loneliness behind those words—and I was all too happy to oblige them, as fast as I could. I was always fascinated to watch it on their faces. Fascinated but terrified. Did the bottom even exist? And did it hurt when they finally landed there?

  Somewhere along the line, I’d tempted karma too many times with that damn well.

  Because now, I’ve hit the fucking bottom of it.

  And it’s really as dark, disgusting, and painful as I always thought.

  Especially because ogling the dance floor dollies from a couch behind the velvet rope is not going to be my rope out of the well, either. I have a sick feeling about who’d be lining up to give me that advice too. Every single friend who joined me in those nights of depraved avoidance therapy.

  Memories that make me sick now.

  Reminisces that make me shudder.

  So much time wasted, for so many years.

  So why do the last three days feel like five times longer? And a hell of a lot emptier?

  No. That’s not true.

  Not emptier.

  Because I look down and still see the ring on my left finger. I can still feel my wife’s energy on the air throughout the house. I can still smell her when I wake up in the morning, as warm as taking a breath of the summer’s first warmth. At this very moment, I gaze across the master bedroom and still view where she rumpled the bed last night. Granted, she went to bed without telling me, and since it’s a California king mattress, we were probably sleeping in separate zip codes, but she chose to sleep in here over the dozen other bedrooms in this place. I’m taking i
t for the win.

  I’m taking anything I can get right now.

  I’m taking everything I can get right now.

  Every stolen peek at her. Every cherished sniff of her. Every confirmation, however small, that she’s still choosing to be here with me, no matter how hard that choice has become for her every day. Maybe every hour. Perhaps every minute.

  So yeah, she gets the “space.” No matter how painful it is for me to make that choice. Every day. Every hour. Every fucking minute.

  Only in this minute, I give up on reading the reports Foley has brought down from his trip to the ridge today, returning them to the nightstand with a frustrated smack. Though I’ve been waiting for the intel—the team’s compilation of any noteworthy news stories, communications, transactions, or security camera footage from Spain over the last week—I feel like Skywalker trying to lift his X-wing out of a Dagobah swamp. Mentally, I’m covered in sludge. Physically, I’m impatient for action. Spiritually, I long to reconnect with my Force.

  My more…

  “Three days,” I snarl at myself. “It’s only been three days, asshole. Cool the fucking jets.”

  On the other hand, three goddamned days.

  The last time Emma and I were apart like this, I didn’t “cool the jets.” I got my ass on an airplane and then located her adorable ass in New York City.

  When I was there for her when she needed me most.

  All right, so Foley and Angie had tipped me off about the danger. And I did have to approach the whole thing like a stalker, which Emma still delights in reminding me of from time to time. And I have been nearly doing the same damn thing to her this week, except in closer quarters. And I’m prepared to keep doing it if necessary.

  For twenty-four more hours.

  I answer the conclusion with an approving grunt and then take a sip of my Scotch to commemorate the decision. “Twenty-four hours,” I grit to the empty room, accepting that I sound more like evil Anakin than moody Luke right now. But the ultimatum still feels right. She asked for space. I’ve given her seventy-two goddamned hours of it. Three days of exchanging nothing but surface pleasantries, basically being nothing but her roommate, is a generous allowance. But come tomorrow, I’m going to nail that woman’s jumper-clad body to the couch—or the bed, or the dining room table, or wherever else I want—and demand answers about what she feels she has to muddle through without me.

  I reward myself for the verdict with a longer drag on my Lagavulin. I consider continuing the celebration with a shower, since I’m still in my sweats and tank from a punishing three-hour session in the gym downstairs, but a strange sound from the bay window has me snapping a curious stare that way. When I hear the same light ping against the glass, I swing to my feet, stride across the floor, yank back the curtain…

  And nearly swallow my tongue.

  The window overlooks a private side garden of the house, small and protected by the spreading boughs of a huge oak. There’s a canvas hammock swing suspended from one of the tree’s limbs, next to a small natural rock waterfall and a tile-topped table for two.

  Strewn across that table right now is every stitch of Emmalina’s clothes.

  I know this because she’s sitting in the swing wearing nothing but a smile, dangling one playful toe into the pool beneath the waterfall.

  And readying to lob another pebble at the pane rapidly fogging over with my aroused huffs.

  Holy. Fuck. Me.

  As I repeat all three words aloud, she reaches beneath the swing and pulls out a large piece of poster board. I have no idea where she got that, nor do I really care, as she flips over the card to expose the writing on the other side.

  What’s a girl gotta do to get Bolted around here?

  I pause long enough to slide open the window. To let my arms stretch out, touching the sides of the encasement, making sure she knows exactly how serious I am about the words I issue.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  EMMA

  “You moved.”

  The sensuality beneath his rumble is almost worth the price I’ll pay for noncompliance, but that’s not why I got up to wait for his arrival, standing utterly nude in the middle of the garden’s small patch of grass.

  I need him to see me.

  To see I’m ready to reaffirm my truth to him, here and now.

  To live our truth again. To its fullest. To its strongest.

  Like the lightning strike we really are.

  “I needed to.” I step forward, the cool grass tickling my ankles, before I scoop up his hands into mine. I finish the action by channeling the flare of energy inside me. Letting him see the soft, steady light with which he fills the deepest parts of my soul…the hugest embrace of my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, sweet Bunny.” My husband hitches a corner of his full mouth, flashing the smirk responsible for selling countless gossip magazines through the years. “It’ll be so much fun…disciplining you.”

  “No.” I laugh lightly before catching the inside of my lip beneath my teeth. “Reece. My patient, magnificent husband.” I stretch my fingers out across his wrists, needing him to feel even more of my intention—of what the last three days have taught me. “I mean that I’m sorry. For…all of this.” I drop my head and take a second to recalibrate my thoughts. “I’m sorry for running from you again. And for—”

  “Ssshhh.” He leverages our hold to yank me against him, at once smashing his lips onto my forehead and then along my hairline. “You didn’t leave me, Velvet.”

  “But I did check out. It’s true.”

  “Won’t argue,” he drawls.

  “I…I just felt like…”

  “We went from Mach Five to Mach Hundred in one damn day?”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and tuck my head into the dip between his biceps. The contrast of his hard, heated skin and the cotton of his tank is doing naughtier than normal things to my sex drive. Holy crap. My hormones are all over the place, meaning I haven’t missed my man in just the mushy ways. There are already parts of me that ache and throb and need him…

  Not yet.

  Not much longer, but not yet.

  The words first. My declaration first.

  He needs to hear it as much as I need to give it to him.

  “You did what you had to do, husband. You didn’t make your call lightly or rashly—but you were clearly ready to ignite the engine and put the wheels in motion in case you had to.” I lift my head and press closer to him, knowing he’s got to feel the energy of our child at this point too. I revel in the intensity that takes over his ruggedly beautiful face, indicating that he does. “You made the responsible call for any man in your position. Any man, Reece. Any father, friend, and leader”—I sweep my hand up to the crook between his jaw and ear—“not some boy playing with the new Bolt game on his PlayStation, thinking he can restart at the beginning if everything goes batshit. But we’re not in that reality. We’re in the one where life—and Faline, and whatever sick game she’s up to now—aren’t going to permit any restart button.”

  “And thank fuck for that.”

  As soon as he issues it, he tacks on a wolfish smirk and turns his head to nibble at my knuckles.

  Still, I challenge, “Excuse the crap out of me?”

  He softens the pressure of his mouth but doesn’t release me from it. Refastening his gaze on me, he murmurs, “Life has given me a hell of a lot of restart buttons, Emmalina Paisley. Some of them I’ve welcomed, and God knows, some of them I haven’t—but I swear to you, with this sky and these stars as witness, I will fry any of those switches I’m ever near again.” He traces the little hills across the back of my hand with his tongue, his stare remaining intent…resplendent. “No more resets,” he husks. “No more do-overs. No more blank pages, and no more new races. I don’t want the start with you, woman. I want the now with you. All the good times and the bad, the joys and the tears, the memories and the messes…” He stops to inhale deeply, as if his next wor
ds need an extra effort. “And yeah, even the times when you need a little space.”

  I match his long, measured intake. As I release the air, I shuffle backward by a reluctant step—ensuring he sees all of me. “And…the times for being naked.”

  He jogs up both his brows. Reprises his rogue’s grin. “I’ll never argue with naked.”

  “I mean in every way,” I chide.

  “So do I,” he volleys.

  “All of me, Zeus,” I persist. “My soul, my spirit, my mind…my body.”

  “Just as you have all of me, Velvet,” he husks. “As you have since the night we first met.”

  “I know.” I catch the inside of my lip again, using the gesture to help my coy glance. “You were juuuust a little bit clear.”

  “A little?” He flings a mock glower. “I don’t recall the word little entering the conversation at all that night.”

  “Damn good point, Mr. Richards.”

  I’ve barely completed the quip before he’s covering the distance between us again, consuming my personal space and then smashing my lips beneath his with relentless, mindless, limitless demand. Oh, God. Oh, yes!

  I let my throat vibrate with a husky mewl, betraying how deeply I crave him…how thoroughly I’ve missed him. He layers his greedy growl atop the sound while sweeping in again, plunging his tongue deeper this time. I let him in with eager, erotic abandon. My sighs escalate into soprano-register pitches. No surprise. My body isn’t my own anymore—nor do I want it to be. I need the reconnection to my husband. I pray for all the circuits that are purely, perfectly us. The last three days, I haven’t known myself—and now, the reason is so clear. I am him. He is me. We are spark and electricity. Thunder and lightning. Bound and sealed and entwined and real with each other…because of each other. To an outsider, it must sound dysfunctional as hell—one of the reasons I fought it so hard for the last three days, until I forced myself to surrender and recognize the truth.

  Not dysfunction.