by Angel Payne
I duck my head against her hair and shake it slowly. “Right now, hiding is beating them.”
“Hiding is losing to them! Damn it, if—”
She chokes into silence as soon as my fist rams the car’s window. The reinforced pane is a sudden burst of textures, almost resembling stained glass as the shards reflect the colors of the city. That’s the pretty way of looking at it—and maybe that’s best, since the air in the car fills with hard truth and uncomfortable acceptance.
A couple of minutes later, Z rolls the car to a stop beneath the lonely awning of my private entrance to the hotel. I suck in a huge breath and shove it back out, trying to reconsider her words. Is there another way, or do I have to be that brand of douchebag too? Yeah, the one who just screwed his girl with the full intention of leaving her afterward. The one who told her he loved her somewhere in that mess.
The one who’s now going to leave this car yearning to touch her once more in some small way, but instead ordering myself to get out with barely a glance backward. Taking one more breath. Fighting through one more second, which will be like the other disgusting seconds, torturous minutes, agonizing hours, and miserable days of the lonely weeks and years to come.
“Send me a bill for the window, Z.”
“Of course, Mr. Richards.”
“I love you, Emmalina.”
“Fuck you, Mr. Richards.”
Chapter Thirteen
EMMA
Damn him.
Damn him, anyway.
I’ve only heard of this kind of sorrow before. To be honest, I thought it didn’t really exist. What kind of heartbreak dives so deep into a person they can’t even shed tears because of it? Anything a person spends life on is worth spending grief on too, right? And that means tears, right?
But the hours after he leaves become a day.
That day becomes two.
Then three.
And every day, the grief comes back. I hope, of course, that because there are no tears, it didn’t mean as much to me as I’d originally thought. That he didn’t mean as much.
At times, I come close to believing that. Like when work gets busy, despite Wade and Fershan treating the floor three feet around me like holy ground. Or in those magical moments when I’m lost in a good book, or even when something interesting on the train distracts me, yanking me out of the solitude known as my heart.
In those tiny and treasured moments, I start to think everything is normal again—just before it all returns. The memories. The aching. The loss, in places so far and awful inside me, no food will stay down, thought will stay planted, or feeling will take root. The limbo of this damn darkness. The pain still so deep, I even start to hope for the tears now. Any sign the sorrow will turn to healing soon.
On that “cheerful” thought, I pack up the last of my snacks and water bottle for work, tuck them into my shoulder satchel, and set off from the apartment to catch the three p.m. train.
While walking down the two flights of stairs to the courtyard, I think about the new day-shift slots that have recently opened in the office. I revisit the idea of requesting to take one of them, just for a little while.
Maybe more than a little while.
It’s a temporary fix, but maybe that’s what I need to escape the Reece-themed slap I endure every night at the Brocade. Neeta was actually the one who mentioned the new shifts, sensing my struggles and perhaps even guessing Reece is the root of the problem.
But would I just be replacing one Pandora’s box with another? Right now, at night, I only have to deal with memories of him. What will I do if I’m actually forced to see him, which is much more a possibility during standard business hours?
Especially because I know how he’s been spending his evenings lately.
Oh, yes. Bolt sightings are on the rise again. The whole city couldn’t be more ecstatic.
Goodie for the city.
On that morose thought, I plunk to the bottom of the stairs. Once there, I stop and give those ruminations an open huff. “And here she is, folks. The most depressed girl in the world’s safest city. Give it up for…Emmalina Crissssttt.”
As I finish my fake crowd noises, I scowl. Damn. I just used my own full name on myself.
The way Reece does.
The way Reece used to.
“Well, at least you look runway ready, baby.” I reward myself for the pep talk with a soft laugh directed toward the bow-front kitten heels upon which I splurged as my heartbreak shoes. They’ve been sitting in the box for two days, but their Kelly-green color meant I had to wait for the ideal blouse to come back from the dry cleaners. Tonight, the whole ensemble has come together. I may not feel totally rockin’-red-carpet again, but at least I look it.
“Did I miss the punch line?”
So much for considering steps on a red carpet—or any steps at all—as I swing a glower toward the source of the quip. The line is as friendly as a greeting from one of my neighbors—if any of them had a Catherine Deneuve accent and smelled like Baccarat perfume mixed with clove cigarettes. But the scent isn’t what lodges my heart in my throat. I’m not even struck senseless by the fear Reece warned me to be so nutballs about—which is disconcerting but not entirely disturbing.
Because I like what I feel in fear’s place.
I let the rage settle in, pure and invigorating, while glaring at the bitch from head to toe. When I’m done with the onceover, I let out another laugh. Louder this time. And so much longer.
“Angelique La Salle.” I rock back on one foot. “The woman with the name of a princess and the wardrobe of a skank. Should I congratulate you on being well-rounded or just a puppet ho?”
The woman adopts a similar pose, her lips hitching like a droll doll. For a flash of a second, I catch something else on her face too. It’s the dread Reece kept warning me about—and it almost makes me feel sorry for the woman. For half a second.
Then I’m right back to hating the woman.
I only have to remember her sending Reece to his knees at the power station, adding humiliation to her initial betrayal. Deepening the sorrow that convinced him to never believe in the word trust again.
In so many ways, this bitch has already killed the man I love.
“Puppet ho.” She issues the echo with a mirthful half smile. “That is…très créatif, I will grant you that.” Her head tilts. “Hmmm. I see it now, a little bit, I think.”
“See what?”
“The quality you have…that captivates Reece.”
“Captivated Reece. Past tense. I haven’t seen the man in three days.” I’m thankful I’m able to fling it and mean it. Thankful to the tune of considering calling in sick tonight and replacing the work hours with copious wine consumption and a trash-TV binge.
Shit. Surreal second number two. Have I just understood a little of what made Reece cut things off with me the other night?
The…Consortium…is…cold…methodical…ruthless…
For three days, I’ve been stewing about him being a pussy, choosing to hide from them with the grander excuse of protecting me. But right now, I’m damn relieved I’m able to shield him.
“Haven’t ‘seen’ him, or haven’t seen him?”
“Okaaaaayy.” I’m still grateful she’s getting only my gut-level truth—meaning my genuine confusion. “You have hidden cameras in the bushes, right?” I peer into the bougainvillea, using the moment to disguise my next emotion. Pure triumph. I don’t know where Reece is—but neither do they.
“Are you able to answer the question?” As she takes a couple of deliberate steps forward, she reaches into hidden pockets in both her boots—releasing matching switchblades from the hidden compartments. She triggers the blades simultaneously, thwacking the steel on the air. The knives gleam in the afternoon sun as she advances with steadier purpose.
For two seconds, I indulge the folly of being concerned.
And then use my lunch pouch to knock one of them free and my water bottle to rid her of the othe
r. Yeah, just like that, watching her scramble to scoop them up, pressing my lips to keep from laughing. I try to remember Reece’s warnings about the bitch, but rage has taken over, blinding me to common sense. The only thing I can think about is giving this Twinkie an LA-style version of karmic payback.
As she crouches lower for the second knife, I land a kitten heel in the center of her spine and dig in to knock her forward. She rolls over, but I’ve got kitten heel number two at the ready, and I jam it deep enough into her windpipe to ensure she gets the message.
“You ready for my answer now, darling? I haven’t seen Reece in at least three days, nor do I plan on seeing him again. But if I did, I’d be advising him to run like hell from a woman who doesn’t have the sense to trash a pair of boots like that after the whole city saw her on every news feed in town trying to take down their most beloved local hero and a chunk of LA’s power supply.”
I finally release my foot. Angelique lurches to her feet and grabs at her throat, choking out stuff in guttural French while running for the street and disappearing around the curve in the road. I’m pretty sure she called me either a raving bitch or a bowl of soup, though I’d bank on the former. I’m also pretty sure there’s a car waiting for her around that bend, and I should chase her to take notes or other super spy stuff like that, but I wouldn’t bet on my knees carrying me another step, let alone into a Bond girl chase scene. On top of that, every drop of adrenalin in my body now migrates to both ends of it. My head becomes a tornado. My feet quiver like I’ve strapped them to shake weights. The guts in between are a directionless mess.
Miracle of miracles, I’m able to climb the stairs to my unit without tripping. Aligning my apartment key with the little hole in the door? Not even a miracle’s going to help now.
“Emmalina.”
I whirl—to behold a walking, talking, six-foot-three miracle.
No. A blade of lightning. A force of nature. The heir with the hair. The billionaire bad boy. The sexy asshole in the spire.
My Bolt.
My man.
“Oh.” The syllable is all I can produce, my voice high and hurting but joyous and jubilant, as I fly into his arms without restraint or regret.
He lets out an, “Oof!” before laughing as I circle both legs around his waist, letting him take the keys and work my apartment lock open.
We move inside.
And I’m home. Really home.
Right where I need to be—after three damn days of hell.
Three days. Seventy-two hours. Anyone else would say they’re blips in the span of time, but I call everyone else freaking crazy.
“Oh…wow.” As I gasp it out, he drenches me in one of his lush laughs. I dive again for him, kissing him like crazy.
As my tears finally fall.
As I flood him with them, unashamed about turning the front of his dark-blue T-shirt into a piece of cobalt pop art.
As he returns the passion, trailing kisses through my hair.
He feels so good. His embrace is perfect, powerful, complete. I can feel his heartbeat mating with mine in our triumphant homecoming.
No.
This isn’t a reunion. It can’t be.
Nothing is different. Nothing has been fixed. As a matter of fact…
“What the hell?” I shove away from him and race around the room, slamming the blinds shut. “Oh my God, Reece, you can’t be here. Angelique—”
“I know.”
“Huh?”
“I know. She was here.”
“You…”
“I’ve been tracking her.”
“You’ve been what?” I spin around, grabbing him by both forearms. “How?”
He blushes. Holy shit. The man is even hotter in blushing, bumbling mode than he is in alpha demigod mode. “Easy, really. Just checked signatures for all cell phones on site at the El Segundo power plant on Friday night and ruled out the devices belonging to employees and me. Once I pinpointed her phone, it was easy to—”
“Okay, okay.” I giggle. “I get the gist.”
He doesn’t match my laugh this time. He twists our hold so he’s got me by the forearms, cradling my elbows while his gaze holds me like silver angel wings.
“I’ve been tracking her everywhere she goes. She’s mostly been back and forth from the mansion The Consortium’s surely using as their hub out here—which was why I fired up the M4 and followed as soon as I noticed her coming this direction.” His grasp tightens. “I got here just as she pulled the knives on you.”
“Way to jump in on the hairiest part of the movie, dude.”
“Which was why I didn’t jump in.” His nostrils go wide and his mouth becomes a tense line. “It was sheer hell to watch her do that to you.”
“Wasn’t too peachy from where I was at either.”
“But you were…incredible.” His features transform once again. His face ignites with something like awe, and his generous mouth spreads in a wide smile. “No. Not incredible. Magnificent.” He pushes into my personal space, cupping the back of my neck, and takes my mouth in a tender kiss. “You became my Bolt, Emmalina Crist.”
I moan in soft delight when he repeats the kiss with more demand, suckling his way into my mouth. Every cell in my body blazes to new life. I can tell he’s on the exact same page when his blue and gold fingertips flare in my peripheral, but I push back, ordering my hormones to stand down.
“I’m proud that you’re proud, Mr. Richards, but we’re still back at the same place we were before.” I sigh heavily. “Maybe even worse, since I now understand how The Consortium really doesn’t know the meaning of the word boundaries.”
He dips a terse nod. “Yeah. Definitely worse.”
He steps away completely, starting to methodically pace the room with hands on his lean hips. I take just a second to admire the view. The tailored black slacks he wears with the T-shirt fit his ass as perfectly as any pair of jeans ever, perhaps even better.
“This won’t be the last time Angelique decides to make a house call,” he goes on. “I guarantee The Consortium will pick up some vibe that you’re still in contact with me.”
“And being apart completely is off the table.”
“On more levels than the obvious.” He flashes a wink over his shoulder.
A long pause goes by, thickening with our combined tension. Not so jokingly, I mutter, “Maybe there’s a remote island in the South Pacific somewhere. A cute hotel where everyone pays in puka shells and smiles? I could wear a muumuu to work every day…”
“Uh-uh.” Reece saunters back over and tugs me into the perfect envelope of his embrace. “Wrong direction. You need to find a place where work attire is just the shells and the smile.”
I help out with the smile part, at least. After we kiss softly, I sigh against his chest, treasuring the sound of the steady thumps beneath my ear. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I’ll figure this out.” He presses his lips into the top of my head. “I got you into this crazy mess, Emmalina.”
“I like the crazy mess—as long as I’m in it with you, okay?”
“Okay.” He lowers his head, fitting his forehead to mine. “Trust me?”
“Always.”
* * *
Three days later, always is getting a little harder to keep believing.
Those are my exact words in a text message to Reece, snuck in during a trip to the ladies’ room that I can hopefully stretch out for another minute without suspicion. I’ve purposely picked the facilities farthest from the ballroom at the Pelican Hill Resort, hoping Mother, Father, and Lydia decide to forget where I am. If I’m lucky, maybe I can pass the next hour here in my cozy stall, smelling the “tropical flowers” being automatically spritzed into the air and trading messages with the man who’s turned sexting into an art.
The same way he’s turned over every inch of my heart.
I love him. I can’t stop telling him. Because he’s the only one who ever gets to know.
Ahhh, the
fantasy life of a super hero’s girlfriend.
I text something close to that, giggling softly at his reply.
Well. I specialize in fantasies, Miss Crist.
You’re just hard-up, Mr. Richards.
For you, Miss Crist.
Oh yeah? And when was the last time you were in the penis-crushing hell of Orange County?
More recently than you think.
Now this sounds interesting…
I’m settling in for a juicy story when the bathroom door creaks open.
“Emmalina? Are you in this bathroom?”
I grit my teeth, fighting the temptation to scream at Mother’s summons—a wasted endeavor even if I did indulge. Screaming doesn’t help when it comes to my family. They love me, in their shrouded way. Deeply shrouded.
“Right here.” I force civility to the response. It’s not her fault that I can’t seem to jump on the Newport-Beach-is-complete-nirvana boat. I’ve given up on even finding the dock. “I’m almost done.”
“Oh, good.” She makes primping sounds from the bathroom’s vanity area. “Dinner will be served in a while, and then they’ll start the awards ceremony—but you’re missing all the fun stuff.”
“Of course.”
My forced pleasantry might pass acting muster with anyone but Laurel Crist. In two seconds, her maternal lasers pierce right through my sham.
“Honestly, Emma.” She rises as I emerge, folding arms over her St. John crinkle silk picot gown. She’s wearing matching heels and gemstone earrings, all meant to highlight the eyes that nearly match mine in color. “You’re in the hospitality industry. You need to be more…hospitable.”
“I am hospitable—to my guests.” I smile, squeezing out a little charm—especially when pondering how my primped, perfect mother would react if knowing how charming I’ve just been with Reece freaking Richards. But that’s not a truth she gets to know. Not a secret the world will ever discover.
“Can you just say you’ll try, missy?”
I take a Zen breath, gritting to continue the smile. “Yes, ma’am.”