8: Bolt Saga, Book 8 Read online

  Bolt Saga

  8

  Angel Payne

  This book is an original publication of Angel Payne.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

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  Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba

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  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For my incredible Thomas, and the Parisian adventures that inspired this!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Continue the Bolt Saga with Bolt Saga: 9

  Also by Angel Payne

  About Angel Payne

  Chapter One

  Emma

  “Kneel before Zod, my ass.”

  The tight grumble, belonging to my sexy-as-hell but secret-as-purgatory fiancé, is practically muted by the chaos of camera shutters and reporters’ shouts that accompany his exit from the Hotel Brocade’s ballroom. Reece’s tone matches his look, as somber as his three-piece gray suit and as stiff as the quart of hair product taming his tumbling chestnut waves.

  “Reece! Reece! Just one more question! Just one more, man!” But they’re already contradicting themselves, because at least five of them bellow the same damn thing at once, making that five questions and counting. His straight, strong jaw hardens into a rigid line, clarifying he’s come to the same conclusion, as he grabs me by one hand and starts tugging me across the foyer—not that the mob lets us get more than three more steps. They’re back, forming a human barricade between us and the door Sawyer Foley is holding open, leading to the freight elevator that’s waiting and ready to transport us to the ground floor and out of here.

  Away, at last, from their gauntlet. And the hundred ways they’ve made Reece run it for the last damn hour. And now, their blatant desire to double that number in a fraction of the time.

  “So why, exactly, was your brother in the Griffith Observatory’s ladies room with Emmalina last night? Did he ever really tell you?”

  “If it was all a big misunderstanding, why did you insist on dragging him out and beating him up anyway?”

  “Do you consider yourself mostly a hero, a vigilante, or a terrorist?”

  “Did you use the Bolt Jolt to break any of Tyce’s bones?”

  “…fry any of his nerves?”

  “…damage any other key body parts?”

  “Why did you wait until now to issue an apology about it?”

  “Why were your parents included in the apology too?”

  “Have you spoken to your family since last night?”

  “What did you do after leaving the gala?”

  “Do you and Emma watch late-night TV?”

  “Who makes the best Bolt jokes? Kimmel or Fallon?”

  “Do you two have snacks in front of the TV?”

  “Do you two sleep naked?”

  I pull in a long breath in place of dropping my jaw, mostly because I don’t know if it’d be to laugh or snarl at the bunch. Every one of these has already been asked and answered—yes, even twelve different versions of the naked activities—by the man at my side, enduring how they pummel him like a criminal less than twenty-four hours after extolling him as LA’s guardian angel.

  Surprise, surprise—one of the anchors who led the bunch last night shoves to their forefront now, his model-perfect facade from last night replaced by stubble, a wrinkled suit, and an expression aimed at grizzled and tough. Add a fedora, and he’ll have the others calling him Perry White in no time. He obviously agrees, clearing his throat in order to bark, “I have it on good authority that the Griffith Observatory is pushing for a lawsuit now. The place is an historic treasure to the city, after all.”

  “All right,” I mutter. “That’s it.” I stomp forward, narrowing a glare at the pompous douche. “So you’re saying that an architectural ‘treasure’ is more important than a human one? That the hundreds of occasions in which Bolt has laid his life on the line for the betterment of this city, including its Observatory, don’t matter?”

  “Velvet.” Reece’s growl, close to my ear, is filled equally with soft pride and commanding caution. “No poking the lions unless they’re me.”

  I step back with pursed lips, visually daring the munchkin to ask his question again, but his retreat only makes way for a curvy brunette who clearly fancies herself as the next Katie Couric. “But what about the reports that your brother, Tyce, was seen after the altercation with bruises so bad, he looked deformed, even burned?” she fires, rendering me without a comeback now—because there’s a chance she’s right. All too vividly, I recall Tyce’s face just before Reece found him in the Observatory’s bathroom with me, appearing as if to be pushing himself on me. That hadn’t been the case, but Reece had reacted to his first impression, leading to the scene that’s become the latest viral video and—obviously—the new object of the media’s obsession. But one memory from last night sticks the hardest with me: the bizarre transformation to Tyce’s face in those split seconds Reece’s rage had fully ramped up. I’d honestly thought I’d been served a spiked drink. “Burned” or “disfigured” were perfect descriptions of that change.

  I’m yanked from the memory by the Couric wannabe. “And is it also true he was admitted to Cedars-Sinai under an alias, to undergo emergency surgical procedures for the damage you inflicted?” she lobs, adding a well-rehearsed stare of “journalistic” intensity.

  Reece tsks at her. “Who’d you pay for that little tidbit, Renee? Because I’d be asking for a full refund if I were you.”

  “So you’re denying it?” pipes a guy standing next to her who looks eerily familiar, with the exception of the twirly tipped mustache taking center stage on his face.

  “Yes,” Reece utters at once.

  As he cocks his head, his man bun gives him away. It’s the asshat hipster from the press throng that invaded the lobby last year, having switched out his purple-rimmed glasses for the impressive ’stache. “So if we call Cedars now, asking for a ‘Richard Dangler,’ they’d tell us there’s nobody admitted by that name?”

  Even with the tension barnacled over every inch of his frame, Reece joins a few of Snidely Whiplash’s peers in visibly tamping down a smirk. “Oh, Pete. I’d give Tyce more credit than that, wouldn’t you?”

  Now the guy looks ready to actually twirl his mustache. “Why, Mr. Richards. That sounds like full-on brotherly love, right there.”

  “Which shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, Pete. Or were you so busy trying to get a lollipop boost on your phone that you missed the full apology I just gave to my brother, my family, the mayor, and the city?”

  Pete isn’t fazed. “So you’re saying that all is well in the land of the Richards empire? That they’ve already accepted your apology?”

  And crazily, Snidely himself has just set up Reece for the sole thing he needs to say the most this morning. “I’m saying they have no reason not to.”

  In the space of those five seconds, I watch an entire layer of tension leave his body. Doesn’t mean the seven beneath it are going anywhere, but it’s a better start than I expected. Reec
e actually smiles at the mob now, beaming the panty-slayer grin that has landed him on the cover of more magazines than I can remember or track, and states, “Now folks, you’re really going to need to let us go.” He releases my hand to tuck me fully against his side, curling a possessive hand around my shoulder. “My girl’s stood by me through a lot of hell the last few days, and now I intend to thank her with a bit of pampering.”

  As if he’s Moses and the words are a magical rod, the mass parts down the middle like the Red Sea—including several faces, of both genders, turning into gawking, envious fish as we walk by. I don’t waste time stopping to point out they all wanted Reece’s head on a platter an hour ago. As life has been teaching me in epic object lessons, the media is a fickle trade wind. Wait five minutes and the direction will favor another direction.

  And right now, I’m only focused on one main direction.

  The same one Reece reiterates as soon as we reach the portal where Sawyer is standing.

  “Get us the fuck out of here, Foley.”

  Reece’s growl doesn’t stop Sawyer Foley from chuckling as the three of us hurry down the hotel’s service hallway. Despite our near sprint of a pace, I dart a reproving scowl at the guy—though not fast enough for my all-observing man, even in his purposely powered-down state.

  “It’s all right, Velvet.” Reece slides his hand back down, once more fitting it solidly against mine. “If that press conference wasn’t one of the shittiest things I’ve ever had to do, I’d be laughing too.”

  Sawyer and I trade a fresh glance. In the guy’s seafoam-green eyes, I discern the same recognition that’s just hit my head and heart. Reece Richards’s list of “shittiest things I’ve ever had to do” is a lot different than anyone else’s, with things like “escaping from mad scientists” and “thwarting a bitch from killing his woman in an airplane turbine” topping the bunch. But I also have to remember that Sawyer was at Reece’s side for that second adventure and that it wasn’t the only occasion the man was my man’s solid Sundance Kid. In the seven months since Reece first hired him to help out with intel and tracking duties on the Consortium, Sawyer’s been a wingman beyond compare.

  So I take a deep breath and let the chortle pass—especially when Sawyer follows it up by encouraging, “Well, Zod got his ass handed to him in the end, so buck up, Clark Kent.” He reaches over to push Reece’s glasses up his nose, earning him an instant slap-down, which results in his snarky sing-song, “Have fun on Krypton.”

  “Excuse me?” I charge, wheeling on Reece like a lawyer with a murder suspect. “Have fun where?”

  But my demand is drowned by Sawyer’s slam of the lift’s roll-top door. While rising, he tacks on a subtle chuckle. Damn if the guy isn’t the epitome of adorkable right now, still dressed in his suit from last night’s event—which looks shockingly great, considering the evening wound up with Reece managing to spatter Tyce’s blood everywhere but the historic building’s walls. That was a good thing, since that was where fate chose to splatter its writing for us.

  We hadn’t wasted time reading the message twice. And got the hell out of there while we could.

  But that had only handled the physical shambles of the night. The emotional loose ends are a new tangle—a mess that would make even LA’s best shrink ponder early retirement. Setting aside the weirdness of Reece’s dad having invited Reece’s estranged brothers, Chase and Tyce, as last-minute party guests, we’re trying to sort out why Tyce was willing to let Reece think he’d made naughty moves on me, just for the chance to relay a message through me. Then there’s the crazier twist: the message contained the words Alpha Three, possibly linking Tyce to Reece’s imprisonment with the Consortium. And yes, the most bizarre dig for last: we discovered an obscure online image connecting Lawson Richards to the Scorpio crime cartel, who are likely priming the Consortium’s pumps from a financial angle.

  But now I’m really standing here, just as obsessed with yet another plot twist to all these “fun” events, courtesy of the intimation my fiancé’s smirking friend has casually plunked into the conversation. Not that Reece’s responding scowl is going to get him an inch of mercy from me.

  “Hey.” I backhand his shoulder, trying not to linger my touch on the luxurious feel of his suit. I swear to God, nobody fills out D&G as perfectly as this man. “Question: me. Answer: you.”

  He captures my hand, flattens it to his chest, and shoots me a look that infuses me with the scared-meets-aroused mix that only he can bring. My heart gallops faster as he adds a cocked brow and murmurs, “Sorry, lady. All out of answers. Gave all my verifiable statements back in the war zone.”

  Without a single argument against that truth, I have to settle for a resigned fume as we ride the rest of the way down. But as soon as the elevator bumps at ground level, I take advantage of having to grip his lapel in order to keep upright in my new Balmain boots. With my chest pressed to his, I reinforce the enticement of my pout. “You’re seriously not going to fill me in?” Okay, so at this point, I’m not past going for feminine wiles, as well as celebrating what they do to the heat in his gaze and the jerk of his hips. Serves the man right, since I’ve spent the last hour being dazzled by him, marveling at his sorcery over the press corps even after they ambushed us in the foyer. His sincerity and wit—and that grin—had every one of them chopped into bite-size pieces all over again, perfect for the palm of his hand.

  Which is where I long to be right now, as well.

  Resting in the center of his touch.

  Moaning from the sizzle of his fingertips.

  Bowing to the Zod of his magnificence…

  Silver shards ignite in the depths of his eyes, telling me he’s read every one of those thoughts straight from my brain. Damn the man. How does he do that? And why do I love and hate him for the ability?

  “Let’s just say we’re not really going to Krypton,” he finally offers, quirking one side of his mouth.

  I answer with my own version of the look as we stride off the lift. “Very good news,” I murmur, sidling back against him with a sultry upsweep of my gaze. “Because I think there are a couple of pillows in a bed upstairs that miss our heads—and a few other body parts.”

  He tugs me a little closer, his irises turning the shade of gleaming pewter. “Well…” And just as everything between my thighs starts to pulse because of it… “They’ll have to wait.”

  I almost jerk to a stop—until he pulls me through the double doors leading to the hotel’s VIP porte cochere, where Zalkon, in all his grinning Armenian glory, waits with the back door open to the black BMW L7 Reece prefers for weaving through the crush of LA traffic. In most cases, Reece prefers being the guy behind the wheel himself, but he’s obviously, and wisely, determined that being awake for thirty hours straight doesn’t make him a responsible driver right now.

  I let a wider smile take over my lips before stepping through the doors. “I think they’ll be just fine with waiting.”

  “Meh.” Sawyer’s snide interjection stops us both beneath the awning, and we turn just in time for his next smirk. “Those pillows won’t even know you’re gone.”

  “Huh?” I dart a confused glance between him and Reece, especially when realizing my man takes the pronouncement in complete stride. “Sawyer, what’re you…”

  But I toss aside the rest of my demand when a new arrival steps onto the gold entry carpet. With fresh curls in her blond waves and an impish glint in her bright-blue gaze, it’s clear my sister is in on the guys’ shenanigans—whatever they are.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about the pillows, Em. Chainsaw and I will make sure they don’t go lonely.”

  While watching her step over and shoulder bump Sawyer, I’m not sure whether to join her in the giggle or gulp in abject fear. Her physical security isn’t my worry. I’ve seen Sawyer stand his ground even when Reece goes all glowy-showy meanie on him—but I also know Lydia well enough to detect when she likes a guy and when she likes him. I’m getting neither of those impressi
ons now—which means she’s way further over the cliff about Sawyer than she’s admitted to me. Or likely admitted to herself.

  “Chainsaw?” Reece drawls, meaning I only have to tilt my head to add my own emphasis. Yep, there are a lot of advantages to having one’s man on the same mental wavelength.

  “Yeah, well.” Sawyer gives a head shrug. “Representin’ with the performance review. What can I say?”

  ’Dia grins. “Emphasis on performance.”

  “Ew.” I grimace.

  “Jealous, sistah?” She slides over with shoulder bump love for me this time. “Or do you just want to compare notes on grind speed and intensity levels?”

  “Okay, you are done with the oversharing.” I toss her a glare while wrestling my hand free from Reece, joining it to the other in a dual slam over my ears.

  “Why, whatever do you mean, baby girl?” she teases back. “You testy because that roomful of reporters wanted to know about your midnight snack choices and what color underwear you sleep in? And what was that other one? The real doozy?”

  “Stop,” I growl.

  “Ohhhhh, yeah. Your safe word.”

  “Stooooop.”

  She stops snickering long enough to sneer, “Now you’re paid back for spilling about Princess Purple Pants.”

  “Which means the pillows in the suite had better be in pristine condition when we get back tomorrow.”

  ’Dia widens her shrewd smirk. “Tomorrow, hmmm?” Before I can start to unravel that meaning, she waves a hand toward Reece. “Take her away and make sure she’s Bolted, Mr. Richards. A Lot. She needs it.”

  Sawyer chuffs. “He needs it.”

  “Amen and a half,” Reece murmurs—and while I don’t doubt what all their surface meanings imply, I can’t escape the instinct that’s settled on my senses since the freight elevator ride, rising to my lips as soon as he and I climb into the car.