Bolt Saga, Volume 2 Read online

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  Bolt Saga: Volume Two

  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.

  Now more than ever, for Thomas:

  The one who taught me to dream big, then gave me the wings to try.

  And for Jess, who shows me that weird is the coolest corner in the universe.

  Contents

  Part 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 5

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 6

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Continue the Bolt Saga with Part 7

  Excerpt from Pulse: Part 7 in the Bolt Saga

  Also by Angel Payne

  Acknowledgments

  About Angel Payne

  Part 4

  Chapter One

  Emma

  Funny how life changes when the world knows you’re sleeping with a superhero.

  Funnier still how the differences are most glaring in the tiniest details. Like finally finding one’s way to the ladies’ room after a five-hour flight and a twenty-minute gate taxi only to have one’s three-by-six-foot sanctum pierced by an urgent whisper from the next stall over.

  “Hey.”

  At first, I clear my throat and ignore her. The chick’s probably just on the phone with someone and isn’t aware of my presence next door.

  “Hey. You. Emma Crist.”

  “Uhhhh…” I repeat the throat clearance with a little more emphasis. Believe me, I’m painfully used to being recognized in public these days, but it’s usually not when I’m pausing for a second of relief in the airport bathroom. “Yes? Can I help you?” In any case, professional mode is best. She’s probably just asking for toilet paper or a tampon.

  “So tell me what he’s like.”

  I watch my eyes bug in the reflection from the stainless-steel door. “He…who?”

  “Come on. You know who.”

  “I…uh…”

  “Reece Richards.” She adds a conspiratorial giggle. “You know. Bolt. What’s he like, girlfriend?”

  “I beg your pardon?” My confusion is authentic on several levels. I’m really in the weeds about what to do. I’m done with my business but afraid to budge. If I make a move, will she flush just as fast and corner me against the sinks? If I don’t, how long will she hold me hostage on the pot in order to win her answer?

  “I bet he can fuck like a machine. Right?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Probably doesn’t even need a recharge—even if that cover story you’re floating is true, about the thunder and lightning being a big ol’ magic trick and all.”

  “Well.” Forget professional. Maybe I just need to show my whole hand now. A full house of irked, peeved, and get-lost-lady. “Reece has already made his official statements on the matter.”

  Statements that were meant to buy us some time. Badly needed time. A moment’s breath to figure out our new reality, which feels no more real now than it did back in July. The night he’d taken off his mask in that room, in front of my family and a hundred other Newport Beach socialites, and changed my life forever. A change I thought I was ready for—but quickly learned I wasn’t. Since then, despite the changes and compromises we’ve both made, life still feels like a gigantic roller coaster, with no return back to the loading platform in sight.

  Which means I need to learn to hold on tighter or seriously invest in some barf bags.

  “Come on. Just tell me.” Annnnd, Stall One is still damned and determined to girl-talk her way into a confession from me. “He’s better than the little battery bunny, isn’t he? But does he come with a…drum?”

  The threads of suspicion in my gut form into a bigger ball. This chica’s pushing the metaphors hard. Just like a good gossip reporter would…

  “I…”

  The trill of my cell can’t be better timed. With a whoosh of relief, I grab for the thing. “Sorry. Have to get this.”

  “Oh, God. Is it him?”

  Of course it’s him. Not that I’m going to tell her that.

  Using the nickname we openly borrowed from the world’s most notable superhero creator provides a perfect way to do that.

  “Mr. Lee.” Like the real Mr. Lee, my man has a tendency of showing up in the most unexpected places at the oddest times, earning him instant street cred for the designation.

  Reece Andrew Richards has a different view on the matter and makes that clear with a dark, dangerous, arousing-as-hell growl.

  “How can I be of service to you this afternoon?”

  Reece repeats the sound but with more sensual undertones. “That all depends.”

  “Yes. Go ahead. Of course I’m here.” Attempting to keep up the calm, cool, and professional thing is not easy when the man has the power to flip my stomach like a pancake simply with the force of his voice.

  “On whether you plan on fully apologizing for using that little zinger.”

  I clear my throat again, using the sound to cover what it takes to clean stuff up and get back to my feet. “We fully understand your frustration with the situation, Mr. Lee. Richards Resorts wants to make things right. I’m still at the airport, but I’ll be back at my desk in about an hour and will be happy to—”

  “No.”

  One word, full of carnal command, turns the pancake to mush—along with my knees. I fight to stay upright with a fortifying breath through my nose. “So sorry. Could you repeat, please? I didn’t quite get that.”

  Reece’s grunting laugh fills the line. “Oh, you’ll get it, my little velvet bunny. Just not back at the office.” He adds a subtle hum because he knows, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, how hot the sound makes me—and exactly where. “It’s Friday. You’re taking the rest of the day off.”

  I unlatch the stall door and march to the mirrors and sinks—where my flushed cheeks and aroused eyes are waiting to gloat at me in full. Damn him. How I’ve missed him. “I’ll have to double-check that request with upper management.”

  “Upper management is waiting for you at the curb, woman.” His tone drops into the rugged valley between seduction and fornication. “Which means get rid of whoever’s gawking at you and get your sweet ass out to the VIP pick-up curb.”

  “Well, I have checked bags—”

  “Which Z is already handling,” he supplies. “So you have no more excuses. Get out here. Into my arms. Now.”

  “Wait. What? Into your—” I’m cut off from the rest of my gasp as my new bestie from stall one strides out in all her glossy-lipped, sprayed-on-jeans glory. I can read every thought in her head ju
st by glancing at her knowing smirk. She’s on to me. More accurately, she’s on to “Mr. Lee’s” true identity. “I’m certain that can be arranged, sir. Your satisfaction is always our first priority.”

  Stall Girl yips out a laugh that echoes in the oddly uncrowded bathroom. The moment couldn’t be better timed. Reece’s verbal foreplay is causing blood to collect in parts of my body where it shouldn’t, and a full-on sprint out to Mr. Snarly and Seductive has started beckoning like the swoony romance-movie cliché it is. Maintaining my cool for the strange woman is really a blessing in disguise, especially because everyone wants—and expects—the whole passionate reunion thing between Reece and me now, with “EmRee’s” magic three-month mark just hurdled.

  EmRee.

  Seriously. That’s what they call us in all the papers and tabloids that seem to matter to people like Stall One Girl, who follows me out of the restroom and down the concourse.

  EmRee.

  It’s so stupid, it’s cute.

  And still a little surreal. And definitely a lot of crazy.

  But maybe that last part does fit. Because damn, am I crazy about this man—a truth never blazed so boldly into me than the moment I step out of the terminal and into the heat of an LA Indian summer day, only to be riveted by the one sight hotter than the heatwaves rising from the asphalt. Yet oddly, even in the charcoal suit precision-fit to the millimeter for his powerful torso, Reece stands as if he doesn’t know the meaning of the word sweat. He’s polished and tall and suave and perfect, long legs braced like a Viking atop an iceberg, with the wind blowing his mocha hair back with equal drama. I’m unable to see his eyes due to the photo-gray film on his glasses, but the subtle shift in the right side of his jaw already betrays how intense his silver gaze must be.

  Holy. Freaking. God.

  I stop for a second, visually pinned by him—until the ache of missing him is suddenly replaced by the need to be with him. Against him. All over him. The craving is so urgent, I don’t even care about the camera strobes and excited shouts suddenly surging around me. Thankfully, airport security is part of that tsunami, and I dash through the narrow gauntlet the officers create in the throng for me. Racing toward my peace in the storm.

  Toward my hero.

  “Velvet,” he grates into my hair, some of his volume stripped by my collision into him. I don’t think Reece minds. His answering embrace is a crush, and he tightens it until I’m a breathless mess. I pull away for air, but he’s already tucked his head in, lifting a hand to brace my jaw and position me for the kiss I’ve craved over every inch of distance between JFK and here. By the time his lips sweep down, mine are already parted, longing for the hot and heavy thrust of his take-no-prisoners tongue. He doesn’t leave me bereft. My mouth is filled with him. Assaulted by him. Sighing in utter bliss as he groans, sucking at me, before pushing in for more of my surrender.

  Around us, cameras still shutter in a frenzy, and bodies collide as reporters jostle for the best angle of our mutual mauling. I’m beyond caring. As exhilarating as the last five days have been, they were four and a half days too long. We haven’t been apart for more than five hours since we finally decided to make this interesting relationship work—emphasis on the interesting. But that term came with its own definition in the world of Reece, who’d revealed to me that his bad-boy-billionaire rep, while true at one time, had become the ideal disguise for his true identity as Bolt, LA’s lightning-pulsed superhero savior. And the oh, by the way he piled on top of that? Just the small matter of the lunatic scientists who’d used him as their bioelectrical experiment to begin with and who were still hunting down their rogue Frankenstein.

  Needless to say, our first few dates were slightly more eventful than grabbing a pizza and a movie.

  But that’s like another novel ago.

  Right now, all I can think of is treasuring his muscular fullness in my arms, the powerful perfection of his mouth, and the feeling of his heartbeat next to mine again. Celebratory passion following what had to be the best business trip of my life.

  The trip he made possible.

  Thinking about it all—the phone calls he made, the emails he sent, the personal trips he took to shake hands with all the right people, to incite all the right kind of expediting—launches me to somewhere between giddy and euphoric. I funnel it all into my kiss, showing him exactly how much joy he’s brought to every inch of my heart. He responds with a darker groan, twisting one hand into my hair and the other into my T-shirt, which sets off a new frenzy of flashing cameras and a new surge of ecstatic reporters.

  “Sheez, Reece,” one of them finally shouts. “Give the woman a chance to breathe.”

  He’s answered by one of the women in the throng. “Well, if a girl’s gotta meet her maker, that’s the way to do it.”

  “Not before getting bolted in a big way,” a new female quips. Or is she new? I pull back enough from Reece to glance her direction. Sure enough, it’s Stall One Girl, now armed with a microphone and backed by a cameraman. My scathing scrutiny only incites her sorry-not-sorry shrug. Inwardly, I high-five myself for taking the icy professional path with her in the bathroom—not that it’s made a difference, since she adds with a smirk, “And I do mean a big way.”

  Another reporter steps forward, seeming a little more on the sane side, until he taps his pen into the air and questions, “So what does comprise a Bolt-style homecoming for his best girl?”

  “His only girl.” Reece yanks me in tighter while correcting the guy, his tone edging toward censure. “And the rest of that’s an irrelevant question because, as you all know by now, Bolt has taken an early retirement.”

  A round of groans is his instant reply. Some of them resound with disappointment, but the majority are expressions of skepticism, verbalized by the persistent pen tapper.

  “Right. Retired.” A pen materializes in his other hand—imagine that—to assist his air quote emphasis. “Just like all his badass stunts were simply elaborate ‘science experiments’ used in a real-life testing ground.”

  “For which I’ve apologized to the mayor and made restitution to the city,” Reece fills in. “None of the trials should have gone to the level of realism that they did, and for that I am regretful.” His face takes on such somber lines, even I start to believe his ruse. “Of course, I’m also thankful. The DA has been lenient in not pursuing any charges in consideration of Richards Research offering to pay for all repairs to city property damaged in Bolt’s escapades.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that he helped put away some nasty bastards in the process,” the reporter counters, supported by a round of nods from…well…just about everyone. “Including the creeps who tried to assault Miss Crist in the train station.”

  “For which Miss Crist is deeply thankful,” I interject. “Along with the other victims of the other crimes for which Bolt made the perpetrators pay—even though he isn’t, and won’t ever be, a paid law enforcement official.”

  I conclude by visibly squeezing Reece’s shoulder, answered by his tender “yes, dear” glance. The moment sets off another flurry of flashbulbs, confirming we’ve done our job in convincing them the cover story is real. It helps that most of it is. I really am beyond thankful for what happened in the metro station a week after we first met, when Reece swept in and put down the scumbags who had me in a corner. He really did do it with nothing but six months’ worth of martial arts and defense training under his belt, meaning the incident could’ve had a horrifically different result. And no, he’s not going to attempt something like it again because Bolt’s leathers have been retired for good.

  The only thing the world doesn’t know—or need to know—is exactly why.

  “So.” The declaration, issued from Stall Girl, all but lasers her question into the air. “What happens now, EmRee? Give us the scoop, you two. We’ve worked hard for it.”

  I grimace. “Paging understatement to the white courtesy curb.”

  She rewards my sarcasm with a cute wink, but isn’t dete
rred from continuing. “Are we talking…what…a reality show? Maybe a scripted series? Endorsement deals? A book contract?” She tilts her head as if that one’s rung a particularly loud bell. “Is that why you went to New York, Emmalina?”

  Reece lifts one hand, almost looking like a Bible School Jesus about to multiply fish for the masses. “As stated in the press release from Richards Industries yesterday, which you all should’ve had time to read by now”—he hooks a brow her direction—“Miss Crist was in New York in her capacity as the supervising director of Richards Reaches Out, the new nonprofit arm of our company. RRO is focused on giving back to youth across the globe, especially in helping hardworking young leaders who haven’t been given financial or social advantages to better themselves.”

  Another reporter sidles forward, bumping shoulders with Pen Tapper. “So you’re actually contributing to social awareness beyond supporting the world’s vodka industry, Richards?”

  Rage clouds the edges of my vision. The prick is as smallminded as his gossip-rag readers. Can’t they see that people can change when they really want to? That people grow up, man up, and want to take accountability for their lives? But the guy’s smug smirk already gives me the answer, which should be my cue to summon my Zen side.

  Impossible.

  Thank God Reece has had a lot more practice with this shit, as he demonstrates with a diplomatic spread of his hands while offering, “Fair enough question, Quinn—but wouldn’t you agree that turning over new leaves is a hell of a lot more interesting than digging through the worms beneath the old?”