Bolt Saga, Volume 1 Read online

  Bolt

  Bolt Saga: Volume One

  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 Thomas…my incredible superhero, every single day.

  Contents

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 3

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Continue the Bolt Saga with Part 4

  Excerpt from Ignite: Part 4 in the Bolt Saga

  Also by Angel Payne

  Acknowledgments

  About Angel Payne

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Reece

  She’s got the body of a goddess, the eyes of a temptress, and the lips of a she-devil.

  And tonight, she’s all mine. In every way I can possibly fantasize.

  And damn, do I have a lot of fantasies.

  Riveted by her seductive glance, I follow Angelique La Salle into a waiting limo. A couple of friends from the party we’ve just left—their names already as blurry as the lights of Barcelona’s Plaça Reial—wave goodbye as if she’s taking me away on a six-month cruise to paradise.

  Ohhh, yeah.

  As an heir to a massive hotel dynasty, I’ve never wanted for the utmost in luxurious destinations, but I’ve never been on a cruise. I think I’d like it. Nothing to think about but the horizon…and booze. Freedom from reporters, like the mob that were flashing their cameras in my face back at the club.

  What’ll the headlines be, I wonder.

  Undoubtedly, they’ve already got a few combinations composed—a mix of the buzz words already trending about me this week.

  Party Boy. Player. The Heir with the Hair. The Billionaire with the Bulge.

  Well. Mustn’t disappoint them about the bulge.

  As the driver merges the car into Saturday night traffic, Angelique moves her lush green gaze over everything south of my neck. Within five seconds my body responds. The fantasies in my brain are overcome by the depraved tempest of my body. My chest still burns from the five girls on the dance floor who group-hickied me. My shoulders are on fire from the sixth girl who clawed me like a madwoman while watching from behind. My dick pulses from a hard-on that won’t stop because of the seventh girl—and the line of coke she snorted off it.

  Angelique gazes at that part with lingering appreciation.

  “C’est magnifique.” Her voice is husky as she closes in, sliding a hand into the open neckline of my shirt. Where’s my tie? I was wearing one tonight—at some point. The Prada silk is long gone, much like my self-control. Beneath her roaming fingers, my skin shivers and then heats.

  Well…shit.

  If my brain just happens to enjoy this as much as my body…I sure as hell won’t complain.

  Maybe she’ll be the one.

  Maybe she’ll be…more.

  The one who’ll change things at last.

  Even if she’s not going to be the one, she’s at least someone. A body to warm the night. A presence, of any kind, to fill the depths. The emptiness I stopped thinking about a long damn time ago.

  “You’re magnificent too,” I murmur, struggling to maintain control as she swings a Gumby-loose limb over my lap and straddles me. What little there is of her green cocktail dress rides up her thighs. She’s wearing nothing underneath, of course—a fact that should have my cock much happier than it is. Troubling…but not disturbing. I’m hard, just not throbbing. Not needing. I’m not sure what I need anymore, only that I seem to spend a lot of time searching for it.

  “So flawless,” she croons, freeing the buttons of my shirt down to my waist. “Oui. These shoulders, so broad. This stomach, so etched. You are perfect, mon chéri. So perfect for this.”

  “For what?”

  “You shall see. Very soon.”

  “I don’t even get a hint?” I spread a smile into the valley between her breasts.

  “That would take the fun out of the surprise, n’est-ce pas?”

  I growl but don’t push the point, mostly because she makes the wait well worth it. During the drive, she taunts and tugs, strokes and licks, teases and entices, everywhere and anywhere, until I’m damn near tempted to order the driver to pull over so I can whip out a condom and screw this temptress right here and now.

  But where the hell is here?

  As soon as I think the question, the limo pulls into an industrial park of some sort. A secure one, judging by the high walls and the large gate that rolls aside to grant our entry.

  Inside, at least in the carport, all is silent. The air smells like cleaning chemicals and leather…and danger. Nothing like a hint of mystery to make a sex club experience all the sweeter.

  “A little trip down memory lane, hmmm?” I nibble the bottom curve of Angelique’s chin. It’s been three weeks since we’d met in a more intimate version of this type of place, back in Paris. I’d been hard up. She’d been alluring. End of story. Or beginning, depending on how one looks at it. “How nostalgic of you, darling.”

  As she climbs from the limo, she leaves her dress behind in a puddle on the ground. It wasn’t doing much good where I bunched it around her waist anyway. “Come, my perfect Adonis.”

  Perfect. I don’t hear that word often, at least not referring to me. Too often, I’m labeled with one of those media favorites, or if I’m lucky, one of the specialties cooked up by Dad or Chase in their weekly phone messages. Dad’s a little more lenient, going for shit like “hey, stranger” or “my gypsy kid.” Chase doesn’t pull so many punches. Lately, his favorite has been “Captain Fuck-Up.”

  “Bet you’d like to be Captain Fuck-Up right about now, asshole,” I mutter as two gorgeous women move toward me, summoned by a flick of Angelique’s fingers. Their white lab coats barely hide their generous curves, and I find myself taking peeks at their sheer white hose, certain the things must be held up by garters. Despite the kinky getups, neither of them crack so much as a smile while they work in tandem to strip me.

  I’m so caught up in what the fembots are doing, I’ve missed Angelique putting on a new outfit. Instead of the gold stilettos she’d rocked at the club, she’s now in sturdier heels and a lab coat. Her blond waves are pulled up and pinned back.

  “Well, well, well. Doctor La Salle, I presume?” Eyeing her new attire with a wicked smirk, I ignore the sudden twist in my gut as she sweeps a stare over me. Her expression is stripped of lust. She’s damn near clinical.

  “Oh, I am not a doctor, chéri.”r />
  I arch my brows and put both hands on my hips, strategically guiding her sights back to my jutting dick. I may not know how the woman likes her morning eggs yet, but I do know she’s a sucker for an arrogant bastard—especially when he’s naked, erect, and not afraid to do something about it.

  “Well, that’s okay, chérie.” I swagger forward. “I can pretend if you can.”

  Angelique draws in a long breath and straightens. Funny, but she’s never looked hotter to me. Even now, when she really does look like a doctor about to lay me out with shitty test results. “No more pretending, mon ami.”

  “No more—” My stomach twists again. I glance backward. The two assistants aren’t there anymore, unless they’ve magically transformed into two of the burliest hulks I’ve ever seen not working a nightclub VIP section.

  But these wonder twins clearly aren’t here to protect me.

  In tandem, they pull me back and flatten me onto a rolling gurney.

  And buckle me down. Tight.

  Really tight.

  “What. The. Fuck?”

  “Sssshhh.” She’s leaning over my face—the wonder fuckers have bolted my head in too—brushing tapered fingers across my knitted forehead. “This will be easier if you don’t resist, mon trésor.”

  “This? This…what?”

  Her eyes blaze intensely before glazing over—with insanity. “History, Reece! We are making history, and you are now part of it. One of the most integral parts!”

  “You’re—you’re batshit. You’re not forging history, you bitch. You’re committing a crime. This is kidnapping!”

  Her smile is full of eerie serenity. “Not if nobody knows about it.”

  “People are going to know if I disappear, Angelique.”

  “Who says you are going to disappear?”

  For some reason, I have no comeback for that. No. I do know the reason. Whatever she’s doing here might be insanity—but it’s well-planned insanity.

  Which means…

  I’m screwed.

  The angel I trusted to take me to heaven has instead handed me a pass to hell.

  Making this, undoubtedly, the hugest mess my cock has ever gotten me into.

  Chapter One

  Emma

  One year later…

  The executive offices at Hotel Brocade are always a fun place to be, but they’re even more exciting when the boys in the reservations bay are trying to kill each other.

  “Bam!”

  “Kazow!”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Not if you’re dead first.”

  “Yeah, right. Because your spleen on the ground isn’t an indication I got you first, huh, crap-for-brains?”

  Ahhhh. Nothing like the sounds of cybergeeks in full slay-or-be-slain mode, a special perk of working the six p.m. to four a.m. shift. When splattered spleens are invoked, I know it’s time to finish up my break and get back to work. Let nobody say the new girl didn’t learn the important lessons fast.

  Thank God.

  Because I really need this job.

  I swore I’d cut off my right nipple if I got this position. The left one too, though thankfully things never came to that. I intend to keep my nipples and the job by being the hardest-working person in the building.

  This job is what finally got me out of hell.

  Okay, Orange County hasn’t always been hell. It just took a dive that direction once Dad got his massive promotion to VP at an international conglomerate with a massive campus in Irvine, thrusting our family into another income bracket—and the stratosphere of vanilla-flavored snobbery.

  AKA hell.

  But I’ve escaped. I’m no longer part of that world. I’ve finally begun a life filled with more than hair appointments, yoga classes, and fretting about the carb count in my morning muffin.

  I intend to stay here.

  This job is the key to truly beginning my life.

  I arrive back at my office, a proud smile erupting as I take in my view. Twinkle lights glow in the olive and palm trees surrounding the pool area. Banks of tropical flowers flutter in the gauzy night breeze. A few people are enjoying the hot tub across the deck, quietly laughing and talking, but there’s nobody in the bigger pool, so the water is reflected as lazy aqua swirls against my office window. The scene is stunning, even at night.

  God, I really love working here.

  “Well, good evening, Miss Emmalina Crist.”

  I smile toward the source of the greeting issued in a musical accent from my office doorway.

  “Good evening to you too, Miss Neeta Jain.”

  Neeta folds her arms and grins. “The warriors of Geekdom have you cutting and running for the sane side of the building again?”

  I laugh, slightly nervously. Neeta is dressed nearly the same as me, in a dark skirt suit with a satin blouse beneath, but on her the look is sleek and glam, while I feel like the girl playacting at adulting. Which is ridiculous. I’m nearly twenty-four now. I landed this job on my own. Paid for this suit with my own money. It’s not dress-up. It’s mine. This life is mine.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  I intend to keep repeating it, in my heart and on my lips, until I really believe it.

  For now, I push aside how her waterfall of dark hair and perfectly kohled eyes remind me of the pretty but plain world for which I still feel like the poster child.

  “It’s all right,” I assure her. “Wade and Fershan deliver when it matters most. Their guest satisfaction scores are among the highest for the Reservations Department. As long as they’re Prince Charmings for the public, I don’t care if they eviscerate each other a hundred times tonight.”

  She laughs softly while walking toward the window. “Excellent point.” But her composure jolts the second she pivots toward my monitor. “And speaking of excellent points…” Her jaw goes slack. She drops into my chair. “Look at the glory of this one.”

  I move behind her, curious about what’s caused her to gawk. Every staff computer is programmed to boot up into the guest-room online menu so we stay aware of any technical issues. In addition to local attractions, there’s a live feed of local news features cultivated for the maximum relevance to our guests, though the feature is often more valuable for us. Our downtown location puts us in the thick of it during major emergencies—which could be anything from a six-plus magnitude earthquake to a diva breaking a fingernail en route to an awards show—so the constantly changing feed has become an essential compass.

  Right now, Neeta expands the compass with eager swiftness. I won’t be surprised if her throaty gasps and dreamy sighs develop into drooling.

  “Glory?” I mean every note of my fascinated echo. I need to see what’s turned her from worldly and sleek to stuttering and adolescent.

  Once I step around and view the screen, a frown takes over. “A convenience store robbery?” I thought I’d be helping her ogle the hottest hunks on some movie premiere red carpet. “Okay, even the OC peasant isn’t getting the appeal.” I wonder if we need to change the feed to another station. Last time I checked, stories like this didn’t fit any of the Richards Resorts “R’s of Hospitality.” Relax. Revitalize. Renew.

  “A thwarted convenience store robbery.” Neeta jabs a red-tipped fingernail in emphasis. “And look at the god who did the thwarting.”

  “God?”

  “God.”

  I peer closer at the feed. It shows the same basic news-chopper view of the little store like so many others in the city. Semi-busy street intersection. Palm trees. Geraniums planted in the median. A couple of parking spaces and a bike rack out front. Posters for beer and lottery tickets in the front window. A neon sign: Yes, We’re Open. There’s nothing special about the police presence either. A pair of cruisers with lights flashing, turning the area into an ironic urban disco.

  “I really…don’t see what’s so…”

  But then I do see.

  The screen changes, showing cell phone footage timestamped
from forty-five minutes ago. Looks like amateur stuff captured from across the street from the store. The cell owner’s commentary can be heard, captured along with the images.

  “Damn. What assholes would rob Santa Claus?”

  Sure enough, the store’s proprietor is a sweet old guy who probably volunteers as Saint Nick around the holidays. I wouldn’t believe any less, though right now he stands behind the counter wearing a Go Dodgers T-shirt. Though the leader of the hoodlums has drawn a gun, the man reaches for them like Santa trying to reason with a pair of Jack Frosts with matching bleached Mohawks.

  “That sweet man,” Neeta murmurs. “I’d be on the floor in a puddle of terror.”

  “You mean like her?”

  The cell phone shot pans wider to include a woman no older than us cowering on the floor. Bad guy number three, just noticing her, stomps over for the grab.

  But he clutches at nothing but air because the woman has…levitated.

  At least five feet. Straight into the air.

  “What…the…”

  “Right?” Neeta gasps as the girl starts to scream. “That’s not even the best part.”

  “There’s more?”

  I barely get the words out before the poor woman starts to gently float toward the back of the store as if being carried by some invisible divinity. There’s five feet of empty air between her and the floor and a discernible black line scorches the linoleum along the terrified woman’s path to safety.