Bolt Saga, Volume 1 Read online

  This is what I get for skipping my protein bar and yogurt to let the boss feast on me. My brain’s turned cannibal on itself, eating valuable logic links. But a logic deficit is still no reason to be rude.

  “So how may I assist you, Mademoiselle La Salle?” Again, I take in her ensemble. The cashmere is luxurious and fits her toned curves flawlessly. She wears no accessories except for diamond drop earrings so brilliant they must be real. More bling flashes from her feet, adorned in a pair of peep-toe platforms with black insets. “Ground transportation, perhaps?” I dare a between-us-girls grin. “You haven’t dressed up like this for the crowd in the bar. Who’s the lucky guy you’re going to meet?”

  Her laugh is an elegant husk. “You mean…already have met.”

  “Ohhh.” My voice rises knowingly. “That explains a great deal.”

  “Comment ça? A great deal of what?”

  “Of everything.” I nod toward her. “Here in LA, we call it your vibe…your energy. The French probably have a more melodic term.”

  “Je ne sais quoi?”

  “Sounds about right.” I’m able to smile and mean it, but when she responds with nothing but a silken silence, I’m once more the gawky nerd trying to chat it up with the prom queen. “Well, then. It’s clear that you’re a woman who enjoyed her evening, at least.”

  “Hmmm.” She leans a little closer, still looking like a cat contemplating a bowl of cream, until I even get the impression she’s smelling me. “That depends on how you define enjoyable.” Her gaze, wide and inquisitive as a Siamese, lifts to my blushing face. “Perhaps you have had some ‘enjoyment’ tonight as well, my friend?”

  Heat floods my face. The woman’s smile widens. I wave a dismissive hand. “I’m…working.”

  “Hmmm,” she drawls again, one perfect brow arching. “Of course.” She smoothly folds one hand atop the other and rests them on the counter, the move of a feline Bond girl in one of those scenes where you don’t know if she’s a good girl or a killer. “So I am just…imagining…that interesting scent of yours, then?”

  I’m validated but weirded out in the same strange moment. She is sniffing. “I only wear light body spray to work. Maybe that’s strange in your circles, but it’s common courtesy in mine.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She backs away, dipping her head. “Désolée. I meant no intrusion. It is only that…”

  “What?” I’m more irritated than interested now. The only creature fascinated by a cat’s string is the cat—except her teaser has a chunk of psychological Godiva tied to the end. I only hope the chocolate isn’t laced with arsenic.

  “C’est rien.” She quirks another half smile. Zero sincerity backs the look. “It is nothing.”

  I return the look, probably with more gusto than I should. Hanging with the high-end circles of the OC, where every pretentious person irked me, I honed that skill to perfection. Kill ’em with kindness—and if kindness isn’t possible, fake it. “So how did you need our services tonight, mademoiselle?”

  “Ah.” She dashes a finger up, and I almost expect to see a reminder string tied to it. Instead, she opens her graphic-print Balenciaga and produces a pair of items much nicer than string. The cufflinks are simple but luxurious, squares of silver inset with black diamonds. They’re the kind of thing a man would never buy for himself but would wear with pride if given from a special woman.

  “Ah.” I repeat it with meaning—and more than a little relief. Deneuve has a weak spot after all. “These are stunning.”

  “Merci.”

  “And the man for whom they’re intended?” I go there, but with care in my voice.

  “Equally as stunning.”

  Just like that, my relief disappears—though I don’t return to unnerved either. I’m confused. Maybe a little weirded out. Her words don’t match the vibe from her eyes. Je ne sais quoi has gone au revoir.

  “Unfortunately, we were caught up in a…discussion. He left them behind in the car.”

  “Well.” I try to focus on my monitor, clicking to the in-house guest registry instead of gawking at her mysterious expression. No luck. She’s riveting, but not in a fun way. Not a trace of a smile touches her lips, though her longing is a palpable force on the air. “That must have been an epic discussion.”

  “They usually are with him.”

  It’s none of your business, Emma. Mademoiselle La Salle and I have already skated on the edge of too much information with each other.

  “And his last name?” There. Cordial but impartial, likely what she’s been after this whole time anyway. “So I can call up to his room for you,” I clarify. “Or, if you prefer, I can just store them in the hotel’s safe and leave a message in his room.”

  Another win for professionalism—until the woman picks that moment to break the surface of her cream, erupting in a light laugh. “Room? Oh, he is not a guest in this hotel, mon amie.”

  My face tightens into a scowl and a vise closes over my chest. “He…what?” I manage to ask, despite my instincts suddenly clicking and knowing what her response will be. And dreading it.

  “Non.” The worldly smile slides into place. “He owns this hotel. You know him, oui? Monsieur Richards?”

  I’m rocketed out of my fog, only to descend into another. A darker mist. No more cotton-candy clouds. Sherlockian gray and Jack the Ripper black are the new colors of my vision, shrouding my movements.

  Somehow, I manage to make an excuse—more truth than she needs to know—that I’m suddenly not feeling well. I hand her off to Fershan and stumble away. Far away. A black corner. An empty office. Somewhere with space for my shock to choke out, the shit-shit-shits to fade, and the nausea to pass.

  Or maybe not.

  “Em? Dearie?”

  Neeta finds me in the copy room, butt parked atop the shredder, head between my legs over an empty trashcan. Returning to my office is nowhere near an option, not after what I just did in there with Reece.

  After what he did before that with Angelique La Salle.

  Us.

  His perfect spell of a word.

  Did he use it with her too? Before or after she got him out of those cufflinks? Taking off the cufflinks meant she’d gotten him out of his shirt. I’ve never even seen the man without his shirt. But there I was just an hour ago, two offices away, letting him “us” me into visions of pink castles, swirly stars, and omelets cooked in his decadent designer kitchen.

  The comprehension brings back the fog. And the sick.

  “Dearie.” Neeta crouches next to me. Her voice is husky with concern. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Not a lie. Have I known Reece Richards at all? Were naïve and desperate plastered that clearly across my forehead this whole time? “It just hit me.” I’m more sickened when realizing his lie from earlier in the week now provides my perfect alibi. “Maybe I never got rid of the other bug that bit me.”

  Neeta’s features tighten. She shakes her head. “And both times, you had to spend time with Reece Richards.”

  I push out a long huff. “He’s not a Zika mosquito, woman.”

  “But he’s just as strange.” She shakes her head. “Gorgeous but strange.”

  “I refuse to validate this conversation.” That’s the truth too—though it’s also a convenient cut to the real issue at hand. “I… I think I just need to go home.”

  I need to be anywhere but here.

  In an environment he can’t control. A place where I can think.

  More to the point—where I don’t have to think at all.

  “Of course.” She starts, glancing at the clock. “But it’s nearly eleven. Will you be all right on the train? Maybe I can spare Fersh or Wade to drive you…”

  “The hell you can.” I inwardly applaud myself for always insisting Z drop me around the corner from the lobby. I also know he’s already waiting in the same spot, which is perfect. My route to the train station is the opposite direction. But I don’t care anymore. Or feel the need to answer to his “emp
loyer” about anything.

  * * *

  It’s oddly comforting to ride the train again, especially at this time of night. Rush hour is long over, giving me space to breathe along with the comfort of anonymity. The roar of the cars on the tracks is perfect too—a fitting sparring partner for the rage of my senses, the tumult of my heart.

  The Purple Line ends at Union Station, and I walk to the platform for the Gold Line with my head down and arms tucked in. It’s a warm evening, with summer tickling the early June air, but I can’t stop shivering. As much as I hate being cold, I welcome the chill. I don’t want to be warm right now. Don’t want to even think of the last time I was warm, just an hour ago.

  A lifetime ago.

  A heartbreak ago.

  I’d been giggling at the sight of Reece’s ass wrapped in my sweatshirt, along with his sheepish smirk. He’d asked how I’d like my eggs. I’d responded, “Hot and firm—like your fine backside, Mr. Richards.”

  He’d grinned like a loon and told me I’d earned champagne with breakfast too.

  I wonder how Angelique likes her eggs. I wonder if she earns herself champagne too.

  The train arrives. I stumble onto it as the tears hit again.

  By the time I stop, I’m honking gobs of snot into a tissue—and realizing I’ve bawled my way through three stops. Going the wrong damn direction on the line.

  After groaning in three different octaves, I glare up at the salsa ad mounted over the door. It features three parrots in mariachi outfits, complete with little ornate vests and sombreros. I can see the humiliation pouring out of their little birdy eyes. “Been that kind of a night for you guys too, eh?”

  I hurry off at the next stop. The train pulls away, leaving me alone on the platform to wait for the line going the correct direction. Not entirely alone, if I count the family of opossums scuttling in the shadows next to the tracks.

  A gust of night wind howls through the station. The chill in my bones seeps deeper, prompting me to head for the shelter of the empty exit stairway. It could be fifteen or twenty minutes before I see another train, and I miss my sweatshirt for more practical reasons now.

  “Think warm.” My mutter is low, rough, and miserable. “Think Palm Springs. Think hot bubble bath. Think Malibu in July.”

  Yeah. Malibu. My go-to for long afternoons with my beach chair, a book, and a can of Cactus Cooler. The drink is one of my guilty indulgences, a holdover of childhood memories before we moved to the land of green tea and vitamin water. Bright orange drink. Glittering blue ocean. Brilliant cyan sky. So bright, it hurt to look at the horizon. So bright and silver…

  Like Reece’s eyes.

  No.

  I refocus, thinking more about Malibu. The powerful rush of the waves countered by their gentle fizzle on the shore. Might and mist…

  Like Reece’s voice.

  “No, damn it.”

  It’s barely more than a grunt, but it echoes through the stairwell like a shout. In reply, the air just gives me more ghostly wind…

  And then a quiet laugh.

  And another one.

  Arms still crossed, I whirl around and peer across the station. Still nothing but the opossums.

  I whip back toward the stairway.

  And come face-to-face with three leering gazes.

  Men.

  Okay, boys—though they swagger and stare and salivate like men, taking me in like a pack of hungry wolves surrounding a rabbit. I attempt a polite nod while backing away. All three of them step with me. One of them moves farther, sliding around to my other side.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” I try to give them the benefit of a doubt. Who am I kidding? It’s for my benefit too. I can’t allow my fear to buy into the intentions I sense behind their eyes. It’s true, right? What they say about predators being able to smell fear? With that thought in mind, I tuck a hand into my purse. “My hand is on my mace, so let’s ensure I don’t have to use it, all right?”

  I’m so busy being calm, I never take a moment to tack on vigilant—demonstrated when my purse disappears off my arm. The whole thing is tossed across the stairwell except for the mace can, which flies twenty feet as the middle creep moves in, slamming me against the wall. He’s also the largest, with sizable muscles under his track pants and plaid shirt.

  “We’ll show you how to use shit, all right.” He slides a greasy kiss to my cheek while the third guy scoots in, breaking open the fastening of my pants. My heart clutches and my breath halts as he uses the tip of a knife to slice the fabric open the rest of the way. “And if you’re quiet and pretty, we won’t have to show you how Freddie likes using his blade in other ways, either.”

  “She is pretty,” the first one croons. “I like her, man.”

  “Bitch is gonna be good,” says Freddie, twirling his knife. “I can tell. Called us gentlemen and everything. Hey, we should even use condoms.”

  Shit-shit-shit-shit.

  Help-help-help-help!

  The pleas pound my spirit in time to the frantic air that’s cycling between my lungs and nostrils. The asshole handles the knife with enough fearless finesse that I know he’s used it on human flesh before. That he won’t hesitate to do the same right now. Wasting my strength begging for mercy isn’t viable either. The guy’s stare is jacked with enough insanity and arousal, I’m sure he’d enjoy my pleas—and my pain. He backs up the theory by barely flinching when his tall friend kicks him in the shin.

  “Fuckface.” The big one grunts. “We used our last ones on that little thing with the pink hair in Santa Monica last night.”

  “Ohhh yeah. Sorry, man. I was baked.”

  “Like you are right now?”

  “Hmmm. Maybe.”

  “Pffft. That settles it.” The first guy drops the front of his pants. “I get to go first. Freddie takes forever when he’s high, and I’m not waiting this time.”

  “Yeah?” Freddie retorts. “And what did you have to lose? I nailed her good and hard. Lubed her for you, dickhead. Wasn’t like we had to worry about Boltalicious poppin’ outta the woodwork.”

  The comment primes my tears, making me acknowledge the thread of weird hope to which I’ve been clinging—that someone, anyone, will come along with both the guts and the force to prevent this from happening. But the Lone Ranger is just a comic book character, and Boltalicious is on his mysterious do-gooding break—meaning this is going to happen.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping it’ll happen with me still in one piece at the end.

  Too late.

  Physically, I’m still whole. Mentally, I’ve already started to detach. Survive. The goal stamps on my mind, my beacon in the darkness of what these monsters prepare to do.

  Tall Boy laughs, cinching my hands even tighter. He moves to the side, which angles his armpit over my face. I struggle not to breathe, an impossibility given the new force of my tears. Stenches assault my senses, each of the odors at least three days old. Grease, motor oil, sweat, pot—and those are the elements I can identify. A few others are nasty mysteries, for which I’d likely be grateful if I could feel anything except terror. “Ha. Good one, cuz,” he says. “Boltalicious. That shitpile’s as ragged as a wad of chewing gum anyhow.”

  “Pretty on the outside, gooey on the inside?” The creep still playing with his penis drawls it.

  “If I ever got to mix it up with the guy? Shit yeah. I’d expose that hustler for what he really is. Penny pranks, special effects, and low-budget magic tricks.”

  He pauses, but only for a second. Encouraged by his friends’ snickers, the asshole clearly has more to say.

  Until he doesn’t.

  The air is blasted, sucked, and moved around us with such violence, all four of us are toppled to the concrete floor like a rug has been yanked from under us.

  Whomp. The guy who was just pinning me is slammed back up against the wall. His arms and legs splay out, pinned in place by giant invisible thumbtacks. That’s the only way I can describe it. The asshole squirms, fighti
ng bonds that aren’t there, incredulous shock claiming his face just before a wet splotch appears at the front of his jeans.

  The force of nature that put him there steps out of the shadows surrounding the tracks.

  A badass in black leather. Hybrid ninja boots. Maserati mask. Lips curled in fury.

  “Abracadabra, motherfuckers.”

  REECE

  Thank fuck this isn’t one of those gigs requiring me to get it right on the first try. Because right now, I’m a superhero with completely screwed alignment. As in, enraged-to-the-point-of-impaired screwed.

  After three failed attempts that resulted in two of the three jerkwads bonking around the station like pinballs at the mercy of a maniac, I finally succeed at my original intent—knocking them together hard enough to land them in the same unconscious heap. That being done, and after vowing to send a check to LA Metro as penance for crashing them into five lights, two vending machines, and several support pillars, I wait for the calm to settle in. I force deep breaths in. Back out. Concentrate on loosening my fists. No use. Fuck me.

  I raise my head, getting a glimpse of myself in one of the chrome tube railings, and am stunned I’m not the color of glowing broccoli. On paper, my reaction makes sense—but the daggers chopping up my gut aren’t garden-variety fear. This shit is terror, stark and sick, spawned the moment I got back to the penthouse and obeyed a gut instinct to check the security cams in the executive office hallways. Watching Emma all but crawl out of the copier room while leaning into a clearly concerned Neeta pricked my first alarm. The shit clanged to five alarms once I clicked to the front-desk feed—in time to watch Angelique making nicey-nice with Fershan Bennett.

  Angelique. Goddamnit.

  The bitch from hell who dared to enter my turf. That refined smile on her lips…and my cufflinks in her hand.

  Those fucking cufflinks.

  Yeah, the ones I haven’t been able to even look at for a year, so deep and Pavlovian is their hold on my memory. On my fear…

  Fear not rising to half of what struck when I comprehended the scope of Angelique’s game—resulting in Emma leaving her shift and fleeing the Brocade.