Bolt: Bolt Saga: Volume One Read online

  The…Consortium…is…cold…methodical…ruthless…

  For five 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 few 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 other. 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 my rage really 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 almost a week, 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 superspy 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 adrenaline 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 sparkling tower.

  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 five damn days of hell.

  Five days. A hundred and twenty 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 turn, grabbing him by both forearms. “How?”

  He drags in a tight breath. Releases it with matching determination. “I got a guy.”

  I clutch him harder. That doesn’t help me tamp my giggle. “You…got a guy? Seriously?”

  Even the edges of his lips twitch. Holy shit, the man is hot in sneaky ninja mode but even hotter when in reluctant humor mode. “Let’s just say I was ready for the help. And finally hauled my head far enough out of my ass to ask for it.”

  Deeper frown. “Needed help?” I have to admit, the concept is crazy. I’ve watched this man command entire boardrooms, pin hoodlums to walls, and clean huge hotel suites until they sparkle like TV commercials. Is there really something in this world he needs help with? “Why?”

  He takes another deep breath. In the doing, he brings a meaning across his features that I can’t describe, except in terms of what it does to my senses. I feel dunked in something thick, warm, and mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. Galvanizing.

  Just like the first time he ever looked at me with such open need.

  “I realized I’d made a huge fucking mistake,” he finally grates. “And that in order to fix it properly, I’d need some professional help.”

  Oh, God. Here comes the fresh giggle. “I take it you don’t mean a shrink.”

  “Don’t push it,” he grumbles, sliding in closer so his hands brace my hips. “Though if that’s also what this is going to take, then sign me up for the shrink too.”

  I give up the mirth for more confusion. “What what is going to take?”

  He leans in more. His gaze intensifies, holding mine in its magic like silver angel’s wings. “Keeping you in my life, Velvet. But so help me fucking God, keeping you safe too.”

  “Oh.” For a long collection of seconds, it’s all I can say—as shining, incredible happiness is all I can feel. “Oh. Okay.”

  He wraps his hands around to my back. Presses in with delicious possessiveness. “So yeah, I got down off my high horse and asked for some help. And this guy I found—”

  “Right.” I laugh again. Can’t be helped. It’s a shock I’m not doing the Charleston along the ceiling out of sheer joy. “This guy. Your guy.”

  “He’s been helping me track Angelique everywhere she goes. We determined she hadn’t left the country or even the city. In fact, she’s stayed close. Too damn close.”

  Okay, forget the Charleston. “Well…shit,” I utter, newly somber.

  “Yeah,” Reece utters. “But it’s been a good thing wrapped in a bad. Tracking her has been much easier.”

  “And what exactly has the wicked witch of skank been up to, besides going Swim Fan on my ass?”

  He chuffs at the obscure pop culture reference, solidifying another reason why he’s my soulmate wrapped in a hard, gorgeous candy shell. “She’s mostly been back and forth from the mansion that the Consortium’s surely using as their hub out here—which was why I fired up the M4 and followed as soon as we pinged 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 wa
tch 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. “I know.” As he pulls away and starts methodically pacing the room, 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 and I are still in contact, no matter how quiet we try to keep it.”

  “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. Wrong direction.” He turns and folds his arms, openly admiring me with that electric, mesmeric gaze. “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. That entices him back across the room, and we kiss softly before I snuggle against his chest. “Puka shells aren’t much of an effective disguise for a superhero’s secret girlfriend.”

  “Good point.” His growl resonates in my ear. “Fuck it all.”

  I snicker softly. “We’ll figure this out, gorgeous.”

  “I’ll figure this out, beautiful.” 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. “But I just need a few more days to make sure we can do that in full. Can you give me that?”

  I sigh again. Heavier and longer. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “And…can you do that while moving to the penthouse at the Brocade?” When I stiffen, he rushes on, “Just for a few days, Velvet. Just until I don’t have to worry about that bitch lurking at the Persian chicken place around the corner, dripping pickled beets into her boots while waiting to pounce on you again.”

  I lean back a little. Flatten my hands against his chest before finally dipping a quiet nod. “Fine. You win, Mr. Richards.” Twisting peeved lips. “Just don’t get used to it.” Then even harder. “And wait a second. How the hell do you know about the Persian chicken place around the corner?”

  He has the grace to blush. And damn it if he isn’t more delectable in blush mode than ninja mode and reluctant humor mode combined. “I got a guy?”

  I lift both hands, only to bring them back down against his pecs in punishing slaps. The next second, I soothe the blows by laying kisses over the same two spots. Beneath my lips, his muscles bunch and tauten, making me dizzy with the temptation to slide my mouth right over and nibble his stiff nipples right through his shirt. But I know exactly where that will lead. He’ll want to feast on my nipples in return. Then he’ll want to feast on other parts of me. Then I’ll want more parts of him on me, besides his incredible mouth. Then we’ll both be naked on the floor, setting aside the possibility that his lunatic ex might still be prowling the neighborhood, with or without pickled beets in her boots.

  “Fine.” With groaning effort, I straighten and gaze into his eyes. Only his eyes. “But one day soon, all your superspy hero dude secrets will be mine too.”

  He chuckles, but swiftly turns the sound into a new kiss, brutal but worshipful, that melts my bones and sears my blood, leaving nothing but my soft smile to cling to as any vestige of control I still have over my senses. As I tilt my head, letting him have the full resplendence of that soft, needy expression, he angles his face over mine, ensuring that our stares stay connected.

  “Until then, can you promise to simply trust me?”

  I pull on his shirt, dragging him closer for a lingering kiss to seal the deal. “Always. Always.”

  * * *

  But three days later, “always” is getting a little harder to keep believing.

  Those are my exact words in a text message to Reece, sneaked 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 superhero’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-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, darling?”

  I take a Zen breath, gritting to continue the smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And put on some darker lipstick. You look washed out.”

  I deflect that one the best way I know how. “You look super pretty tonight.”

  “Really?” She skips a look backward. “You think so? Does this cut make my hips look—”<
br />
  “You look stunning.” Though I mean it, I can see she doesn’t believe me. She eyes herself in the full-length mirror, her stare critical.

  “Your father told me to wear navy.” She tsks and shakes her head. “He thinks I look jaundiced in this. But he thinks I look jaundiced in everything.”

  I reach and grab her hand. “Well, he’s wrong.”

  “You say the nicest things, honey.” She pats the side of my face. “But you still need a darker shade of lipstick. Maybe your sister will have something you can borrow.”

  We reenter cocktail reception hell. I hide out in my typical place, at Lydia’s side, letting my tennis star sister bask in the smooches, air kisses, and half hugs from people here to see her. Actually, the affection stuff isn’t so bad. It’s the conversation between all of it, centering around the same twelve subjects, that makes me wonder if a person can truly slit their wrists with a butter knife.

  At times, I do try to engage—only to be greeted with the same glassy-eyed expressions in response to any of the tidbits I get hounded to share.

  “Ohhhh. You’re living in downtown LA? Why?”

  “But there are so many adventures right here. I mean, have you seen the new yogurt place?”

  “Why do you work the night shift? Aren’t you good enough for the day one?”

  “What movie stars have you met? Or do they get handled by the normal hotel workers?”

  “You take the train to work? Well, what’s wrong with your driving?”

  What’s wrong with you?

  My teeth lock, freezing my smile in place. My hands clench behind my back. My head starts to pound, and I fight an insane craving to jump out the window.

  What’s wrong with you?

  I should be used to the refrain by now, right? Then why does it seem more relentless now? Why does it weigh on every breath I take and move I make, closing in like the inside of a grand, pretty box? But why would you want more than this? Isn’t the box enough? Why do you want to be more, when you have this?