Bolt Saga, Volume 1 Page 24

  I blow out an audible huff of my own. Can he tell I really want to smack him? I’m just not sure if it’s a smack up the side of his head or a more solid smack to his chiseled boy-toy cheek. On the one hand, even in the midst of his vape cloud, the kid’s got a point. My love for Emmalina Crist will still be the same, even if we were sequestered with each other in the middle of Iceland. But on the flip side of the coin…

  “Do you play video games?”

  The kid stops, holding back from taking his next drag. “Huh?”

  “Simple question,” I volley. “Do you play video games?”

  “Pffftt.” His side-eye is full of are-you-kidding-me angst. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “So what’s your all-time favorite?”

  “Pffftt. Easy. Bioshock. Wait…no…Gears of War. No…it’s gotta be Call of Duty. Shit, that’s hard.”

  “All right, well—whichever one it is, let’s just say you played that thing for years, and one day you found out you’d just finished with the highest score of anyone in the world. Could you keep quiet about it? Would you not want to tell the whole world about your victory and your pride in it?”

  The guy tilts his head. Squints out over the water, obviously weighing my analogy. “Well played, weird stranger on the beach. Well played.”

  I acknowledge his compliment with a subtle chuckle before dipping my head as well. “That all being said, you really think that guy would have a problem?” I ask. “With getting recognized and all?”

  Harsh snort. I almost think I’ve earned myself another pffftt, but then the kid drawls, “Oh fuck, yeah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen that guy? That Richie Rich guy?” Again, the outer reaches of a pffftt, but not quite. “He’s like those guys on the romance novels, you know. Jaw that could cut diamonds. The dreamy Prince Charming locks. Then all the protein shake commercial shit in the other departments.”

  I duck my head all the way, disguising my bark of laughter as a cough. “Well, that’s what a guy wants to hear. Protein shake commercial. Suh-weet.”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  He re-crosses his ankles and eyes a decent-sized yacht as it skims by, two couples drinking wine with droll ease on the back deck. They’re picture perfect, carelessly beautiful, and likely not an ounce grateful for the beautiful life they’ve been given—and I fight the urge to throw up in my mouth, recognizing how much I used to be just like them.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, changing out the inner vomit in favor of a jutted jaw. “I know what you mean.”

  “Seriously. If you were a chick, wouldn’t you want to mount that muscle?”

  Thank fuck for the buzzing in my jeans.

  More accurately, for the vibrating phone in my back pocket, with an incoming text from a sender identified only by a blushing cartoon rabbit. I smile at the little vixen bunny from Bambi before sliding a finger to open the entire message.

  Stop talking to the bellman and come rescue me from this madness. Now.

  I lift my head, peering toward the restaurant, but nothing’s changed from before. I see a lot of high heels and hear a lot of noise—but despite the chaos, I can feel the force of my woman’s stare, like an arrow across the sand, piercing into me. Not that it stops me from having a little fun with her.

  Madness? But it sounds like you’re all having so much fun.

  I swear my phone feels hotter, burning with the force of her seethe.

  This is not fun.

  I quirk the edges of my mouth.

  Oh, come on. Are you just being a party pooper, Bunny?

  Fuck you and all the poop. Just get your ass in here.

  The potency of her glare is no longer an arrow. It’s a whole spear.

  And I, sucker for the woman’s passion in any form, rub at the center of my chest, hoping to preserve the perfect pain for just a few more seconds.

  Christ.

  And maybe you’ll start wearing a vial of her blood around your neck. Or have your cock tattooed with her initials. Or start timing your period with hers.

  Yeah, it’s true. Emmalina Crist has turned me into a whipped, twisted, hearts-in-my-eyeballs sap. Worse, I don’t want to change one fucking shred of it.

  The bellhop, grunting dismally as the yacht motors out of sight, flicks his regard back to me. “You okay, man?”

  “Hmmm?” I’m distracted by the trio of emojis she’s just tacked on to her desperate decree. The smiling turd is self-explanatory, but the long-nosed demon and the purple alien have me stumped—and entertained. Will there ever be a moment when she’s not challenging me? Delighting me? Do I ever want there to be? “Oh, yeah,” I finally tell the kid. “Couldn’t be better. But I do have to go.”

  I rise, jamming my phone back into my pocket. He nudges his chin out, clearly snapping two and two together. “Summoned by the old lady?”

  Fast smirk. “Something like that.”

  He swings his head toward the restaurant. “She in there? Ordering you to spring her from the fray?”

  I shrug. “More like…she’s keeping me on schedule.”

  “For what?”

  “I have to work tonight.”

  “On a Saturday night? Bummer. I’m off in two hours and headed to Huntington to hang. Was gonna invite you along.”

  “Appreciate that, man—but the bad guy fuckers really like playing on Saturday nights.”

  As I turn and make my way toward the den of craziness where my damsel is being held hostage, I give in to a few seconds’ worth of the cockiest grin I’ve ever cracked—courtesy of the guy now thickening the air more with his shock than his vape cloud.

  Chapter Three

  Emma

  I can’t breathe.

  I know, I know—melodrama like this is usually more Lydia’s forte than mine, but my big sister isn’t the one being pelted with more asteroids of pure crazy by the second.

  Okay, so a few points scored for the metaphor, which sticks nicely to Renata’s party theme that’s based on the Lunar Chronicles series we all loved so much in high school. But I’m logging negatives again the next second, fielding my pregnant friend’s tearful glower. None of my apologetic winces seem to penetrate Ren’s frustration, either—not that I blame her. Today is supposed to be about her and the bambina in her tummy, not the bizarre, Bolt-themed turn the party has taken over the last half hour. Why am I not surprised that said weirdness coincided with someone talking the restaurant staff into opening their bar an hour early too?

  Why am I also not surprised that Mother’s suddenly become the coolest kid in the room, all but holding court on her side of the gathering? Watching her and the posse, all giggling with wine and martini glasses in hand, breaks my heart. How is this right, when their guest of honor sits there sipping on Perrier and prenatal vegetable juice? And how can they be any sort of comfortable shooting questions at me like these?

  “So, Emma. Do spill. Has that man ever electro-levitated you?”

  “Well, that could make certain things interesting, if you know what I mean.”

  “Does he sleep or just recharge?”

  “Does he ever keep his mask on when you two…well, you know…the whoopee…”

  “Better question! Better question! Does he ever let you wear the mask?”

  “Who cares what they wear. Just tell us how it all is…”

  I jerk to my feet so fast, my glass of Perrier sloshes. After chugging a bunch of it and hiccupping past the bubbles, I blurt, “Ladies, my mother is in the room.” And “whoopee?” Really?

  “Oh, it’s all right, honey.” Mother raises her fresh glass of Lafond Pinot, her smile effortless and dazzling. “You’re among friends. And this kind of stuff isn’t anything I haven’t talked about with Lydia before.”

  “Oh, for the love of—” My sister, also in the “dry fish club” tonight because she’s prepping for a huge tennis tournament, plunges her forehead to her fingertips. “Once, Mother. We talked about a few things once because I was trainin
g so hard I skipped a month on my cycle and was worried, and—” She cuts in on herself, blushing as bright as the natural strawberry highlights in her hair. “Oh, my God. I’m as horrid as the rest of you crazy bitches.”

  As she mouths I’m sorry at Renata, Mother leads the charge on her group’s collective shriek of laughter.

  “To the crazy bitches!” someone else yells.

  “To the crazy bitches!” comes a collective echo.

  “Oh my freaking God,” Lydia mutters.

  I text feverishly to Reece.

  Where the hell are you?

  And then wait, damn near pacing. He’s disappeared from the beach outside, so I keep looking at my screen, waiting for his reply to appear, telling me he’s out in the resort lobby, and—

  And I’ve forgotten that it’s Reece Richards I’m dealing with here.

  That my noble, unstoppable superhero of a lover, whose side gig is facing down criminals in dark and dangerous places, will be completely undaunted about walking into a room full of half-drunk socialites.

  And does.

  And lifts a gorgeous grin as all those women notice him.

  Then scream.

  “Wooooo!” Madison does the beer stein lift again, this time on her feet. “Greased liiiightniiing!”

  “We’re riders on the stooorrrm.” Mother joins her, a little steadier on her heels.

  “Oh, my God.” Even Renata rises, taking a few extra seconds for obvious reasons. “My baby’s been Bolted. This is epic!”

  Reece has the poise to look bewildered without surrendering the smile in his eyes. “Good afternoon, ladies. Everyone having fun?”

  The group’s scream makes the light fixtures sway. I wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t happening before my eyes, and I’m glad Lydia makes her way over to corroborate the sight. “Well,” she murmurs for my ears alone, “at least you’re off Ren’s shit pile now.”

  * * *

  An hour later, off the shit pile and onto the freeway, I’m in the passenger’s seat of Reece’s BMW i8 but still battling to enjoy the ride—a dilemma due in no small part to the laughter filling the car. His laughter—at the account I’ve just given, fuming through every word, of the interrogation I endured before his grand entrance at the restaurant.

  “Are you even hearing what I’m saying?” I demand past gritted teeth and folded arms as we pass the border into LA County. The industrial sprawl of Norwalk, Santa Fe Springs, and Commerce whizzes by outside. I ignore it all, along with the gawks at the car from other drivers in the Saturday afternoon traffic—which is, shockingly, moving faster than thirty miles per hour right now.

  “Every word.” Reece adds to the assurance by stretching his right hand over my left knee—which does nothing to improve my ire. Now I have to fight the allure of his fingers, their long elegance melting my blood even if they aren’t in glow stick mode. “They asked if I sleep or recharge. Then came the kinky mask questions—though not before the theories about the bedroom applications of electro-levitation.” He slips me a sultry side-eye. “Which I’m kind of mad I didn’t think of first…”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What?” He turns his hand over, jogging it in open question, as I yank my leg away. “I’m a guy, Bunny. And frankly, the idea of being able to manipulate your sweet body any damn way I want to…”

  The fresh glow of his fingers amply fills in the conclusion of that.

  And, damn it, is also the final snip at the tightrope of my outrage.

  I tumble into a giggle, still pissed as hell but unable to control the humor from taking over. His laughter gains warmth and is joined by a cocky wink—along with the suggestive slink he gives his fingers again, traveling up the inside of my thigh…

  “All right, mister.” I lift his hand, kissing the center of his palm. “Don’t push your luck. Focus on the road.”

  He shrugs, emphasizing the hewn cliff of his shoulder beneath his navy Henley. “Never stopped, my sweet Velvet.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And flattery will get you everywhere.”

  I thoroughly expect a comeback with another reference to levitated sex, but he gets in a new broadside by gentling his expression and sobering his tone. “Look. I know all this attention is a little jarring…”

  “A little?”

  “But things will even out. I promise. As soon as the world moves on to its next best canoodling couple, we’ll just be the old fart and his hot mama on the block. Hell, the bellhop at the hotel didn’t recognize me.”

  “Babe, the bellhop didn’t know where his own feet were.” More mirth spills out as I shake my head. “Some people are celebrating the state’s pot legalization more than others.”

  “Huh.” His forehead creases, adding to the rugged beauty of his profile. “I thought the smoke in his vape smelled a little interesting.”

  “Oh, dear.” I kiss his knuckles this time. “Maybe you are the old fart on the block.” A new sigh. “Trouble is, you’re the only superhero on it too.”

  “Which also won’t be such a big deal in a little while.”

  I puff up my cheeks and then let the air blow out, allowing the sight of the LA skyline to work its comforting sorcery on my senses. The bold monoliths of the skyscrapers, jutting like sentinels in protection of the lower buildings, have always been symbols of strength to me. If normal men and women could conceive and construct those gleaming structures, my normal life courage has never seemed so hard to stir—even now.

  “A little while,” I repeat, admitting that just hearing the words makes their possibility seem real. Guess there is something to be said for the power of affirmations. “A little while. Okay, fine. As long as this isn’t forever…we’ll muddle through.”

  Reece pulls my hand over to his side of the car. He brushes his lips across my fingertips, those expressive edges caressing just enough of my skin to make my skin tingle…and certain parts of me clench. And then drip…

  “Yeah,” he rasps, traveling his light kisses up past my wrist. “We’ll muddle. Somehow.”

  I pull in a breath, given no choice about the matter. And the fact that it sounds like a duck dancing on sandpaper? Also not my choice—or control. “Yeah, well, as long as you don’t mention levitation again…”

  A rumble rolls out of his chest. “Well, fuck.”

  “Not at the moment.” I add a giggle for good measure. “Nor for the next few hours, I’m afraid.”

  “The fuck?” The thunder has siphoned into his voice.

  “I’m filling in for Neeta tonight, remember? Her sister’s having a bridal shower.”

  He frees my hand to secure both of his on the wheel, guiding the car smoothly through the tight off-ramp at Grand Avenue. “Feel like giving a brother a hand here, big heavenly guy?” he grumbles as we pass the backside of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. “All these showers are raining on my fiy-ah.”

  I dissolve into laughter as we zip past the Music Center and its famous plaza, the steel sails of Disney Hall, and the white concrete veil fronting the Broad Museum before closing in on downtown proper. It’s not lost on me that the cocky, one-liner-flinging Reece Richards is the side of the man most of the world has experienced, while the hotel we get nearer to is like a castle of the true king he’s become—and the man I know. While I wouldn’t give up my fierce, loyal lover for the retail value of every car in LA, it’s fun to get peeks of the naughty bastard who once charmed so much of society with his daring irreverence.

  Reece keeps me in stiches by continuing his theme, warbling Adele with off-key bravado. As we pause at a few stoplights, we endure a number of what the hell stares—and a carload of gaping USC kids who whip out their phones and record video. Before I can order Reece to refrain, he starts serenading them as well.

  “Sing it, Bolt man!” one of them calls out.

  And he does. Louder. Even more off-key. Even more dorky.

  Even more breathtakingly beautiful than ever before.

  “Reece!” I yell but melt into mirth ag
ain as the kids in crimson and gold whoop and cheer. He adds arm motions too, getting louder about setting fire to the rain and burning and crying and screaming names—in short, all the subjects that make up the best musical melodrama.

  “Oh, hell.” I shake my head, simply accepting that I won’t be able to check my YouTube feed for weeks—especially as half the kids lean out of their Countryman to join my crazy boyfriend on a last, rousing round of the song’s ham-worthy chorus.

  And thankfully, the light turns green.

  But as Reece hooks a right onto Wilshire, the Trojans get in a bunch of farewell hollers I’m not sure I’ll ever forget.

  “You’re the bomb, Bolt baby!”

  “Drop that fire like rain, dude!”

  And my favorite:

  “Emma Crist is the luckiest wench alive!”

  As he presses the button to power the windows back up, I lean all the way over the center console, targeting the plane of his jaw with my heartfelt kiss. With my lips still pressed to his skin, I whisper, “And damn, does Emma Crist know it.”

  With the timing usually reserved for movies, we stop at another light. Inside that thirty-second pause, the man manages to twist his head, capture my lips against his in a heart-halting kiss, and lodge my hand firmly atop the hard rise in his jeans. Before I can even think about what’s going on, I close my fingers around him, a nearly instinctual move. He groans, deepening the kiss and sucking in my tongue—

  Until a honk from behind us gouges the air.

  I lurch backward into my seat, taking my trembling fingers with me, as he sets the i8 into motion with a flustered stomp on the gas. Somehow, we manage to keep our paws to ourselves for the next two and a half blocks, even while Reece waves his key card at the private portico and the gates glide back as if sloths are controlling the tempo.