Bolt Saga 5 Page 6

  “Not particularly, Miss Crist.”

  “Then you don’t want to know what I’ll do if you and your ‘team’ screw up my fundraiser based on bad intel from a woman I trust as much as a fairy tale hag.”

  Like the second in which she’d finally let me go, I grunt hard and indulge a quick glance down. Okay, everything’s where it should be. Though the move’s unnecessary tonight, since all my leathers have been built with structural reinforcements around my junk, Foley nevertheless catches the look and pieces it with my statement to draw a halfway accurate conclusion of his own.

  “Shit.” He emphasizes the word by drawing it out.

  “Breathe.” I take another swig of the Macallan. “It is what it is, okay?”

  “With all respect, fuck the breathing,” he mutters. “And fuck ‘it is what it is.’”

  “Well, it is.” I toss in a growl to keep this from descending into a bad comedy sketch. “And like it or not, it’s what we’re dealing with tonight.”

  “You mean what we’re being forced to accept tonight.” He downs the rest of his whisky in one gulp. He grimaces from the burn but swiftly turns it into a fierce grunt. “An operation we’re walking into nearly blind, burning your money on fifty fucking operatives—”

  “I have the money, Sally. Breathe.”

  “—who don’t know shit about when or where or how or if these bastards will strike—”

  “Because these bastards are the fucking Consortium.”

  “—who have no intel about what they look like or what they’ll do—”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’ve been trying to listen to them, damn it. To find them. To learn even one goddamned detail about them for the last three fucking days, and—”

  “And”—I grab a handful of ice from the sideboard and hurl it at him—“as I’ve already told you, they’re the fucking Consortium.”

  “Which makes them what?” He openly fumes while picking ice chunks off and tossing them back, one by one. “Freaking gods?”

  “No.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “It makes them…them.” I slam my glass into the circular holder in the side console. “They’re just good at this shit, man.”

  “Well, I’m better.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m good at my job, damn it.”

  “I know, Sawyer.”

  He halts his ice hunt. Using his given name—his first, at that—succeeds in slowing his roll just short of dragging out his full résumé. It doesn’t stop him from pushing out another fume before muttering, “But now you’re going to give me more crap about how it’s only been a few days since Angelique handed over the intel, and—”

  “Foley, they hid me from the whole world for six months.” After the Bentley glides another three blocks with no sound but pounding rain on the roof, I finally add, “We know what we know. It’ll have to be enough.”

  The glower he unfurls makes me suddenly understand how Yoda felt when Luke refused to believe he could raise the star speeder from the swamp. “And what if it isn’t enough?”

  “It’ll have to be enough.” Oh, yeah. I’m feeling small, green, and really warty now. “But with any luck, we’ll be sitting around in the kitchen in a few hours, stuffed on prime rib and tiramisu, and wondering how many more bad cover songs the band has until their next break.”

  That does the trick—however that can be defined. With a defined eye roll, Foley toasts me with the last of his whisky before muttering, “From your lips to God’s ears, dude.”

  I lift my glass in time to join him in his toast, draining the last of my Macallan. My strung-out nerves barely feel the alcohol’s impact. The whisky does, however, help in reining back the laugh I’m tempted to throw back now. God’s ears? Since when did God even pretend to care about all this? Yeah, there was a time when I thought He did—or at least I wanted to, during the initial weeks of my captivity, when the Consortium was running me through their first batteries of diagnostics and tests. I was still a naked, shivering, drugged-out prisoner, unsure what procedure was going to come next. I kept begging God to just get me through the next evaluation. Then the one after that, and the one after that, and the one after that. I promised that if He gave me the strength to endure, I’d summon the will to keep on living.

  Until the bastards started the electric infusions.

  And death had sounded like a better idea every day.

  Nevertheless, I survived that purgatory. Without God’s ears. Without God’s care. Without God’s help.

  And tonight, if I have to confront every soulless freak from that mire again, I’ll gladly do so. Because so help me God—and any other deity who cares to show up this time—if any of those bastards so much as sniff at Emma’s shadow, they’ll answer to a fury they’re responsible for. A power I’ve honed and evolved and strengthened into a force so potent, the world now calls me super for it.

  And the hero part?

  Well, Bolt is officially retired. And what good is retirement if a guy doesn’t live it up a little? Some men choose to join an exclusive golf club. Others buy a Corvette and go for hair plugs. I like the idea of a little electric fusion basket weaving. Using the intestines of a few Consortium minions.

  The fantasy holds such appeal, I almost hope the bastards do truly show up. Almost. I’ve come prepared. Every part of my tux has been designed to tear away for the leathers I’m wearing beneath—but even the chance to take a small chomp out of the Consortium isn’t the most important priority tonight. The most outstanding priority for all my nights.

  Nights in which I now sometimes actually dream instead of battle nightmares. Nights that turn into dawns I actually greet with a smile. Nights that aren’t clichéd metaphors for the midnight depths of my soul, because that soul now has the light of living with a purpose. The best purpose of them all. Loving—and protecting—the woman who was created for me.

  And damn it, that’s what I’m going to do. Whether she likes it or not.

  Chapter Five

  Emma

  “Wow.”

  It bursts out of Lydia as we reenter the main event room from the kitchen after having checked on how the meal prep is going. During the half hour in which we were meeting with Yuri Lane, the hot new chef-on-the-block who’s donated his culinary genius for the party, the event crew has had the chance to turn down the work lights, turn up the party lights, and cue the DJ to get some jazz in the air prior to the band’s first set.

  But surely there was another element they added to the mix at the same time. Some fairy dust.

  Gone is the basic, blank East Village warehouse space. In its place is the incredible embodiment of everything I wanted to communicate with the only theme that felt right to pick for tonight’s party: Dreams Do Come True. The entire space already has a dreamlike quality, with the high ceilings and exposed ducts softened by stretched spandex sails in different shades of blue. Lighting effects that look like constellations are projected onto the new-age “sky,” from which silver light filaments dangle to support suspended centerpieces over each round banquet table. Each custom-designed three-dimensional Native American dreamcatcher measures four feet across and is adorned with Swarovski crystals, glittering feathers, and bountiful bouquets of live flowers. Each dreamcatcher’s theme is made even more distinct by the matching hues of the linens on the table below. But the room is kept from being a thematic train wreck by strategic accents of gold elegance—the cutlery, the Chiavari chairs, the foundation’s logo embossed on the white Lucite dance floor…

  I’m finally able to answer my sister, though the muttered words don’t feel like mine. “Wow is a good way to start.” The whole scene is like a dream, far more beautiful than I imagined everything turning out. I almost want to yank my brain out of my body just to comprehend it all—but that would mean giving up the wonder of getting to wear this princess-worthy gown. Yeah, so I was never one of those girls, even growing up ten minutes from “the kingdom” where “princesses” w
ere featured in twice-daily parades, who felt the need to dress in miles of lace and crinoline. But this dress would turn even Hulk Hogan into one of those girls. The thing is a production, starting with eight layers of nearly sheer gossamer on top of a cage skirt that’s rigged with thirty battery packs, powering nearly four hundred blue LED lights. So yeah, the dress glows. Literally. There’s a similar process beneath the fitted halter bodice, which is given more definition from silver piping that matches my silver ballet flats and swirl-shaped hair combs.

  Yeah. Princess. And even taking a few seconds to enjoy the whole thing before remembering that I’ve got to actually be in charge a little here. Maybe more than a little.

  Right before wondering if I’ll even have anything to be in charge of…if the intel from Angelique is right…

  “Hey.” Lydia brings a friendly shoulder nudge along with the prompt, tilting her head over to peer at me with shining sky-blue eyes. The party lights glint in her curls, picking up the natural strawberry tints in her blond. “You’re not going to throw up on me, are you?”

  “No.” I gently elbow her in the ribs. “Not on you directly…”

  “Oh, stop,” she chides. “It looks wonderful, Em. Everything’s going to be great. Now relax.”

  “Easy for you to say.” And now I really am tempted to throw up—with no easy pink medicine to help with the issue, either. And now I’m officially stuck between one ugh and another. If Angelique has been on the level about wanting to help us, then her intel is solid and the Consortium is planning some “surprises” for the party beyond a few hospitality baskets and a couple of piñatas. But if nothing happens tonight, Angelique’s fed us the information for another reason, and I can’t ignore the obvious explanation for that. My boyfriend’s glamorous ex wants to sink her elegant claws all the way back into Reece.

  Nope. All the pink medicine in the world isn’t going to help with this one.

  “Hey.” Lydia wraps me close as I clutch a hand to my gut. “What are you talking about, goof? You really need to look around. Can you believe what you’ve accomplished? The food smells great, and the band’s warming up, and the silent auction is ready to go, and you are the most stunning belle of the ball I’ve ever seen.”

  “Says the tennis-diva-gone-glam-goddess in her own right.”

  She pirouettes, showing off the gold and cream glimmer of her frothy bell skirt, matched by the sparkly tassels on the scarf designed to fill the scoop cut ending just above her backside. “This is a pretty kick-ass look, yeah?”

  I duck a glance down to her rear. “Literally or figuratively?”

  She waggles her brows. “Are you saying I have a nice ass, sister of mine?”

  “Not that I want to get in the habit of checking out your backside, but yeah.”

  “Well, one of us has to represent in the Crist Girls sassy-ass department. You’ve worked yours right off on all this.” She leans in to give my shoulders a solid shake. “But now it’s time for you to enjoy it, okay?”

  I let my head loll around like a bobblehead on a crazy taxi dashboard. “Gaaahh. Okay, okay.”

  Though Lydia ceases the shaking, she doesn’t move her hands. Her grin remains impish. “Whoa. Was that my sister indulging in a moment of silly? Who are you, and what’ve you done with Emma?”

  “Shut. It.”

  “Whew.” She rocks on one heel, backhanding her forehead. “There you are. For a second, I thought I’d have to fire up the search light and have them activate the Bolt Jolt over the skyline. If it looked that good over LA, then it’ll be epic over—”

  “Wait.” I slice one hand through the air. “Activate the what?”

  Her gaze narrows, tighter than before. “Oh, man. You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  Slow grumble. “Okay, if this is a set-up, you’re doing a bad job of it. And don’t even think about getting it on video, missy. So if you’re pulling out that phone for any other reason than—”

  She flips her phone around, exposing a new image on the screen, and I forget everything I was about to say in favor of words that fit the moment much better.

  “Holy…shit.”

  It’s a view of downtown LA from what looks like Union Station. I recognize the mission-style buildings, as well as the top of the Olvera Street bandstand—but in the night sky over the sleek towers in the distance, there’s something more than just the glam glow of La-La Land light pollution. A beam of high-intensity white light, originating from somewhere in the middle of the downtown labyrinth, angles up toward the stars, stamping the sky with brilliant light…

  In the shape of a lightning bolt.

  “My friend Sadie was at an early celebration for Dia de los Muertos on Friday night and took the picture,” Lydia explains. “Someone turned it on around six. Wasn’t on for long, but isn’t it the epitome of epic?”

  I’m not sure she wants my stomach’s answer to that—especially as its new twist illuminates what my head’s already figured out. “Friday night,” I repeat, attempting to keep my dread from it. “Around six.”

  Which meant it was nine o’clock here.

  An hour after Reece yanked me free from the runaway ambulance.

  Not a coincidence. I’m sure about that much. But why? The incident hadn’t been a huge secret. The throng of lookie-loos in front of the Obelisk, all taking as much footage as their cells would allow, had guaranteed that much. By the time the eleven p.m. news broadcasts aired that night, speculation about “Bolt’s emergence from retirement” already took up the A and B programming blocks, but that’s nothing new for the gossip media. They pull that shit even when Reece just carries bags for me at the farmer’s market or obliges with fans’ requests for poses in the Brocade’s lobby.

  So is the Bolt Jolt just another fan proving their devotion with a big splash—or is this something else? Someone else? Someone in cahoots with the nutcases Angelique has warned us about…who might be lying in wait around the corner even now, waiting for their moment to strike tonight because Friday was a bust?

  And damn it, why am I in such a restless hurry to find out?

  Aside from the fact that two hundred of New York’s A-listers will be walking through the entrance within the next half hour? Oh, yeah—just that little nibble of a factoid…

  “The epitome of epic, eh? Gee, Lydia, if I’d known you wanted to talk about me, I would’ve lingered longer at the bar.”

  And of course, of all the A-listers to make an early arrival…

  “Well, Reece Richards, as I live and breathe.”

  And of all the sisters to play coy with the one man who’s got me tied up in a thousand different knots…for a matching number of reasons…

  “Here I am.” The smile in his tone matches the one spreading across his lush mouth, which seizes my attention as if I’ve never beheld it before. No, it’s worse because I know all the tantalizing tastes of those lips and all the wicked things they’re capable of doing in return. My fantasies are only intensified by his groomed stubble, defining the angles of his jaw in all the most alluring ways. At least he’s not subjecting me to his special brand of hair porn too. The trademark Reece waves are tamed beneath a lot of shiny product—for now. But none of it captures my attention like the affectionate wink he gives Lydia, all because he knows how much I appreciate his efforts to be friends with her, just before he adds in a sarcastic drawl, “Oh yes, it’s me. In person. The Jolt inspiration himself.”

  “Oh, my God,” I mumble.

  “Oh, my God,” ’Dia cries out, even earning us perplexed glances from the catering servers congregating against the opposite wall. “You saw?”

  “Yeah, well…” Damn it. Even his nostril flare is beyond sexy. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  “Or unthanked.” Lydia rushes to him with a loud swoosh of skirts and then turns on the turbo hug, yanking him close with gusto. “And here’s at least an installment payment from me, Bolt-a-matic.”

  “Installment?” Reece counters,
layering a pssshhh on top of a grunt. “No way, girl. You’re paid up in full.” Despite the assurance, his face stays unexpectedly stern. “Though call me Bolt-a-matic again, and we may have to talk new terms…Princess Purple Pants.”

  For the first time in the last three days, I succumb to a full laugh—as Lydia jumps back like Reece has hit her with shock paddles. “How do you know about…” She jerks a glare at me. “How does he know about…”

  Reece leans over, cupping his hand as if to share a secret, though tells her in a stage whisper, “Pssst. Boss-level life hack. Beware the guy who’s sharing pillow talk with your sister.”

  A grimace takes over her gawk. “Pssst yourself, buddy. There’s this thing called TMI. Learn it. Know it. Especially the sister’s pillow talk part. But for the record, painting my pants purple was a brilliant idea—and I’m sure Barney the dinosaur would’ve agreed if Mom hadn’t deep-sixed my plan to ride the bus into LA to show him.”

  “I was rooting for you too, Dee Dee.” Using my exclusive endearment for her, formulated during the pants-painting days, comes with a diplomatic spread of my hands. “Of course, I was only three…”

  Reece succumbs to another soft laugh while dropping his forehead onto a couple of fingers. “You two aren’t the small-dreams types, are you?”

  “Says the guy standing next to the girl in a glowing dress?” Lydia counters. “Who probably powered that whole thing by plugging his finger into—”

  “Oh, God.” I bathe her in blue light while swooping a hand over her mouth. “Remember that little thing called TMI, sibling unit?”

  “But if that wasn’t a thing here…” With matching speed and his damn ninja grace, Reece has invaded the space behind me. “Where, exactly, would my ‘charging finger’ get plugged—”

  “Stop.” I land my hand on the middle of his chest as Lydia lobs a high laugh.

  “And that is so my cue to leave.” She steps away with another saucy swish of the bell skirt. “Besides, I hear a martini calling my name.”