Fuse

by Angel Payne

  All right, so realistically speaking, the weapon likely isn’t going to get me far when confronting Faline Garand’s goons—but once it’s in my palm, I’m emboldened a little more. My spirit grips my resolve the same way I wrap my palm around the pistol’s handle. And weirdly, I don’t feel one speck of guilt about it.

  I know, without a doubt, that if fate brings me face-to-face with Faline Garand today, I won’t hesitate to blow hers right off her hideous neck.

  Chapter Three

  Reece

  “Do you like it?”

  Her eyes are fucking breathtaking in the glow from the candles and twinkle lights surrounding us in the gazebo table at the Inn of the Seventh Ray. “I love it, Mr. Richards.”

  I snap the clasp of the tennis bracelet around her wrist. It sparkles in the special lighting too—but still isn’t as stunning as those twin pools of turquoise. She damn near makes me forget I have a tongue in my mouth, let alone how to use it to lay a passionate kiss meant to zap her down to her toes.

  Why am I remembering this? Right now?

  Is this a memory?

  It feels so real. It feels so real and perfect and joyous, that if it isn’t, I’m sure whatever I’ve escaped isn’t worth returning to. Not yet. Not right now.

  “It’s so stunning, baby.” She shakes her head, her forehead furrowing. “But…”

  I frown. “But what?”

  “It’s so much. It’s too much.”

  “Emmalina Paisley.” The growl is at once a rebuke.

  “Reece Andrew!” she retorts.

  “It’s Valentine’s Day.” I snatch up her hand and press fervent kisses to her knuckles. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Our first Valentine’s Day.” Then, because I can’t help myself, I lean in and press my lips to hers again. Savoring the feel. Relishing all her tastes. She’s salty, like our caviar appetizer, but sweet as the white wine we’ve been sipping. Her sigh sounds like heaven, and her tongue feels like nirvana.

  But as thoroughly as I’d like to ravish her like this all night long, there are still words I’ve got to say. Important ones. “Our first…of what needs to be many. So, so many.”

  She lifts her free hand to my face and scrapes the tips through my stubble, while the mists of fucking Avalon itself join the magic in her eyes. I’m not referring to the teeny island town twenty-six miles away on Catalina island, either. “It will be, my love. It will be.”

  But when the bracelet catches the light again, she’s back to peering at it like she expects it to turn into real mist any second. And I had to go and evoke a book about Arthurian legend.

  “Are you sure you like it, Bunny?”

  “Oh, my God.” She laughs and kisses me again. “Baby, it’s incredible.”

  I nip my lips at the corners of her delectable bow of a mouth. “And so are you.”

  “I just thought that the Glock was my present. You told me that it was for Valentine’s Day—”

  “I lied.” A fresh smirk, infused with every insolent cell in my body. “I said that because you wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise.”

  Rosy circles invade the high cheeks beneath her teasing glower. “You’re probably right.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s say the bracelet’s for you but the gun is for me, okay?” I give her a needed moment for contemplation and take an appreciative sip of my wine. “I’m going to rest a lot better knowing that if I’m ever not around, you have the means to protect yourself.”

  She scoffs. “Like you’re ever not going to be around?”

  I deliberately focus my stare on my wine. “You know what we’re dealing with here, Velvet,” I level, wishing like hell we could be talking about how sweet her cleavage looks in that red dress or how thoroughly I long to drag her out into the lush woods around this place, slam her up against a tree, and take her in complete caveman style. Instead, I have to continue with, “That bitch thought nothing of throwing you and Lydia into a net, with the full intent of feeding you into a jet turbine while I watched. She wants to earn that Consortium achievement patch for retrieving Alpha Two, no matter how many girlfriends she has to murder.”

  “And if the girlfriend is ready to murder her first…”

  “Not an achievement patch you should be aiming for.”

  “Not unless she fucks with you first.”

  I set down my wine. Meet her gaze directly again. “Let me prioritize that part, okay?”

  She twists her fingers through mine. “You’re my priority.”

  I send a gentle smile. “I know that.”

  “So just for the record, if she fucks with you, she fucks with me. I’ll design a new achievement patch and stitch it right onto her Pixie Stick backside before unloading a full clip into it.” She tilts her head, but the move is as unwavering as every word that just spilled from her. “What?” she finally blurts, challenging what must be the rise of bewilderment in my gaze.

  No. Not bewilderment.

  Utter astonishment.

  The woman is fucking serious. Down to the last syllable.

  I clear my mind for the dilemma we really need to address. The query that intensifies as she leans in, giving me some serious side breast viewing pleasure.

  “I’m just wondering… How am I going to survive the remaining three courses of this meal if you get any sexier than you are in this moment?”

  She runs the tip of her tongue across the seam of her lips. “Who says I’m hungry for the rest of this meal?”

  With that, I am damn sure I’m the guy in the restaurant with the hugest boner.

  And the heart closest to exploding.

  And the soul flying closest to every star in the sky.

  And the body that now moves past the controls of my mind, rising and yanking her up with me. Making our excuses to the waiter—something about wanting to stretch our legs between courses—before I haul her into the darkness, sweep her off her high-heeled feet, and don’t let her down until I find that perfect tree. The one I’m going to smash her against as I do nasty and lustful things to her body…starting with sliding my hand beneath her dress and then shoving aside the center panel of her panties before lunging up and in with one finger. Then two. Then three…

  “Reece!” Her gasp is gorgeous. She repeats it in time to the compressions of her walls around my fingers, as all ten of her digits dig into my shoulders despite the slick fabric of my dress shirt. I twist my hand, adding to the friction on her delectable pussy. There’s a fresh tang on the air, smelling wholly of the aroused nectar she’s coating all over my fingers. “Reece. Yes! Deeper. Harder. Reece…Reece…”

  “Reece. Reece!”

  “Hell. Maybe we should give him a few minutes to reacclimate, Foley.”

  “We don’t have one minute, let alone a few, Trestle. Just in case you’ve forgotten?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “If it’s not a suggestion for waking this bastard up, I don’t care about what you’re ‘just saying.’”

  “All right. You want a real suggestion?” An impatient huff. An answering one, more resigned. “Stop smacking his face.”

  “And what? Play some Zen sleep cycles so his chakras are in the proper order for optimal biorhythms?”

  Yet another huff, though a wary one this time. I’ve exited enough of my mental fog to recognize the sound when Foley makes it. God knows, working full-time for me the last ten months has given him full opportunity to refine the sound. It’s the exhalation he reserves for the times he’s double-checking his grip on reality right before agreeing to do something that wasn’t included in his “Essential Private Eye Duties” manual. Knowing him, that damn manual really exists too.

  “Mmmppph.” It sounds much better in my brain, but it’s a start. “Mawww…mooo…fuhhh…” But on the bright side, hearing my voice chorusing through my head with the vocal grace of a porg is the perfect incentive for unsticking my tongue. “Wh-What’s…going on?”

  “Oh, thank fuck.” The spew is from Foley, positioned off to my
right, while Alex’s distinct chuckle comes from somewhere near my feet. I’d open my eyes to confirm all that, but the light penetrating my eyelids is already a ruthless glare, sending the porgs still left in my brain into more screams.

  “Ah! Progress!” The new voice in the room, accompanied by the plastic rustle of a poly lab coat and a disposition brighter than a Bollywood score, would be distinguishable even if I were still in the damn coma.

  In the coma…

  I’m able to rear back, almost viewing myself lying here, and recognize the perception for what it is. For the first time since waking up, my consciousness connects to the comprehension. I’ve been…gone…for a while. But for how long? And why?

  The answers are so vital, I’m willing to sacrifice my comfort, sketchy as it is. But the second I crack open my eyes, comfort is definitely a foreign concept. Maybe that’s a good thing. With my heartrate jacked from the light blast, my brain also goes on warp speed. At once, it remembers the last time I felt all this at once.

  I was on my back and staring up at the ceiling of the downstairs office. Foley was gawking down at me, looking a lot like he does now, messy and intense and wearing a scowl infused with that metaphysical shit he likes borrowing from his favorite Muse tracks. But Alex and Fersh weren’t the ones with him. It’d been Angelique and Emma. Angelique with her new radio wave powers and Emma simply with all the power. Ruling me. Sustaining me. Guiding me.

  Saving me.

  Literally.

  Giving me the will to go on, even as the ice invaded my blood. Even as the chill took over my system, blowing in with its inexorable control. Numbing me to the point that the only choice for survival was surrender.

  And so I had.

  Or so I’d thought.

  Until her voice followed me right into the dark. Her soul invaded the shadows of Faline’s grip and wouldn’t let go. Her will made it possible for me to go beyond that blackness, into a deeper night where I was safe…

  And that takes care of the why. But crashes my consciousness with all the other “pertinent” issues here.

  “Progress.” I repeat Fershan’s word in a dazed mutter. Seems a damn good place to start. “And how, exactly, have we gotten to that hashtag?” I address it to all three of them in a sweep of my gaze before pinching the bridge of my nose in an effort to cut the thundering pain behind my eyes.

  Foley clears his throat, and I’m relieved to hear the confidence beneath it. “It’s still Saturday. Time is twenty-fifteen, give or take a few seconds,” he starts in. “We induced you into the coma about four and a half hours ago, with Emma’s permission. Do you remember any of that?”

  “Emma.” I repeat the part of that worth the effort, though after a few long seconds, attempt to expand on the answer. “I—no. Nothing, really. I only get…pieces.”

  Begging Em to push the Pentobarbital in my IV. Doing that after I’d literally nearly fucked her to death. Doing that after being hauled back to consciousness as Faline’s horrified puppet, my every move guided by the witch’s bioelectric strings on my limbs. And her haughty purr in my head…

  “Well, that’s probably a good thing.” Foley breaks me free from the downward spiral of the memories. “Though even pieces of shit are still shit.”

  “I’d say you could say that again, but don’t you fucking dare.” I’m glad for the excuse of getting to trade some smartass with him. The guy looks like someone dragged him to Faline’s mental ice castle and back.

  “Got it, man. Loud and clear.” He rubs the back of his neck while darting a quick glance at me—“quick” being subjective. What’s the proper velocity for a look filled with three novels’ worth of hidden meanings but not leaving a sole lasting impression? “We’ve got to move on to other subjects anyway,” he states. “Right away.”

  I tap the button that raises the table beneath my head and shoulders. “Sounds like I need to be upright.” Even if my ass is stuck to a steel slab, the guy who treats flying bullets and pursuing goons with the same ease as a choppy onshore flow is now grimacing like he got handed a full-on hurricane watch.

  “Yeah.” Foley rocks his head back over his massaging hand. “Maybe. Sure.”

  I narrow my stare. Ping it between him, Alex, and Fersh, unable to ignore how Foley’s unease has seeped into their demeanors too.

  “For the love of fuck.” I throw up a hand in exasperation. “You assholes actually going to draw straws about who gets to give the update to the sap in the bed here? Because it’s a huge damn relief I haven’t woken up as Faline’s dick-on-demand, but I don’t have the strength or patience to even thumb wrestle anyone for that intel right now.”

  When their stares continue to be the finest combination of hesitation and observation I’ve ever seen, I plunge on without any mercy. “You still just going to play the coy game? Going to make me guess at how long I have left? Does this all at least get better as I get closer? Will I start seeing psychedelic candy corn in synchronized swimming routines? The Rock singing ‘Let it Go’ in drag while keeping time with himself on a ten-pound pickle tub?”

  Alex finally tosses me a bone. “We’re sorry, man.” He spreads his hands like a diplomat. “You were tossed into a psychological wormhole for half a day, and now we’re giving you our fucking triumvirate of tension.”

  “Because we have good reason to be tense?” Fershan mumbles.

  “Shut. Up,” Foley spits.

  “What the hell?” I laser him with a glare.

  “One step at a time.” Foley includes everyone in the reproof, even me, before nodding back at Alex. “Go ahead, Trestle.” When Alex replies with a questioning brow, he states, “Tag team. You’re part one.”

  “There are parts?” I don’t hold back on the new flare of my eyes. “And now that we’re talking the team, where’s Wade?”

  Foley dips his head, working way too hard to maintain the neutrality across his face. “Like I said, man, one step at a time.”

  “But how many steps are we talking?” I snap. “You did say I was only out for four hours, yeah?” How much of a shit show could’ve gone down in that time?

  My apprehension is nudged as Foley whisks back by a step, deferring to Alex while cocking a sardonic brow. “After you, boy wonder.”

  Alex gives back as good as he gets with the sardonic expression. Trestle, our king of disguises on the outside and prince of tech expertise on the inside, has chosen to channel George Patton’s grit with Edward Cullen’s pathos—which is either pure weirdness or complete genius. I’m too exhausted to attempt a final call on the matter now.

  Without further ado, he starts in. “In a nutshell, there’s good news and weird news.”

  I lean forward. The action drops the blanket around my waist down to my hips, but I don’t give a shit. What Alex says is a lot more important than what he sees right now. “Weird news?”

  “Because it’s not necessarily bad news.” Fershan steps forward, looking like a flight attendant having to tell the passengers the plane has “a wee bit of engine trouble.”

  I sit up higher. Drop the blanket lower. And care even less. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s a slight blip, and we’re fixing it.” Alex is right on time as the “sensible” flight attendant.

  “A slight blip.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Then, fighting dizziness and nausea, force myself to fully sit up. “You want to explain why every instinct in my gut is calling bullshit on that?” And continues to do so, no matter how fiercely my brain bellows that I’ve just spent half a day in a psychological no-man’s land and it might be prudent to cut my “instincts” a huge break?

  Which will happen. Just as soon as I get a straight answer, with an honest gaze, from even one of these fuckers.

  “Okay, okay.” Alex spreads his hands wider, as if smoothing bed wrinkles off the air. “We’re putting carts in front of horses, and the animals aren’t even saddled yet.” More calming wrinkle-smoothing as the guy turns to fully face me—and at last
grows the cajones to level his gaze with mine.

  I drop my brows even lower. “What?” My trepidation doesn’t budge by a single degree.

  Until I’m cognizant enough to ask myself the same damn question.

  And realize that my brain already has the answer.

  Because of what it’s not full of.

  Because of who it’s not full of.

  “Holy fuck.” I release one hand from its punishing grip on the edge of the table and wham it against my temple. “Holy, glorious, fuck of all fucks.” I add a gleeful cackle that could make me the next worthy contender for the Joker. “Where’d the bitch go? Wait. Scratch that. I don’t want to know. She’s gone, and I’m close to French kissing every one of you beautiful bastards for it.”

  “Easy, Romeo.” Foley joins Alex in flattening the invisible bedspread. “We’re not sure Radio Faline is totally off the air yet.”

  “We had to MacGyver a fix faster than we expected.” Getting to shout-out for one of his favorite heroes has detached Fersh from the awkward flight attendant thing—though his assertion reintroduces me to the well of troubled confusion.

  “Why?” I prompt. “What was your original expectation?”

  “He means we had to go in cold with an untested solution,” Alex inserts. “Going on the theory that Faline is really using radio waves to patch into your head, hopping onto whatever code Kane managed to cram into you, we figured that those waves would be interrupted if we could ionize your blood.”

  Unlike a lot of conversations I have had with these guys, I actually follow what they’re saying. So far. “So you thought blasting me with a concentrated version of sun radiation would cause the radio frequencies to defract from the positive ions and free electrons—and then silence them.”

  “Right on the money!” Fersh pushes up a thumb as if there’s a gold star on the end and he wants to smack it to my forehead.

  “So how’d you make that happen?” I ask, genuinely interested despite the bizarreness that we’re discussing my fucking brain cells here. Back at Columbia, I’d picked a radio station conglomerate to study for an Investment Strategies midterm paper. It was one of a few times I’d actually been engaged by a college project. I’d learned an understanding of radio waves and how solar radiation and sun spots affect their strength. I also learned that most of those effects were temporary and that ions and electrons eventually equalize and recombine, allowing radio waves back through.