8: Bolt Saga, Book 8

by Angel Payne

  “I told you she’s different.”

  “And, evidently, meant it this time.”

  This time. I’m not expecting the remark, so it’s damn near impossible to prevent my reacting wince from showing through—but Reece ropes his other arm around my waist, refusing to let me wallow in my insecurity. Or anything other than the kiss he works over my mouth and between my lips, completely ignoring his friend’s approving applause.

  “Well done, Monsieur Richards.” Connor’s shout attracts the attention of some passing cyclists, who add their assorted whoops and whistles. None of it deters the attention of my breathtaking man, who pulls away from me with shiny, swollen lips and a tender, adoring gaze.

  “Well, fuck,” he finally murmurs. His expression is tight with bemusement.

  “What?” I prompt, palming one side of his face. “What is it, gorgeous?”

  “I got it all wrong.”

  “Wh-What all wrong?” I keep my hand where it is, though tense up just in case the reunion with his fellow hellraiser has made him realize the settled-down, secret engagement life really isn’t for him after all.

  He precludes his answer by jogging a glance at Connor. “I told you the wrong thing, man.” Swings his gaze, now reflecting the gilded parts of the sunrise, back down to me. “She’s not just different. She’s the difference.”

  Well…hell.

  Screw getting to watch the sunrise. Now I’m that collection of brilliant colors and beaming sunshine. I’m the sparkling river beneath that perfect light, a rose-gold glow coursing through a metropolis of my awakened fibers and marrow, stirring and reaching for the stratosphere of him. My difference.

  My love.

  I repeat it to him with the force of my gaze as I pop on tiptoe, grabbing him to drag him into another wild, needy tangle of a kiss. While more cheering cyclists are joined by hollering guys on scooters, it’s Connor Barque who eventually breaks us apart, bellowing so everyone within a mile can hear, “One more minute of this shit and I’m going to start charging admission for the show, you two.”

  But no more than five minutes later, the guy has mellowed and has insisted on serving us hot caffeine and fresh carbs. By the time he’s set up a little quayside table and topped it with steaming cafés au lait and hot apple croissants, I’ve long since forgiven him for announcing to half of Paris that I was just welcoming the new day by sucking face with his adolescent chum. My stomach turns into a lion as we sit, but my throat supersedes even that growl, erupting with a sound of animalistic pleasure from my first bite into the confection of buttery dough and tart apple filling.

  As a chuckling “Connie” appears in the doorway, I swallow enough down to ensure him, “This is the best damn thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  “Second best.” Reece mutters it so smoothly, circling the rim of his coffee cup the whole time, that Connor’s and my laughter is delayed by a good couple of seconds.

  “Excellent point, Mr. Richards.” And since the table is draped in a long linen and I’m wearing just my flats, I let one of them fall to the ground while extending a leg up—straight into his crotch.

  Reece chokes on his next sip of coffee.

  Connor bursts into an even harder laugh. “Oh, I like her,” he drawls, folding arms across his meaty chest. But as Reece trumps my move by drawing a line of apple filling into my cleavage and then licking it up with his tongue, the guy’s chortle gives way to a groan. “I’m not sure whether to be fascinated or nauseated by you two.”

  “Neither.” Reece pulls back from me with a self-satisfied smirk, his gaze locked on the points of my nipples now visible even through my sweater set. “But if you must pick…”

  “Pfffft,” the guy retorts. “Where’s Rianda when you need to be set flat on your ass?”

  Still no waver of Reece’s focus, even when another woman’s name is brought into the exchange—which I’m stupidly relieved about. “Now that you mention it, where the hell is she, really?”

  “Who’s Rianda?” I query.

  “The one who became his difference,” Reece replies. “And, subsequently, kept him here—for which I’m grateful every time I eat one of these.” He finishes by chomping into his pastry.

  “Yeah, well. Your asshole maw aside, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” There’s an interesting tenderness in the guy’s voice now, backed up by his bashful smile as he adds, “Which is why I finally decided to lock that shit down.”

  “Fucker!” With a joyful laugh, Reece springs to his feet and rushes to his friend, bro-hugging him with twice the force of their first clinch. “A ring and everything?”

  Connor nods and rolls his eyes. “Even took her to the Pont des Arts to pop the question. We couldn’t put the lock on the bridge, so I gave her a diamond one on her neck…and then one on her finger.”

  “Shit.” I get up too, bringing my napkin with me. “Now I’m going to lose it.”

  Connor smirks. “Well, fortunately she did too. Errr, not the ring,” he qualifies. “Just her shit. Which was kind of the point, seeing as I refuse to let my kid grow up without a proper family name.”

  “Your—” Reece cuts himself short to let his jaw plummet all the way. He recovers quickly, once more decking his friend in the arm. “Fucker! You held out the best part for last!”

  I throw aside my napkin for the privilege of moving in to hug Connor for myself. “I promise mine doesn’t come with a punch.” With arms around his NFL shoulders—seriously, the guy wouldn’t even need pads on these things—I add, “Just lots of happiness for you and your bride. Congrats.”

  “I’m psyched for you both.” Reece’s encouragement is genuine. “And that explains why you’ve got the early shift instead of her now.”

  “I’ve got the only shift.” Though the guy sounds tired, he looks invigorated. With a personality as outgoing as Connor’s, running his own shop along the Seine is probably a dream come true. “Ri’s in La Rochelle, seeing her parents,” he explains. “She’ll be bummed she missed getting to see the badass Bolt man.”

  “Yeah, well.” Reece shrugs, using his backward grip on the back of his chair for more leverage. “Badass Bolt man is the real loser here.” He lifts his sights back to his friend, his smile turning wistful. “She’s a good woman, Con. And the two of you are going to have a good life together.”

  Connor rocks back on his heels with his hands now parked in the deep pockets of his apron. Almost as if time folds on itself, I have a vision of him cocking the same pose, looking just as handsome, thirty or forty or fifty years from now. “That’s the plan, man.”

  “Yeah.” Reece’s hearty laugh alerts me that this isn’t the first time they’ve bantered around that expression. “That’s the plan, man.”

  The words serve as closure on that chapter of the conversation. Though we hang out with Connor for another half hour or so, never again do the men come back around to subjects like their shared bad boy days or how Reece’s continued pursuit of that life might have contributed to him becoming Bolt. Oddly, Bolt is never brought up again either, even when a bawdy comment from Connor makes Reece gaze toward me with such lust, his fingers turn into an E.T. army. If Connor notices, he doesn’t let on at all. Without faltering, he just moves on to mentioning that the best part of a visit to Notre-Dame—its iconic towers now defined by the morning’s salmon sky—is by touring the archaeological crypts underneath the front square.

  From that point, even during the men’s final embraces, I sense the strange stillness wrapping around Reece once again—meaning I’m not shocked when we return to a comfortable-but-not-comfortable silence while walking along the quai, the shimmering river to our right and the stirring city at our left.

  At last, I venture, “Everything all right, Mr. Richards?”

  He loops an elbow around my neck, nestling me closer. “Couldn’t be better, Miss Crist.”

  I watch some birds similar to seagulls from back home take flight off the water before I respond softly, “Why
don’t I believe you?”

  He stops for a second. I peer up, struck by how his profile is so similar to the architectural glory we’ve seen for the last few hours. Dark beauty even in dawn’s gold. Austere strength framed with such romantic touches. The way the wind plays with his hair, and the light of the day in his serious gray eyes…

  “I’m grateful for my life,” he finally says into our tentative silence. “And since you came along, there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t remember how lucky I am to be here, instead of in some cell inside the Source…”

  Comprehension rolls over me as I catch his glance back along the river, toward Connor’s shop. I push in a little closer, rubbing a hand over the center of his chest. “But there’s part of you that just wants to bake bread in the morning and watch the world go by each day.”

  He kisses the top of my hairline. “And fuck my gorgeous wife every night.”

  Light chuckle. “Well, there’s that too.”

  He pauses before swallowing with solemn weight. “And watch her grow with our child.”

  And just like that, I’ve joined him in the snowball-of-emotion club. Rammed with the enormity of what he’s just confessed. Moved to the core of my womanhood by the need he’s just exposed. Rocked by the strange loss I now feel along with him…mixed with a bizarre new joy.

  “You…want to be a parent with me?”

  His kiss is more reverent now. “More than anything.”

  Ding ding ding. Correct answer, mister. I show him so by intensifying my cuddle, pretty sure he can also feel the joyous bells of my heart, endorsed by the resonant peals from the towers of Notre-Dame itself. “Well, then let’s be parents,” I declare. “I mean, not right now or anytime soon…”

  “Or even if they’re not our biological children.”

  Everything inside me goes silent again. Yet at the same time, no thoughts have ever blared with louder clarity. “Is that what this is all about?” I finally prompt. “And Reece, how can you be sure—”

  “Because I’m sure, baby.” He scoots me away and then tilts his head over, making sure our gazes are reconnected for this now. “I’ve been all over you like a rutting bull since the night we first met, and you’ve still been as regular as software updates on your cycle.”

  “But that’s because—”

  “You’re on the pill?” He dips his head and furrows his brow, going all-in on the Lenny Bruce for cynicism. “Sure. And you’ve kept that up religiously, despite learning your boyfriend’s a mutant, moving out of your apartment, shuttling between a couple of homes, starting a nonprofit from ground zero, getting kidnapped by a bitch on wheels…”

  I halt him with a couple of fingers across his firm lips. “Point made,” I insist before replacing my fingers with an adamant smack of my lips. “But it doesn’t matter.” I add a brace of my fingers, rubbing through the bristles of scruff that I adore so much. “Reece.” Then kiss him again, with more fervent feeling. “It really doesn’t matter. We’ll find a bunch of epic kids to call ours and give them our name and our home and all of our hearts. Love is love is love, Mr. Richards—and we have more than enough of it to spread around.”

  As I make my ready-for-Broadway stance, Reece’s eyes have come alive at last. He streaks an ardent gaze across my face, sulfur fire and silver speed igniting so many deep parts of me, before he dips back in to lock his forehead against mine. “You’re right,” he rasps, softly forming his lips over mine again. “And you’re also amazing. Beyond what I’ve dreamed or deserve.” Another kiss, twirling tingles down to my toes, as he wraps his arms back around me and meshes our bodies as well as our mouths. Oh, dear hell, how this man can kiss. And oh, dear God, how I want to let him, here and now, in the land so fond of the act, they named a whole kissing style after it.

  Yes. Yes.

  Oui, oui…

  When he finally drags back from me, his heavy gaze still riveted on my swollen lips, my head is spinning and my senses are racing. For a resplendent moment, I forget about all the subterfuge and insanity that were our impetus for having to come here. Right now, I’m just a joyous girl in love with a breathtaking boy who’s just kissed her senseless on the banks of the Seine—a moment I’m wanting to stick so hard into the spiritual scrapbook, I almost don’t want to ask my next question. But time can’t be folded back on itself, and every subject must be changed at some point, especially when it’s one that can’t be altered for the moment at hand. I stow away my fantasies of Daddy Reece, refocus on Parisian hunk Reece, and get the damn words out.

  “So, Mr. Richards…where to next?”

  I’m not surprised when his mood takes another stony turn—and not out of affectionate fun for the figures on the Pont Neuf, now stretching across the river in front of us. “To take care of our lodging.”

  And yes, it’s the answer I halfway expected too—though I still lean my roller against the balustrade and fully fold my arms, forcing out my truth in response. “And I’m feeling weird about that answer…why?”

  Reece’s shoulders visibly tense. He uses the glimmering waters below us as a focal point for his averted gaze. “Because you might not be so enamored with the accommodations I’ve secured.”

  I crunch a tighter scowl. “Oh, come on. I’m sure the Mutant Turtle Lair is going to be trés awesome.”

  He chuckles, though the expression never makes it to his eyes. “The Lair, eh?”

  “The Mutant Turtle Lair,” I insist. “And I’m sure it’s going to be fine.” It’s one nuance away from being an admonishment, but I’m not going to elaborate. Clearly, the man has already forgotten about my living conditions in LA before my life was permanently Bolted—and reminding him isn’t an option. My apartment wasn’t fancy, but it was mine, the first real time I could ever say that in my life. A few months ago, when he finally convinced me I’d be safer by giving it up, my heart had chafed at the choice, despite what my head had dictated. And that was after the man bought a full valley and hilltop in the open space north of LA for me.

  “The Mutant Turtle Lair.” He punctuates it with a gruff smirk, giving me hope that my loving shout-out to his childhood obsession has assuaged the weirdness about me not being enamored with his selection. “All right, Velvet. If you insist.”

  I pull his face down to mine for a quick but tongue-tangling kiss. “We could call it Le Petite Shithole and I’ll be happy, okay? Haven’t you figured out by now that anywhere I’m with you is my idea of heaven?” I stop to circle my gaze around. “Much less in the heart of Paris freaking France?”

  With his head still lowered, he strokes a hand along my cheek. Pushes out a long breath from his nostrils. “Emmalina Crist,” he utters so close that even the bellow of a river bateau doesn’t drown the sexy timbre of his tone. “I may have lightning in my veins, but you’re the fucking fire in my heart.”

  Thank God I already see the new kiss he’s planning, shooting like plasma balls in the depths of his eyes. Even so, this collision is like standing my ground against a jolt from the skies, power pouring through my body as he fully and forcefully claims my mouth.

  By the time he’s done, I’m standing on tingling toes, fighting not to grind my body along his, and order him to just take me on top of the little wall where my bag sits as a lonely sentinel. “Holy shit,” I somehow find the energy to gasp.

  He curls a grin that’s part horny wolf and part self-sure ninja turtle. “Stole the thought right out of my head, woman.”

  I almost gloat—but decide better of it. There are too many other things I’m way more in the mood to do right now. Most of all: him.

  “Mr. Richards, this lair better be damn close.”

  His smile is the embodiment of sinful seduction. “Your wish is my command, baby.”

  He keeps true to the promise. Just a block and a half later, we’re entering a charming stone building and walking up polished wood steps to an apartment that faces an interior courtyard with quaint iron chairs and tables surrounded by greenery and flowers. The
door to the apartment itself is ornate and beautiful, the wood carved with a fancy art deco pattern. I almost feel like I’ve walked into a French valentine that was crafted a whole century ago.

  Until Reece’s soft knock on the door is answered by the last woman on earth I want to see right now.

  REECE

  “Bienvenue.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard Angelique murmur the word, but never have I gotten the chance to enjoy it without the addition of her subtle little sneer. When the woman isn’t trying to impress anyone, her voice is actually a lovely sound—and the recognition is such a surprise, I smile.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong move.

  Which now, I almost want to laugh at myself for. After all the other wrong moves I’d stressed about making with this one—asking for Angelique’s help in the first place, accepting her offer of this apartment as the “Ninja Lair,” agreeing she should stay in Paris in case we needed someone with strong local connections to assist with any fuckery that got thrown at us—a simple, instinctual smile wasn’t anywhere on the list.

  But here I am, wishing like fuck for the chance to backtrack time by thirty seconds. No, by five minutes. Back to the moment on the sidewalk next to the Pont Neuf, when I should have extracted my brain out of my dick and prepared Emma for this instead of composing a fucking sonnet about lightning bolt blood and hearts catching fire.

  A lot of good that mush is doing me now.

  As if Emma cares about a syllable of it anymore.

  As if she remembers it anymore.

  But of course she does—I practically watch it all replaying in her head as she scans my face—and arrives at the same conclusion I’ve just ramrodded into myself as well.

  “Bienvenue.” Her reiteration is closer to retaliation but hints enough at a sob that I instantly realize how much my paranoia for security has led to my stomp into a Clifford the Dog-sized shitpile.

  At once, every cell in my blood bellows with remorse. Too damn little, too fucking late. Still, I turn and attempt to utter, “Emma—”