Bolt Saga, Volume 2

by Angel Payne

  I jerk in his hold before piercing a stunned stare at him via the mirror. “Fifty?”

  “My security team will have to eat, Velvet—especially because they’ll know if anything happens to you, they’ll be snacking on their own balls for dessert.”

  Chapter Four

  Reece

  “Woooo. Somebody’s leveled up to special snaz.”

  Foley puts the cherry on top of that by “kabooming” his hands and then adding the requisite sound effects. Without breaking concentration on fastening my cufflink, I grunt to acknowledge the compliment. Well, what I assume was one, especially because he’s decked out in a similar ensemble to mine—“similar” being a loose term. He’s got the basics of the tuxedo just fine and has even tamed his hair with the styling product I ordered him to use, but I doubt the battle will end with equal success if I attempt to nix his Chucks instead of the formal Prada loafers that were sent over from Yuziki’s shop. I’m not even thinking about going there about his pocket square, either. If the guy needs his parrots-and-tequila pattern to stay focused on shit tonight, then parrots and tequila it shall be.

  Because I need him focused tonight.

  I need everyone focused tonight.

  Especially the fucker staring back at me in the mirror.

  I issue the same mandate, more or less, while giving myself another once-over. Beyond the apartment’s windows, a boat on the Hudson sounds its horn, a forlorn sound in the showery night.

  As if my nerves need any more help in the doom and gloom department.

  Foley, picking up on my fresh tension, leans against the doorjamb of my bedroom before asking, “So tell me again why you decided to stay here instead of the Obelisk for the last two days?”

  I toss a taut glance. The man’s savant-level aptitude for details, a trait I’d slotted in his “plus” column when first meeting him, has come back to bite me in the ass in the last seventy-two hours. From the second I’d walked back into the apartment after leaving Emma at the hotel, he’d quirked a salacious grin, knowing exactly how she and I had filled the hour after the ambulance incident. But he’d been surprised when I didn’t grab my bag in order to return to Emma’s room at the Obelisk, a confusion he’s been stubborn about sustaining, even now.

  “Because if that fucker in the ambulance really was in cahoots with the Consortium, it’s best that they think my last contact with Emma was our spat on the sidewalk after that shit went down.” I yank at my bow tie hard enough to communicate the rest of that to him with the nonverbal stuff. That the tension in my fingers is a direct correlation to the strain in my cock—and that the torment has been unchanged since my body was reminded, in Biblically perfect detail, how thoroughly it craves hers. “As far as they’ve been concerned, we argued and then Emma shoved me.”

  Foley’s eyes narrow. “And once you were inside the Obelisk, nobody saw you two making up?”

  “Nobody.” Giving even that answer brings back the memories, heavy and hot, of how Emmalina and I mauled each other in that locked bathroom—which of course, Foley also takes comprehensive note of.

  “So you haven’t any more time for additional make-ups?” he pesters. “No nooner she’s sneaked you in the back door for? Little happy hour special, maybe?”

  As I said, not a direction I didn’t expect—so I stop on my way back out to the kitchen and pivot to confront his suggestive smirk. “Did NYPD ever get back to you? Tell you anything more about aggro ambulance guy other than the fact that he magically made bail the morning after the accident?”

  Quiet aggravation sneaks across the guy’s face. “No.”

  “Then why would you think I’d endanger Emmalina by sneaking back into her bed, knowing the Consortium might be watching?”

  He frowns, clearly caught between perplexity and pissed-off. “Then why are you going to be publically at her side tonight, knowing they’re likely watching?”

  Again, not a query I didn’t expect—but am actually gratified to field. After rooming with the guy for a few days, I know Foley likes approaching most of life from Margaritaville. Sometimes, especially on a night like this, it’s good to be reminded that his cocktails are really laced with nails, and if pressed, he won’t hesitate to use his surfboard as a lethal weapon.

  “But we don’t know that either, do we?” On the sparse chance I’ll get an eleventh-hour answer to that, I scoop up my phone and swipe through the updates. Not one message or text from Angelique’s code name, Alain, or from the six guys Foley hired on to track the woman, as well as her claims about the Consortium’s “special plans” for the Richards Reaches Out fundraiser that starts less than an hour from now.

  My woman’s event.

  The official start to her helping out so many people across the planet.

  Meaning that if they really do fuck with it, the Consortium will be earning themselves a special place in hell—into which I’ll provide a personal escort.

  “No.” Foley’s response, though coated in gloom, affirms how he’ll be happy to help me out with the task. “We don’t know that, damn it.” He shifts as if his tux is too tight, though the garment has been custom tailored for him. “And I’m sorry about that, man.”

  I slice out a stunned stare. “Why?”

  “Because my guys are usually better than this.” He huffs. “I’m usually better than this.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Now I’m looking for a way to offset my awkwardness. “I didn’t hire you for your sparkly wit or dreamy hair, Foley. You’re fucking good at your job. But the Consortium…they’re good at theirs too. Far as I know, the ‘Find the Loony Scientists’ app still doesn’t exist.”

  He hikes a thigh onto an arm of the sofa. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

  “That’s supposed to drag your head out of your ass.” I betray the snark gods by giving the words an amiable overlay. “So if feeling better helps you to do that, then have at it.” I conclude by shoring up my stance, feet at shoulder distance and stiff arms at both sides. “Long story short? I need your A-game tonight, Sally.”

  The guy breaks into a smile. “Then that’s what you’ll get, Reecy.”

  I spread my arms, palms out. “And if Angelique’s fed us crap intel, we’ll know soon enough.”

  His head cocks a little. His gaze narrows. “You almost wish that were the case, don’t you?”

  “Almost?” Probably doesn’t take his savant skills to notice this one. “You want the PC answer to that one or my ugly truth?”

  One side of his mouth kicks up. “Which one do you think I’ll rout out anyway?”

  Fucker. “Fine,” I grumble. “Truth is, it was shitty enough to worry about the woman even after she disappeared off the grid.”

  “After that crap went down at the El Segundo power station,” Foley states. “Right?”

  “Not exactly.” After my defined punches on both words, he grunts in surprise. I go on. “A few days after that, she popped back up—at Emma’s apartment.”

  “The hell?”

  “Yeah, well…” This time, I go ahead and free up a chuckle. “I wasn’t happy about it either. But by that point, I had a tracker on Angelique and arrived just in time to watch my girl go Xena-battle-mode all over the bitch.”

  Foley tosses his head back on a full laugh. “Are you freakin’ serious?”

  My smile is warm with pride. “Completely. She was only missing the bustier and the Chakram.”

  He shakes his head and stares at his feet, now crossing them at the ankles. “That woman of yours is…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Well, she’s something else.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t hold back my subtle growl. “That woman of mine, Foley.”

  He raises both arms, palms up. “Heard and acknowledged.” After waiting a long second to be certain I’ve registered that, he murmurs, “So…what happened then? And how are you alive to tell about it? Or is getting in the middle of a girl fight really not like being tossed into a velociraptor pit?”


  Though I’m not done with my tension about his wistful goo-goo face for Emma, I volley, “I didn’t have to go there. Fortunately, Angelique knew when to cry no joy and slink off with her tail between her legs.”

  “And so you were able to keep tracking her.”

  “Of course—until the signal suddenly vanished. It was the day after I went public about Bolt, and she was at the international terminal at LAX, so I assumed the Consortium had called her back to Europe and ordered her to ditch her SIM card before boarding the plane. When my guys in Barcelona caught her on airport cameras there, I couldn’t turn the page on that chapter fast enough. Didn’t even stop to celebrate the knowledge that she was likely going to be punished or killed for failing to recapture me.”

  “Which explains why you and Emma are conflicted about having to reopen the book on her again.”

  “Oh, we’re not conflicted.” My voice is as cold as the glass through which I peer. There are whitecaps on the river now, making me glad I ordered the Obelisk’s bell desk to reserve the hotel’s Escalade for Emma’s transportation tonight. Since the sun went down, the storm has gotten scarily stronger. “We’re both damn clear about this. We’re trusting Angelique because we have to. Period.”

  Behind me, I hear Foley uncrossing his legs and then pushing back to his full stance, measured but purposeful about his moves. “Because a leopard really doesn’t change its spots, then?”

  The insinuation—it really can’t be called much else—is the rope that twists my attention back around. “A leopard that raises a little hell on a few club crawls is a lot different than one who lures a chunk of prey into the laboratory to have its DNA altered.”

  He dips a diplomatic nod. “Outstanding point, Team Reecy.”

  I’m not sure whether to laugh at him or seethe at him. He can’t be trying to piss me off, can he? Especially after his not-so-stealthy fan club meeting for Emma. But a thorough assessment of the man reveals no hidden snark. Maybe his agenda, whatever it may be, just has to be added to the list of mysteries for tonight.

  A list that seems to just get longer as we head down to the street and I open my phone to the car service app—only to be interrupted by a voice I haven’t heard in a long damn time. Not since just after college, when I was summoned back to New York for the requisite Richards family rite of passage—Dad’s “what are you going to do with your life now” speech. But the speech was preceded by the ride. And the ride included the man with the voice of a motorcycle gang leader but the face of a closet computer programmer. Not a thing has changed about that in the last seven years.

  “Reece Andrew.” Nothing has changed about Angus’s insistence on using my full name, either. From anyone else, the familiarity would be odd; from the odd man who’s stayed in my father’s employ the longest, it’s just part of the charm.

  Charm I couldn’t be further from expecting tonight. I communicate as much when I stop short right in front of him and the stretch Bentley he’s brought. Dad’s stretch Bentley. Ignoring how Foley plows into me from behind, probably making us look like the black tuxedoed versions of Dumb and Dumber, I grunt out, “Angus. You’re…here.”

  “Good evening.” He tips his cap and straightens his glasses, though the growl still makes me wonder if he’ll conclude by shooting off my kneecaps.

  “Why are you here?”

  His high forehead, outlined by the smooth comb-down of his mouse-brown hair, develops a couple of furrows. “To take you to the gala.” When I don’t register immediate understanding, he continues, “The Richards Reaches Out event? Over in the East Village? You are attending, yes?”

  “Yeah.” My confusion nearly turns that into a question. “I mean, yes. I am.”

  “We are.” Foley’s assertion isn’t much better for hiding bewilderment. He peers at Angus like the guy is a shapeshifter and only needs a second to morph into the wolf he actually sounds like.

  “Yeah,” I toss out. “I mean, we are.” A fast hand fling arced between the two men. “This is Sawyer Foley,” I offer. “A new business associate.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Angus dips over from the waist now. “Angus Colfe, Mr. Richards’s head driver.”

  “Mr. Richards.” Foley nods with his puzzle-putter-together look. “As in, Lawson Richards.”

  “Correct, sir,” Angus offers. “I’ve been in his employ now for twenty-six years.” Which makes Foley’s face pop back to eerie shifter-seeking mode. Angus doesn’t even look thirty. Still, that’s not the strangest thing about all this—an anomaly I refuse to be silent about anymore.

  “Which means he rarely lends you out to anyone,” I mutter. Then, even more quietly, “Least of all, me.”

  Angus discreetly pushes his round glasses up on his nose. “Your father has had the opportunity to reconsider a few policies in his life lately.”

  “Yeah.” I lift a wry grin. “Lately.” Like, say, over the last three months—since I told the world I was the guy behind the adventures of Bolt, the people’s superhero. And did it in the name of true love—in a ballroom filled with some of the most influential corporate players in Southern California. And followed that doozy up by bringing him the idea for the Richards Enterprises nonprofit arm that’s a corporate publicist’s dream.

  In short, the dots are easy enough for a six-year-old to connect.

  I’m good for the Richards bottom line again.

  Bringing another simple-enough-for-a-six-year-old recognition.

  After all my years of trying to reconfigure the boxes of my world—everything from coloring on them to pissing on them to completely decimating them—the answer to my dilemma with the damn things was right in front of me all along. They just had to be zapped with a little lightning.

  Granted, I had to become that lightning…

  Which, as I climb into the Bentley after Foley, actually brings on a laugh.

  While Angus reacts with a wide smile, open curiosity takes over Sawyer. “Is the rank and file allowed in on this particular yuk yuk?” he drawls.

  I settle back into the leather seat, gratefully accepting a tumbler into which Angus has poured two fingers of Macallan Rare Cask. As Foley accepts an offer of the same, I supply, “You know all the bullshit about thinking outside the box?”

  “Of course.” He punctuates that with a groan, appreciating his first sip of the top-shelf whisky.

  “Well, my parents have box seats inside the boxes.”

  “But now you’ve burned the boxes.” As soon as I confirm his direct hit with an arch of brows over the rim of my glass, he snickers. “Which is turning tonight into an interesting piece of irony, then.”

  As we pull out into traffic, I stare through the window at the passing kaleidoscope of fluorescent and neon lights, seemingly animated in their own right due to the punishing wind. “If my father’s twisted olive branch is the most ‘interesting’ part of the evening, I’ll take it.”

  Foley takes his time with another sip of whisky before speaking again. The care he’s taken with the words permeates through to his tone. “You give any thought about the reason behind why the old man’s playing nicey-nice?”

  “Don’t have to.” My reply is just as steady. “Apparently, he’s stopped in at RRO several times since Emma and the team set up the office.” Just mentioning her name brings a smile to my eyes before spreading to my lips. “My woman is a walking magic spell, Foley. Seems that even a stiff-nuts like Lawson Richards isn’t immune.”

  Foley cocks his head back against the butter-soft leather and regards me from newly hooded eyes. “So you owe the little sorceress a giant thank you.”

  “Excellent idea—in theory.” I rest my snifter on one knee, tapping on the glass with a finger. “Execution just might be a little tricky.”

  His features tighten on a frown. “Things are still really that tense between you two?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Which, if turned into a meme, would edge at breaking the internet. But it’s impossible to make the statement
and not remember its inspiration—the moment in which it had sunk into Emma, after I didn’t flinch about it for an entire minute, that I was completely serious about RSVPing for myself and fifty disguised operatives for the fundraiser. For two seconds—but only two—she’d smiled sweetly. It had taken her two more to pivot back around on me and then another two to tuck her hand between my legs, angling in to twist my balls. Not hard, thank fuck—but hard enough. Reaching that sweet spot just beyond ruthless flirtation but shy of turning my sack into a demented version of lightning in a bottle.

  “Comfortable, Mr. Richards?”

  “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—”