Surge: Bolt Saga Volume Five (Bolt Saga #13-15)

by Angel Payne

  And now I’m married to him.

  And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life showing him my gratitude for that. For all of this. For the bolt of him. Even for the glow worm craziness of me.

  For the magic of us.

  The task feels daunting—and I’ll probably never truly, fully accomplish it—but I’ll never give up, no matter how difficult it might be now or in the future. I didn’t fall for Reece Richards because it was easy. I didn’t say “I do” as just part of our oaths today. I don’t love him because of his fast cars, his charm with my mother, or how amazing his muscled ass looks in his leathers, though all three are epic parts of the mix.

  I love him because it’s right. Because my heart, my soul, and my spirit can’t sync to the universe without him. Because I don’t thoroughly know me without him.

  And though he’s heard it from me a thousand times before, I can’t wait to make it a thousand and one. As he curls in, circling his lips closer toward mine, I ready the words at the tips of my lips. What a perfect preface they’ll be for the kiss that’s going to turn me into the glade’s new night light. Oh, yessss…

  “Emmalina Paisley?”

  Annnnd cue the needle scratching the record.

  More accurately, Laurel Crist’s shriek cutting through the night air.

  Just as fast, I crouch against Reece and gasp frantically into his chest. “Shit. Ohhhh, shit, shit, shit!”

  My husband is not helping matters, snickering like we’ve merely been outed by ravenous reporters or, say, the CIA—instead of a force much worse.

  “Laurel, why on earth are you shouting into the wilderness?”

  “Shit!” I repeat. “Dad is with her!”

  “Dad’s right.” But thank God, Lydia is with them. “Let’s check upstairs in the main building first. They’ve probably sneaked away for some alone time.”

  Reece’s new chuckle is eclipsed by my mother’s fresh shout. “Emma. Lina. Paisley. This is not good form, even at a wedding in the boondocks. I swear, if you’re—”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I finally screw up the courage to yell it back as soon as I hear her choosing the uncanny maternal instinct over Lydia’s logical suggestion. “We’re coming!” And offer that part while pushing away so hard, my husband stumbles back into a tree, showering us in loose leaves. As I bat Mother Nature’s “presents” off my naked limbs, Reece still chortles softly. I retaliate with a glower.

  Eventually, I manage to reclaim my gown off the branch over which I draped it and then jab it over my head just before we stumble out from the glade, clothes semi-wrinkled and hair beyond mussed—

  To confront four pairs of we’re-missing-nothing eyes.

  That are attached to a matching number of instant reactions.

  “Oh, dear God.” Mother’s blurt is first out of the gate. Imagine that.

  “Pretty sure the guy was involved somehow.” Lydia slides out her finest and fullest smirk of approval.

  “But which one?” Sawyer wields a subtle grin of his own. “The guy ruling Olympus or Hades?”

  My sister grants him a knowing wink. “Not sure it matters, Hang Man.”

  While I catch her eye next, mouthing Hang Man? with a piercing glare to underline my query, Dad turns into my hero of the whole crisis.

  “Why don’t we just let everyone know the cake cutting can roll as scheduled?” he suggests to Mother. Thank God for the man, who knows better than anyone that nothing mollifies the woman better than staying on schedule.

  “Outstanding idea.” The woman actually lets Dad scoop up her hand and appears to obediently follow him back up the stone steps toward the ranch house’s back patio. But she pivots on the top step, dropping a weighted look back to Reece and me. “The cake cutting will go as scheduled, yes? Attended by all pertinent wedding party members?”

  Lydia steps back in with a gritted smile—and a matching growl. “Tell the photographers not to spaz. All four of us will be there.”

  “Though it looks like some of us will be having our second dessert of the day.” Sawyer cleverly hides his quip behind Reece’s back—or so I think, until the guy reaches over to pluck a tenacious twig dangling off Reece’s ass.

  “Oh, gawd.” I dip my flushing cheeks into my cupped hands.

  “Oh, hell yes.” Lydia pulls the praise into her avid embrace around me, tugging to guide me toward the bridal dressing room. “But dude, you should’ve taken a picture first,” she chastises back at Sawyer. “The Funko Wedding Bolt Pop would look bangin’ with the keister twig.”

  “No keister twig!” I protest.

  “No Wedding Funko!” Reece snarls as he and Sawyer disappear into the groom’s room.

  “He does know they’ve already got those things half done, doesn’t he?” Lydia’s as ready with the words as she is with a concealer stick, offering me the makeup as I plop onto the stool in front of the bride’s room vanity. As I gape at my smudged mascara and kiss-stung mouth, she picks at my hair with a wide-toothed comb. It’s not quite a rat’s nest yet—at least I hope it won’t be once she gets all the leaves and sticks yanked out. “They’re just waiting for the first pictures of your outfits to be released so they can slap those together for the cute plastic bodies.”

  “Well, that’ll be a snag.” I catch my sister’s gaze via the mirror, not holding back a twitch of my lips. “Because there’s nothing ‘cute’ or ‘little’ about my husband’s body.”

  Lydia frowns. “I’m not sure whether to puke or pump you for details.”

  “Or just skip the subject and jump to explaining what Hang Man is all about?”

  At once, she joins me on the coy smile brigade. “You’re not the only Crist wench with a man who needs an oversized Funko box. Mine just likes to take the edge off by hanging ten on some good Redondo breakers when he can.” She cocks her head while stabbing a bobby pin into the end of the braid she’s just reconstructed. “And then there’s the better way he hangs…”

  “Okaaaay.” I cap the concealer with a defined slam and then lurch to my feet. “It’s really time for cake.”

  ’Dia follows me back out to the patio, giggles pouring off her lips. “You did ask!”

  “And will likely regret it forever.”

  “Nah.” She hooks her arm through mine. “It’ll just be another fun memory from the happiest day of your life.”

  “Hmmm. Now there’s where you’re wrong, Dee Dee.”

  “Huh?”

  I lay a hand across her forearm and squeeze in with tender meaning. “Every day I get to wake up next to Reece Richards is the best day of my life.”

  I expect a cringe-worthy side-eye from my sister. At the least, a falter in her relaxed pace along the terra cotta walkway. But neither come. Lydia’s still all easy-breezy maid of honor time, even as she looks out across the valley that’s now shrouded in lavender and gray shadows. But eventually, she hitches up the edges of her lips before replying, “Well, congratulations, baby girl. Your wedding cake really won’t be the sickest bite of sweet I’ve got to endure today.”

  My answering laugh spews without thought. “And you’re loving every morsel, baby.”

  “We all are, baby girl. We all are.”

  Chapter Five

  Reece

  “Well. So much for useless comparisons to the Man of Steel.”

  I answer Foley’s wisecrack with a mocking glare by way of the long oval mirror in the corner of the ranch’s groom’s room. Already I discern that my stress level is several notches below his—and have some theories about that plot twist—but keep my opinions under the vest, literally and figuratively, while throwing on that garment in place of my tux coat.

  Earlier, I decided to ditch the vest for the vows ceremony, a choice that’s going to serve me well for the next events. The photographers will have a “relaxed look” Reece to vary up their shots on the day, and the wardrobe change justifies why Emma and I disappeared during dinner. Most importantly, it covers up my huge sweat spots. Not that I necessarily giv
e a shit about everyone knowing what I’ve just been doing with my time. I’d dare any guy in the place not to think about sneaking off with a bride as stunning as mine leading the way.

  On second thought, I wouldn’t dare.

  Not arguing any of my friends’ integrity levels…

  But Emma does look how she does today.

  Like star fire in lace.

  An angel brought to earth.

  A piece of the sun, turning everything she touches to gold.

  Every inch of my body, still zinging like an exposed wire, is that tangible proof.

  I retuck my clothes with faster urgency. Grab up my brush and whisk it at my head, taming the goddamned whirlwind. I’m sure I’ll give poor Corinne a conniption with my re-style, but I’ll ply her with chocolate and charm to make up for it.

  I just want to get back to my fine little Flare.

  “Okay,” I finally answer Foley’s quip, only because it looks like the guy’s expecting me to. “I’ll bite. What comparisons to the Man of Steel?”

  “Uh, Earth to Richards? Basically all of them—which, like I said, don’t matter anyhow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of those titanium cojones between your legs, oui?”

  “You’re making me regret inviting you to Paris again, man.” Because that’s not the first time—nor will it likely be the last—for one of his dorky language mash-ups.

  “Meh.” He shrugs. “Worth it.”

  “Yeah?” I grin because even his cool-cat dismissiveness can’t dig at me today. “Well, for the record, so was the little wilderness break with my bride.”

  He lowers his brows in response to my waggling ones. “For the record, I don’t need to know any more than that.”

  “Whatever you say, Grumpy Cat.”

  “For the record, I’m going to ignore that one entirely.”

  “You got something against cats?”

  “I have something against memes that grew mold three years ago.”

  “Nah.” I toss the brush back into the mess on the marble top of the dresser next to the mirror, figuring Corinne’s mortified gasps will be outshone by Emma’s hubba-hubba stares. Sorry, expensive stylist, but my wife’s carnal desires trump your trend alignment. “I think you’re just a giant ball of hard-up, Mr. Foley.”

  Sawyer scrapes a hand over his head, joining me in the Corinne’s-going-to-kill-us corner for our hairstyles. But his crazy Samson locks have more product slicked in them, meaning only part of his clubbed-back queue breaks loose. “You would not be wrong,” he finally mutters and stabs a tight look through the hock that’s escaped into his eyes.

  Sharp chuff. “Dude.” Then another. “How were you out here for most of the afternoon and didn’t take even one chance to play kinky throne room with Princess Purple Pants?” When my use of Lydia’s nickname doesn’t do a thing to make me forget Grumpy Cat and him in the same sentence, I’m double-taking. “Unless you did and that was too damn long ago?”

  Foley shifts, stretching the fit of his light-gray suit across his burly shoulders. His face grows equally taut as he answers me in a shadowed growl. “We still off the record?”

  I cock a brow. “Were we ever on it?”

  The guy plummets his stare to the floor. “I haven’t touched Lydia in a week.”

  “Excuse the hell out of me?”

  “Fuck.” He lunges over, shoving me deeper into the room—as in, all the way back to where the glass-walled shower and king’s throne of a toilet are located. “You want to play telephone through the walls with the girls on this shit?”

  “And you think the plumbing won’t carry the sound twice as fast?”

  He chills once I lead the way back out to the bigger part of the room. And I do mean big. Since this place often accommodates wedding parties that outnumber the cast of an Avengers movie, our two duffels and matching garment bags look like Shih Tzus on a football field. But that also means we can move easily to the middle of the room, where Foley stops with hands on his hips, as if waiting for everyone else to huddle up. Meaning me.

  “All right. Dome of silence is activated,” I mutter. “Or at least what we’re going to get of one. Hey. Earth to Foley?” I almost laugh, getting to return his rib. A little under a year ago, the man was verbally prodding me in the same way, helping me through the first tentative steps of forming Team Bolt. I have no idea if I looked this uneasy but refuse to press Foley for that answer now. The guy tugs on his loose flop of hair like a goddamned nervous teenager.

  Wait.

  Shit.

  Like a nervous teenager…in love.

  Not just his Sawyer Foley, man-this-is-kind-of-cool version of the stuff.

  He’s got the Reece Richards, I-love-a-Crist-and-I’m-scared-as-fuck-about-it version.

  But that’s not adding up with the info nuke he just dropped on me.

  Which makes me grit out again, “Foley. What the hell is going on?”

  He whips away, lacing hands at the back of his head. “I wish to fuck I knew.”

  Picking up on his impending need to pace, I slide out of the way by moving back to the dresser and parking my ass against it. “You’re in love with Lydia Crist.”

  “That’s the easy part of the equation.”

  “And I thought that was my line.”

  “So did I.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Yep. Here comes the pacing. And the new anguish in his composure, gritting his teeth and gripping his shoulders, as he tries not to turn every step into a restless stomp. “I wish to fuck I knew.”

  I fold my arms. “So I’ve heard.” Then cant my head, as if the two inches of focus change is going to sharpen my Bolty senses enough to actually help him with the answer. “Just like I’ve pretty much known this for a couple of months now. Just like I’m sure you’ve known.”

  He drops his hands into twisting fists. It beats him yanking on his hair like some purple-haired MCR groupie, but not by much. “Yeah. I have.”

  “So what’s changed in the last week?”

  I’m not sure what reaction to expect, but the guy’s pssshhh of a laugh definitely wasn’t in my top ten. “Couple of people we both care for went and got married.”

  Okay, neither is that.

  “So…what?” I go for glib because it feels the most natural. “Has ’Dia switched out chats about the offshore flow and catching up on your Misfits binge to real rings verses tattoos and ‘let’s talk a five-year plan’?”

  “No.” His reply is instant. And definite.

  “No?”

  “I’m the one switching up the conversation.”

  And I thought he’d already dropped the info nuke.

  “And…it’s freaking Lydia out?”

  He ramps up the pacing again. “No. It’s freaking me out.”

  I’m a little gaslit myself but don’t let on. “Okay, man.” I apologize by way of spreading my hands. “I’m not entirely following.”

  “You think I am?” With a weary whoosh, he drops onto a leather couch grouped with a couple of matching chairs next to an enclosed atrium with cowboy-style accents. The photographer had come in and taken a few shots of us out there before Laurel rushed me off to the altar. Unlike then, Foley’s not such a vision of go-with-the-flow cool. “Jesus. I can’t do this yet, Richards. I can’t promise my whole future to a woman when there are pieces of my past still left to unravel.”

  I plant myself on the sturdy wood coffee table, cocking an incisive stare his way. “Pieces,” I repeat. “You mean…missing pieces? Like suppressed memories?”

  “I’m not sure.” He whips up a hand before I can get in half a rebuttal. “And before you even go there, I’ve tried the therapy thing. A lot of the therapy thing. Hypnotism, regression, acupuncture—even psychics and tarot and…experimental plants. Of certain sorts.”

  I scrub both hands up my face, knowing better than to ask the clarification on that one. “And the memories have stayed locked?”

  “Tighter than Pando
ra’s Box.” He braces a foot to the table and an elbow to his knee and then drops his head far enough that the errant shank of hair curtains his face again. “I don’t know what they are, only that there are big chunks of my past that are missing.”

  “From your time in the service?” The suggestion is an educated stab based on random assumptions I’ve made from his equally random references over the last year as well as the long list of things he never discusses. But the guy had to have done things, seen things, and endured things that got him into the FBI at a security clearance rarely given to anyone under forty. Things that still haunt the back of his gaze, turn some of his words into cryptic allusions, and make him adamant about keeping his place on the water in Redondo despite his expansive suite back at the ridge.

  But weirdly, none of that is what darkens his demeanor now. His confusion lies on a very different level, tightening his scowl as he shakes his head. “For better or for worse—pardon the expression, man—I’ve still got most of that right up here.” He jabs a finger at his skull. “But this shit…is different. It was something I’d been resolved to just write off…until I met Lydia.”

  I straighten my spine. Drop my hands. “Lydia.” And push out a long breath of new comprehension. “Who’s been your key.”

  Foley doesn’t move. “Who’s been my key.”

  “And terrifies the crap out of you because of it.”

  He pushes out half a laugh. “Christ. If it was only terror.” As he falls back, he lowers a coiled fist to his forehead. He studies the ceiling like the roof is about to break open and the sky is going to suck him into an apocalyptic vortex. “This is…more.”

  “More?”

  “Different,” he emphasizes. “Deeper. It’s like being ripped open and having parts of me exposed…parts I never even knew existed. But while it’s all so fucking unfamiliar, it all still feels so…”

  “What?” I work at not sounding melodramatic against the backdrop of his thick pause.

  “It feels…” He slides his fist around, almost turning it into a Frankenstein bolt against his temple. “It feels right.” He starts twisting the bolt. “But if that’s the case, why the hell have I buried all of it?”