by Angel Payne
I lean forward. Firm my chin to deliver my response, which is as certain in my mind as Arial Bold. “Because maybe you’re not unburying it.”
Foley locks me with a tighter scowl. “Excuse me?”
Arial Bold becomes Impact Caps. “Maybe you’re discovering it.” As he gives up the glower for a full gawk, I let a small smile break through. “Parts of yourself that have always been there but were lying dormant. Like muscles in your soul that have gone untrained.” Seeing him understand the metaphor but visibly freak out from it, I turn my hands over as if offering to be handcuffed. “Like hiding a decent man under the billionaire douche the world chooses to see.”
“Not me.”
Eye roll. Because it really fits. “You binge obscure TV and shop at stores that stock their news racks with Legumes This Week and The Chakra Journal.”
“Hey. You like The Chakra Journal.”
“Yeah. Because they’re one of four publications on the planet who didn’t jump on the ‘Reece the Douche’ bandwagon.”
“Right. And because your chakras aren’t ever out of whack or anything.”
“Save the New Age sarcasm for your woman, Folic Acid.”
I get in the quip as we both rise, summoned by the opening guitar riff of “Uptown Funk” from the reception patio. Whether Foley’s inspired by the music or my blatant affirmation of his feelings, the guy splits the biggest grin I’ve ever seen across his laid-back maw. He keeps up the look while giving me a gruff shoulder bump—the closest thing Foley ever comes to a hug.
“Errrr…thanks, Richards,” he mumbles. “I mean it, man.”
“Awwww shucks, plucky buckaroo. Anytime.”
He flashes me his drollest glare. “I’m going to forget you said that.” But the glint in his eyes already gives away the zinger he’s got locked and loaded too—though he never gets the chance to squeeze that trigger, thanks to the arrival of my rescue squad.
At least that’s what I think when Alex Trestle first appears, decked out in a suit surely pilfered from the classic James Bond vault, circa Sean Connery. At his side is Neeta Jain, my right hand for all things related to the Richards Resorts division of the company, of which she’s now the Executive Vice President. But tonight, she’s here in the role of happy wedding guest—or so I think before my admiration of her old-is-new-again gown gets bypassed by her stressed expression. The small twist in my gut grows when observing Trestle isn’t just her match in the fashion reboot department. Tension defines every step he takes over to Foley and me.
“We don’t want to intrude,” he says from compressed lips, “but I’m afraid we need to.”
My mind whirls through possibilities as I triage their arrival. Neither of them is blatantly bleeding or has anyone else’s blood on them. The ranch’s security team doesn’t seem to be in tow, either. The band is still uptown funking just over the trees. There are no screams on the air or any glaring glow to denote the love of my life has accidentally dropped cover and given everyone a wedding celebration they really won’t forget.
Which leaves one logical conclusion.
Leading me to lean over, clap Alex on the back, and reassure, “Trestle. It’s fine.”
“It’s…what?” He gawks like my hand turned into a shark fin.
“I understand,” I explain. “Laurel Crist can be daunting when she’s watching the schedule, but we’re fine.”
“We’re what? How does Laurel Crist—”
“Is Emma already back out there?” I cut in.
“Yes.” Neeta confirms it, hands held in an elegant manner at her waist, as if she’s standing in the Hotel Brocade’s offices in one of her pinstripe skirt suits instead of here in a long, flowy green gown that brings out the gold tints in her cinnamon-colored skin. “It was when she reappeared without you that Alexander and I grew concerned.”
Concerned.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard her declare the word. The woman helps me run international resorts all over the globe, after all. It’s just the first time I’ve heard her say it like that, with that strange edge in her voice. Like this is something a room rate change won’t fix.
Like this is something having nothing to do with Laurel Crist.
I drop my hand off Alex’s back. “Concerned? About what?”
“About the Hela Odinsdottir who’s crashed the damn reception?”
Foley and I wheel around as soon as the growl is issued by a new arrival in the room. At once, I toss “concerned” out the window of my psyche—because as soon as Wade Tavish stalks into a room like this, with his gaze fired up and his ginger rage ramped, I know better than to stop at mild-level descriptors.
“The Hela who?” Foley issues the demand two seconds before I get to it.
“Odinsdottir,” Neeta supplies. I almost have the feeling she’s holding back a “duh” eye roll. “Goddess of the underworld. In many texts, said to be one of the daughters of Loki; however, in the cinematic universe, she is Odin’s daughter and none too happy about being banished to the land of the dead for several millennia. She is proficient at many weapons and fighting styles, but her anger and hurt often overrules her common sense, leading to her downfall.”
Wade gulps and stares at her. “I think I just fell in love.”
Alex shoves him. “Get in line.”
“You fuckers want to focus?” Foley barks, spinning back to confront Neeta. “And since you’re the one actually putting your brain first: are you telling me there’s an angry hell harpy who’s just magically manifested in the middle of the reception?”
Alex awkwardly bobs his head. “Manifested? Magically? I’m not sure about that…”
I plummet my hand to my sides but keep them curled in fists. “So what the hell are you sure of?”
Wade’s the one who shifts forward again, though he does so with such force that he audibly skids to a stop on the polished tiles a few inches in front of Foley and me. He hardly notices because his tension is still like a physical mantel over his posture. “At the very low end of the crazy scale? We’ve got a mystery guest.”
“And at the other end of the scale?” Foley charges. He’s scowling so deeply, I’m shocked not to see miniature mountain bikers racing up and down the crevices of his face.
Just then, the band ends the happy tune in favor of a new song. It’s the Muse tune, about secrets being safe and worlds that come tumbling down. Of course.
“Then we have a big fucking problem.”
“Bride Emma!”
“Bride Emma!”
“We’re dancing with Bride Emma!”
“Dancing!”
It feels a billion kinds of wrong—and right—to be laughing like a lunatic as Tosca and Jina drag me from one end of the dance floor to the next while the band’s lead singer plaintively wails through “Resistance.” Normally, Muse songs are the stuff I deep clean and sob-read to, but this song is a perfect choice for commemorating a superhero love story.
The message is also perfectly timed for my heart. While I’m so impatient for the day we can let the whole world know that Team Bolt is one member stronger and more formidable than ever, my spirit listens to the lyrics soaring around me. Words that roar about love being the greatest resistance of all and keeping promises despite being broken down.
And isn’t that what today’s been all about? Love triumphing as our greatest power and not the shitty things we’ve had to go through to get here. Finally telling fear to suck it. Declaring that we’re claiming each other as our ultimate power, the voltage readings on our bloodstreams be damned. In many ways, it’s perfect that the recognition hits as I “dance” with this pair of giddy eight-year-olds in their frothy dresses, Tosca in pink and Jina in lavender, their rosy health reminding me of how far they’ve come since Reece and I pulled up in front of their house last year, making them and their older brother, Cal, the inaugural family to benefit from Richards Reaches Out. Since then, Cal has knocked out another year of college and has been able to put a down payment on
a modest condo between the Brocade and UCLA, where he’ll be pursuing the rest of his engineering degree while working part-time at the hotel.
At the risk of being trite—but what the hell, it’s only my gray matter reflecting to itself—can I really ask for anything more right now?
We’re helping others.
We’re loving each other.
We have health and hope…
And now, as the band segues into “Don’t Stop Believin’,” we even have Journey.
Life. Made.
And given an even better sprinkle on the top of the sundae as I behold my towering, breathtaking husband across the dance floor, tie shucked and shirtsleeves hiked, and a vest accentuating his tapered physique instead of his jacket. His long legs are braced just far enough apart, making him took like a dark, wicked Zeus with his eye on a new mortal maiden.
Silly god king.
Don’t you remember how you turned this human into a goddess with the power of your passion?
But he doesn’t look convinced, even after I crook a finger at him and sing the line about everyone wanting a thrill as if he’s the only one on earth who’ll give me mine. Because he is. My man. My more. The hunk who’s gradually peeling me apart all over again, even across the twenty feet separating us…
Until the adoration in his gaze is suddenly marred by a shadow. And then another. And then such a deeply troubled sobriety to his expression, I feel my face emulating it—though once I get to that point, only keeping time to the song’s rhythm because Jina and Tosca are swinging my arms like dueling jump ropes, Reece jogs his head to the side, a silent request to meet him near the bar.
The bar.
Located across the dance floor from the display where an uplit fountain bubbles up from the middle of our Butter End wedding cake and where Mother has herded a couple of servers for the razzle-dazzle cutting shenanigans.
Mother isn’t happy when I acquiesce to my husband’s direction instead, but she’ll have to deal. Especially because every step that takes me closer to Reece also brings awareness, prickling and potent, corresponding to the creases at the corners of his mouth. Though everyone obviously thinks he’s just approaching me about some minor party detail, my nerve endings know better.
And the hairs on the back of my neck.
And the extra awareness in my senses, letting me observe the light along the top of his head.
I almost gasp at the change in his energy. He’s now the color of a messy red marker instead of a goldenrod highlighter and is jacking up that flow as I watch.
“Okay,” I finally rasp as he pulls me close with hands at the backs of my shoulders. “Just tell me this isn’t the part where you tell me one of my friends from college is actually one of your exes.”
For half a second, he gives in to what looks like befuddlement, bemusement, and enchantment at once. That’s before he takes a new breath and his tension takes over again. “At the moment, we’ve got a different sticky.” He redirects my attention with a lift of his head and a sweep of his stare. I’m still so weirded out by his energy, I don’t even pause to let my heart backflip from how the gold dance floor lights reflect in his velvet grays. “Do you know that woman sitting at the table in the back corner? Long dark hair with the silver streak? Gallon of eyeliner? A red lace choker—”
“And the matching wrap dress she’s hardly bothered to wrap?” My spew says it all, though I’m not shy about my relief when he looks right at her with undisguised confusion. But I’m washed in a more troubled feeling when he refuses to let his glare leave her. “Reece?” I press. “What’s up? Who is she?”
He looks back down to me—for all of three seconds. “You’re sure you don’t know her? Look again.”
I oblige but not without a snort of punctuation. “Doesn’t look like I have to. That old perv next to her is doing the looking for everyone here.”
One side of Reece’s mouth hitches up. “Perv? Yes. But old? Think again.”
I twist my lips. Hard. “Did that orgasm on the dam make you blind, my love? He’s eighty if he’s a—”
“He’s Alex.”
And now I know why he’s kept me angled away from the crowd. He knew my gawk was coming. The gawk that still clamps my face as I dare a tiny backward glance. “Holy shit. I mean, the guy is always talking about cosplay and disguises, but I never knew he was this good at it.”
“I don’t think any of us did,” Reece replies. “But he cobbled that getup together with Corinne’s help, thank fuck.”
That explains why the stylist hasn’t been flitting around. I’d be running over to kiss Alex’s toes for the favor, if not for being totally fascinated with how he’s transformed himself into a cross between Yoda and Mr. Miyagi, with his attention fixed on the slick beauty with the impeccable skin and squinting stare—while she plays a cat-and-mouse game with her visual homage to my husband.
“Are you really sure you don’t know her?” I mutter, glancing pointedly back at Reece.
He bristles but grits it away. My implication, hardly a mystery, is also hardly unjustified. Assuming the man has remembered every female he’s “been with” is like assuming he remembers every Richards Empire employee. Impossible.
“She’s not the least bit familiar to me, Emmalina. Okay?” His pause between my name and the question is the same thing as a grudging shoulder shake.
I choose to give in to the actual motion, since it shirks his relentless hold. “I believe you,” I mutter, hoping it serves as a minor peace offering. Okay, so he was once a man-slut—but I fell in love with him knowing that. And while he’s done some crazy shit since we’ve been together, sliding the Bolt Bang Missile into another woman definitely hasn’t been one of them. I know that in every part of my heart and soul. I know it.
The man leans down, pressing a tender buss to my forehead. The contact infuses me with tiny sparks all over again, and my second tremor is more raw reaction than a purposeful shake.
“So, we have a crasher?” I ask quietly.
“Seems so.”
Reece’s growl is blanketed with tension. I try to ramp up my own but can’t. I’m thrilled and pissed by the idea at once—but don’t dare give in to the curiosity that underlines both. Giving the woman another open goggle won’t just alert her that the jig is up but give her another chance to snap secret pictures—if that’s what she’s here for. That choker does have an amulet the size of an Infinity Stone and could easily be doing double duty as a camera lens.
“Holy shit.” It spills out louder than I intended, but pure panic has a tendency to twang a girl’s vocal cords beyond the norm. Screw the curiosity; now I really am as wound-up as my husband. “You think she might be live feeding all this?” I spit. “Have Wade and Fersh done any searches?”
Reece yanks me close again. Ensures into my hair, “As we speak. And some facial recognition programs too.”
“And?” I jerk back, letting him see the anxiety spread across my face. How long has that hag been here? Has she been spying on us? Infiltrating our privacy? Broadcasting our special day without permission? Holy crap. Did she secretly follow us out beneath the weeping willow? Is there some awful video already up on the web, titled something hideous like “Wicked Lightning Lovers” or “Up, Up, and Away with the Richards”?
“Nothing yet,” Reece admits. “But getting a clear enough image of her has been another challenge, which was why Alex came up with the scheme to go in as…” He trails off, scrunching his lips.
“Yoda and Mr. Miyagi’s love child?”
“Yes.” His affirmation is so definitive, he pulls out the y a little.
“Though he hasn’t been able to get the same from her?”
“Not without being obvious.” He grits his way into a charming smile, lifting a gentlemanly finger in Mother’s direction to stall her about the cake. But the last thing I can think about right now is biting into a mound of flour, sugar, and frosting pearls. I may throw up. My stomach is tight and filled with acid. My senses ar
e whirling and full of apprehension. It’s as if that mystery witch went ahead and materialized in the middle of our bedroom.
No.
In our bedroom, with all of our friends and family watching.
Where’d she come from? What has she seen? More critically, who the hell has she already uploaded it to?
And now that my mind has taken that poker of horror in all its searing fun, I get ready to entertain myself—ha freaking ha—with the joyride of possible answers.
A journey for which I’ll gladly return the ticket, given the better option of whirling as Wade and Fershan approach. They clearly don’t have joyride tickets either, though they’re both wearing that I’ve-got-news expression that geek guys are fond of. With these two, that could mean anything from the identity of mystery witch down to her underwear size to declaring they’ve invented a new internet.
Nobody understands that better than Reece, who eyes them with guarded optimism before probing, “What have you got?”
Wade jumps in first. “Either nothing or everything.”
“Which means what?” My tone triples Reece’s impatience. At least that earns me Fershan’s haste, even though the guy looks like he’d rather be giving us the GPS coordinates for hell.
“An unidentified login to the ranch’s Wi-Fi,” he supplies, cringing before he’s done—already observing the rising alarm in my eyes. “But only what we think is one,” he rushes to amend. Clearly, Fershan doesn’t possess Reece-level clearance into my mind, where his sweet sensibilities would be turbo-blasted by my worry about leaked sex footage. “We are not certain if what we even saw was what we saw, and there must be at least three hundred cell phones at this party—”
“Nearly all of which have been blocked from logging into the Wi-Fi,” Reece cuts in. “And also told that sending out pictures and video would amount to everything short of being socially castrated, right?”
The faces around us tauten by discernible degrees. The threat, as stupid as it sounds, isn’t an empty one in Los Angeles and Hollywood, where “doing lunch” could mean sealing a multimillion-dollar deal. Or five.
