Pulse

by Angel Payne

  Jesus.

  It’s so corny, I’m ready to mash it all up and roll hot dogs in it. And yeah, that might be the largest spoke in keeping my integrity wagon rolling here. Because, sure, I’ve followed the boyfriend handbook and been as honest as I can about everything she’s asked, including the painful truth about the faceless dozens who have been in her position before—on an airplane, descending into Paris with my lips at the back of their neck—though absolutely none of them got what she and I shared eight hours ago, in the aftermath of frosting and fucking. Or anything of the eight hours before that, preparing for a trip to hell, press conference style. Or the eight before that, in which I nearly turned my brother into a permanent part of the Griffith Observatory architecture for cornering her in the bathroom there.

  None of them have gotten even a fraction of what this woman has awakened in me, with or without the supercharge of my blood along to help, since the first night she came into my life—and changed my world.

  But she still doesn’t believe it. Not really.

  The only way to prove it to her is the same way we made it to this moment. With more time. With more magic. With more communication. With more connection. With more trust. With more proof.

  Which all sounds so easy—in my head. At several thousand feet over the earth. Without reality, in all its fucked-up glory, to interfere.

  But even if she won’t believe me directly, Emma believes in our love. I know it. I feel it. And now, I’m banking on it.

  Okay, not right now.

  But in about five hours it may be my only salvation.

  Chapter Three

  Emma

  Even in the very early hours of the morning—perhaps because of them—this city is everything I’ve dreamed of and more.

  Around every romantic curve in each street, in the carved stone alcoves and the wrought-iron filigrees, in the pristine black stanchions and the crisp striped awnings, are all the tiny touches that differentiate this place from any other on earth. In so many ways, I’m grateful for the chance to see it all like this, still and quiet, as if getting to watch a rare rose at the brink of blooming for the sun. The city, dating back to the Romans, is filled with so much beauty, I don’t want to miss any of it in the name of dodging cars and scooters and people.

  The visual ambiance is just the beginning of the Parisian spell. As Reece and I roam the cobblestoned streets, using only the river and the landmarks as our compass, we’re happy with the world and each other. Well, that’s how I choose to approach it. Though Reece has never been a Chatty Cathy for the sake of hearing himself talk, I force myself to recognize the unnatural length of his silences since we got here. And while I’m tempted to pry at what cat snagged his tongue, I also remember that a little over twelve hours ago, he was facing the media during the wildest “chat” of his life. Having to apologize to his father and brother, both of whom might be mixed up with the Consortium, had to be right up there with a rectal exam in his book—and that probably wasn’t the toughest part of this journey for him yet.

  Now, we’re waiting.

  And hoping.

  And banking on the success of his lies.

  All right, so they were white ones—but even back in LA, during the drive between the Brocade and the airport, I could tell that swallowing crow for the sake of mending fences with Lawson and Tyce wasn’t in his natural wheelhouse of topics to be dishing with the press—especially because he still feels justified in going caveman on Tyce. In his shoes, in those circumstances, I’m not sure I would have refrained from the same stunt.

  Water way under the bridge.

  These moments are for us.

  For walking and savoring and soaking everything up in the moment. For getting lost in the best city in the world to do that in. For watching the glow from streetlamps tango slowly through the trees, dancing to distant accordion and harmonica tunes from players down in Métro stations. For listening to bateaus call to each other on the Seine, their proprietors preparing for a busy day on the water. For watching the sky become an enchanting ombre because of the rising dawn, its peach and pink hues contrasting with the cobalt shadows still ruling over the streets and alleys. One by one, flares of neon flicker to life against the darkness, announcing another patisserie or café owner has arrived for their work day.

  In front of one of those shops, on the quai across from the Île de la Cité, Reece tugs me to an abrupt stop. I peer at him curiously—and to be honest, a bit impatiently. Just a block up the way is the famous Shakespeare & Company bookstore, akin to a Mecca pilgrimage for booklovers. Though the little shop is still hours away from opening, I’m looking forward to having him take my picture, nonexistent makeup and all, in front of the iconic green storefront with its mustard-yellow sign. But the aromas wafting out of the bakery are worthy of their own holy worship—though we’re shit out of luck on getting to do that too.

  Or are we?

  I stare harder at Reece as he cocks his head, perusing the inside of the bakery. No, a person inside the bakery—a man I’d mistake as his brother had I not already met Chase and Tyce in LA two nights ago. God, it feels like two months ago…

  “You fucker!” The man throws open the front door, ringing an obnoxious bell over the jamb, before lunging at Reece and bro-hugging him like they’re a couple of linebackers who just won the Super Bowl. “Couldn’t believe it when I got your text.”

  “Yeah, well.” Reece shrugs, his face taken over by a grin I’ve never witnessed before. It’s the smile of a boy long since gone in chronological years but lurking deep down inside of the man all the same. And unbelievably, it adds a sexier new element to his rugged handsomeness. “Sneaked into town this time.”

  “No shit.” While the guy mutters it with his mouth, he travels his curious gaze over to me. “And I’d say the reason is well worth it.”

  “Hey.” Reece draws it out with long, semi-pissed emphasis. “Watch that shit, Connie.”

  A gasp escapes me as the man decks Reece in the arm—I mean, hard—on his way to taking up the space in front of me. He flashes a rogue’s grin that really could make him the long-lost Richards brother, highlighted even more by the contrast of his thick, dark stubble. His apron, smattered with flour, sugar, and an array of fruit jellies, is ineffective for hiding the strain of his biceps at the confines of his gray T-shirt. His timber-log thighs are matching strains beneath his white baker’s pants.

  “Hi,” he quips, waggling his brows. “Connor Barque. Reece the Piece and I went to prep school together. Or should I say, made the rounds of every prep school in New York together. But you probably know that, because I’m sure Mr. Richards has told you all about me by now. Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  But the guy’s only halfway down to kissing the back of my hand when he’s hauled back by his collar, recalcitrant puppy style, by my growling fiancé. “Not in a thousand years, you don’t,” he orders.

  “Holy fuck.” But Connor’s already laughing again.

  “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 hellra
iser 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.”