by Angel Payne
“Oh, c’mon,” my sister protests. “He’s also rhyming ‘orangey tubes’ with ‘dorky poop.’”
At least Angie makes an effort to quell her roll, sticking to mildly quirking lips. “I am not sure that helps your cause,” she reproves Lydia, only to be rewarded by a massive roll of my sister’s eyes.
“And this is why poetry is dying,” Lydia mutters.
Just as Angie looks ready to go with the pro-poetry argument like the good Frenchwoman she is, my phone buzzes incessantly atop the table. Lydia glances over since she’s closer than me—and unleashes an instant groan. “Our maternal unit beckons.”
Some occasions are really perfect for my Debbie Downer wince. “Imagine that,” I grumble.
’Dia scoops up my device. She knows as well as I do that a call from Mom, especially these days, is like a visit from the Borg. Resistance is futile. Still, she suggests, “Let it drop?”
The second I’m going to say yes, even knowing the damn thing will start with the Laurel Crist buzz barrage in less than a minute, the private elevator dings and there are hormone-raising bootsteps on the landing. I smile and reach for the phone. My knight in tight black leather is back with the perfect timing that ensures I’m in love with him now more than ever.
“Mother.” I abandon the tender comfort I was using on Mis for what I call my “front desk” voice. I’m warm but distant, brisk but friendly. “To what do I owe this huge pleasure?” At the same time, I pray it’s not because of anything she saw on the news about our adventures at the Biltmore. Granted, it’s been nearly seventy-two hours since Lux flew the twins back up the elevator shaft, and we’ve been steadily resting easier about the possibility of any secret video coverage getting leaked, but technology is a crazy mistress. She loves getting in a good bite on the ass when one least expects it.
“Hmmm. Isn’t that an interesting choice of words.”
Her terse tone sets me on edge and soars me with elation at the same time. She’s almost—almost—irritable enough to be the nitpicky socialite I once knew and loved as my mother. And while I’ll always love her, I do not know her anymore. Even in this second, which will probably turn out to be a sham of normalcy again. Because any second now…
“Don’t get me wrong, dear. Your words are always wonderful. And beyond interesting.”
Everything will return to this.
Stepford wifey, Laurel Crist style. Created, directed, and produced by Faline Garand.
“But…?” I supply the lead-in despite already knowing the follow-through. Seriously, I wish I was hedging bets on it with a Vegas bookie.
“But I haven’t seen my grandson in three months, Emmalina.”
I pull in a calming breath. Or at least what I attempt it to be. “Well…”
As if on cue, Lux’s happy shout fills the penthouse. “Dadaaaaa!”
“Oh, my word. Now would you listen to that?”
“I don’t have much choice about the matter.” I fight to keep my voice loving but level, despite the tearful crack in hers. “Speaking of choices, Mom—”
“Oh, goodness!” she butts in as Ira and Mis join in with their elated shrieks—using the same name for Reece in their greetings. Once we got the girls settled in here, we were too tired to create appropriate names for ourselves in their eyes. Our proper assignations felt too casual; “Mr. and Mrs. Richards” was out from the start. “You’ve got quite the pitter-patter of little feet there, missy,” she prods. “Has Troop Richards grown again without Grandmee Laurel getting invited to the fun?”
I allow myself a facepalm. It gives me the chance to swing the phone away from my mouth and then mutter, “Things were so much easier when you had the steel pole jammed up your ass, Mother.”
“Excuse me?” A frothy sigh. Then an annoying singsong. “Speak up, buttercup; it’s the way to have your say!”
Thankfully, she doesn’t continue with the dorky song she once sang to ’Dia and me, often on a daily basis. We eventually were cured of our mumbling tendencies from the simple desire not to hear the song anymore. Too bad the ditty wasn’t part of her visit to the Faline Garand Mental Realignment Spa. I wonder how much loopier Ira and Mis would be if it was.
“Luke is having a playdate,” I declare directly into the phone. Yes, my mother is getting the same pseudonym for the offspring that we invented for the press and public’s use—because no, I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her with the truth.
Correction: I don’t trust what parts of her mind Faline may have access to now.
So much we still don’t know, even now.
So much we still can’t see, though now we’ve seen so much.
So much we can’t control, despite how much we’ve now destroyed.
I confirm that truth as my husband completes his affectionate greetings to the three children—a ritual that apparently consists of them all hanging on him like scree’ing monkeys—and casts a long look across the room at me. At once, I’m dazzled. His electric silver eyes. And liquefied. His beautiful, bold smirk. And ohhhh yes…beyond turned-on. His roaming study of my whole body…igniting every surface he lays eyes on…
“Uh…yeah,” I manage to stammer, responding to whatever memory from Lydia and my playdates that she’s dredged up.
“Excuse me?” Mom flings back. “Helllooo, earth to Emmalina Paisley.”
“Huh?”
She laughs. “Darling, are you listening to me?”
“Of course. Yes…of course.” The words are so full of additional meaning, responding to so much of the sensual promise in Reece’s sultry stare that they hop from double to triple definition. At least I hope so. Depends on where the man’s drawing the line between his silent I need to talk to you alone and I want to fuck you mindless.
“That’s still not an answer to my question,” Mom mutters.
“Sorry,” I return. “Reece just got in, and now the kids want to go to Two-Bit Circus.”
“Where?”
“An arcade here in town.” I deck myself inwardly for not remembering to simplify the explanation. No way am I going to try explaining VR gaming, escape rooms, laser tag, and a digital midway to her right now. “Look, I have to go.” Not a lie. My poor husband is still trying to navigate across the living room as a walking monkey mount. “We’ll talk soon about a visit for you and Lux.”
“Who’s Lux?”
“Errrmmm—” I wince, enduring the same look from Reece, as I swiftly backpedal from the slip. “Just a funny nickname he likes. But we’ll set a date for you and Dad to come up and see him soon.” With supervision. Lots of it. As in, every molecule of the air being monitored by Angie, Wade, Sawyer, Fershan, Reece, and me.
“Thank you, honey. I love you so much.” Mom’s voice is back to a vocal sachet, soaked in gratitude and love. While my nose scrunches because I can practically smell the odeur on this air, I also want to sob because of the lie I’ve just perpetuated—and will keep telling until I’m one-hundred-percent positive she’s not being swept by the Faline Garand brain bots anymore.
“I love you too. I really gotta go.”
I end the call with another pinched expression. Damn it. I can’t stand that it has to be this way. I’m throwing her the grandma version of bread scraps, a raw deal she doesn’t deserve—but that isn’t changing anytime soon. A chunk of her mind has been hacked off and carved out by Faline. I desperately wish the situation were different, but it’s not.
God.
I wish a lot of situations were different right now—but they’re not.
I set down my phone and meet Reece under the archway between the living and dining rooms, I feel like Cruella de Flare for coming at him with all my leftover tension from the call with Mom—especially right now. If we were living in the Team Bolt video game, his fuel, water, and life force bubbles would all be near the ominous red empty level. His leathers are scuffed and dusty, his face is smudged and scruffy, and his gaze is dull and tired as pewter.
Yet the man is still grinning l
ike a mindless dork.
The expression intensifies as he trudges closer, still dripping with kids, and scoops a hand around the back of my neck. And kisses me like he really, really means it.
From the second I mewl in ecstasy and he adds tongue to the clinch, Lux and the girls jump free as if their climbing tree is crawling with fire ants. Just fine by me. The man’s glorious mouth and tantalizing tongue send a million of those figurative critters across my skin and through my body. I’m feverish from the fire skittering up and down my limbs and then diving into the flood of my bloodstream until it all funnels into the pressurized triangle at my aching core. Oh shit, even now. In front of the children and my sister and—
“Perhaps you two should take that to a different room, oui?”
And Angie, becoming my sweater-and-leggings version of a rescue knight extraordinaire, swinging her mottled dome around with a worldly smile on her cosmopolitan lips.
“Go,” the woman urges, her gaze sparkling brighter. “You have not taken a moment for each other in three days.”
“Mademoiselle LaSalle is très right,” Lydia pipes in. “Besides, your phone is now officially commandeered, baby girl.” She scoops the device off the table and slips it into the back pocket of her denim capris. “You won’t see it again until after I hear screams or snores from the bedroom. Preferably both.”
Reece unfurls a savoring growl. “Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite sister-in-law?”
Lydia snorts. “Just go and spoil my sister rotten, would you? Preferably in horizontal positions.”
“Deal.” Reece extends his fist, making an explosion noise as ’Dia returns the bump. I give in to a fresh faceplant, rolling my eyes at them from between my sprawled fingers.
“Jesus wept,” I mutter.
“No, baby.” Reece grins while curling a hand around my waist and yanking me close. “Save the tears for what I’m about to do to you.”
Lydia snorts. “I’m not sure whether to cheer or barf right now.”
“Perhaps…neither?” Though Angie’s cagey expression conveys her approval of the same sentiment.
“Excellent plan.” My sister hooks an elbow through hers, guiding Angie back toward the kids. “Hey, Lux baby!” she calls. “How about we introduce Mis and Ira to the goodness of Twister?” She casts one last teasing glance over her shoulder at us while adding, “Because sometimes, you just can’t have too much screaming in the house.”
REECE
Lydia will probably give me shit for this later, but I don’t care.
Once I have Emma behind closed doors and all to myself, all thoughts of getting her naked and mindless are shoved to my psyche’s furthest corners. Truth be told, after the last twelve hours, a lot of me is naked and mindless already. I might still be covered in leather on the outside, but inside I’ve been stripped down and torn apart.
Over and over and over again.
With every step I had to take through that staggering maze of abandoned halls, darkened laboratories, and forlorn five-sided cells. The hive that was once my world. The prison in which I’d resigned myself to die.
The hell I forced myself to traverse again.
Every last goddamned step.
Facing the pain and rage and desolation for one last time.
And in a fucked-up but necessary way, welcoming them.
Walking those rooms again…standing there, flooded in the horror and brutality of the memories, brought me to the strangest but clearest perception.
I’ll never fully leave that place. It’s part of me now, etched into the walls of my psyche.
But it’s not all of me.
Not anymore.
It’s not even the biggest thing that ever changed me. It’s insignificant compared to the impact of true love on my heart, the sea change of fatherhood to every cell of my soul.
Fatherhood.
The word alone stirs echoes inside my head.
Dada! Dada! Dada!
And yes…they’re in triplicate. In those three distinct voices that are inextricably woven through me. Yes, already. Yes, after just three days. And no, I really don’t think they’re going to change to anything different.
All epiphanies I have yet to share with the woman standing next to me.
All purposeful omissions—for which I’m not proud but wouldn’t change. I haven’t shared them because I’ve needed to be sure. Have had to double-check my psyche, confirming all of this isn’t just passing caprice fed by the adrenaline of finding the Source. Or worse, a bout of misplaced survivor’s guilt—or my superhero complex needing its next nobility fix. More nobly, I can’t deny the fathomless joy of seeing Lux with a mini tribe of his own kind.
To cut to the chase, the reasons go on and on. My list of explanations is longer than a catalog of Team Bolt fanfics, meaning I could dawdle forever and ruminate about the result or simply face the music and involve my wife in talking through our next steps in fate’s newest twist for us. Not that it’s going to be easy—but we’ve got to start somewhere.
And we’d better start now.
“Hey.” I tug Emma’s hand, urging her to follow me to the long ottoman that takes up the wall between our panorama window and the master bathroom. “Come here.”
“Here?” The light tease in her voice matches the gold glints in her eyes. “You sure about that, Zeus Man? The bed might be nicer, considering you’ve been stomping around in a bunch of tunnels for nearly twelve hours.”
“Which is why I want to talk first.”
A crinkle of confusion takes over her forehead. “Who are you, and what have you done with my lust factory of a husband?”
I capture the hand she presses between my temples and then lower it to press my lips against the inside of her wrist. “Oh, don’t worry, baby. All those gears are still cranking.” I nuzzle her again, this time closing my eyes and inhaling deep, welcoming her honey and sunshine scent into my senses. With slow languor, I lick little circles around her delicious pulse point. “And believe me, they’re ready to get me inside you, as deep as I possibly can go.” I soak up the quickening of her heartrate and the rush of her gasp. “But we have to talk first.”
As if my declaration is his cue, Lux’s shout pierces through the walls. “Left hand green!”
Annnnd Twister has officially kicked off. Fitting imagery, matching the new contortion of my wife’s features.
“I’m guessing you don’t need me to clarify the category either,” I murmur.
“Right hand yellow!”
More appropriate analogy, since Emma’s fingers glow the same color as she tightens her hold against mine. “Yeah,” she rasps. “You’re right; I’m pretty sure we’re on the same track for this. But first”—she stretches her free hand up, framing the corresponding side of my face with the sun-bright warmth of her touch—“tell me how you are. Tell me…what’s happening.”
She’s castigating herself for the small pause. I already feel the tension of her self-recrimination. More than that, I read it in the tightness around her eyes and mouth. With my attention directed there already, I take her lips softly beneath my own, hoping she feels every part of my reassurance. It’s okay that she can’t say any more than that. It’s also okay that she doesn’t want to hear about every detail of what I’ve seen over the last twelve hours. The equipment I’ve helped destroy. The cells I’ve searched, retrieving anything that seemed like a personal keepsake from the refugees, all of whom are now comfortably checked into rooms throughout the tower below us. But most importantly, the items I’ve bagged that may contain the tiniest traces of human DNA. They’re the first small step toward identifying everyone who’s survived the Consortium’s clutches.
But more exigently…identifying everyone who didn’t.
“Well, her highness of the mad mole-hell scientists hasn’t made any appearances yet,” I offer as soon as we pull back a little—but just a little. For the last twelve hours, my world has been about nothing but fluorescent lighting and dark caverns. N
ow that I’m holding a sunbeam, I’m not about to fucking let her go. “And that’s one for the gratitude column.”
Though her eyes remain serious, Emma allows a small laugh loose. “The mad mole-hell scientists, hmmm? Do I get to guess who coined that one?”
“As long as you guess Sawyer.” I smirk. She chuckles again. “But at least it made things a little more bearable.”
Yeah, I’ve gone deliberately teenage nonchalance with the remark, calling on my inner sixteen-year-old asshole to help me skate through the moment. Okay, so “things” are now designated as a visit to my former holding cell and torture chamber instead of who I’ll ask to prom, but my brain’s melded the circumstances close enough that I can lift a cocky shrug and mean it.
“We got through every part of it too, baby.” I declare the words while nestling my face into her neck and then yanking her tight once more. “Every last cabinet and closet, corner and crevice.” I breathe her in again. So warm. So bright. My life. “Davidson and the city’s structural engineers swept our six and took notes about where to park their charges. As of five a.m. tomorrow morning, the entire Source will follow the fate of Faline’s portal-on-demand.”
Emma lets out a long exhale, blending it into a sublime sigh. “And the bad guys go boom.”
She husks it with such a perfect blend of Sarah Connor and Jessica Rabbit, I’m nothing but a huge ball of boom-boom-shakalaka myself for a good thirty seconds. “Well, at least their butt-crack bat cave does.”
There’s no sweet bunny giggle at that one, but I’m not expecting one. Her tiny tremor, coming a few seconds later, is more what my instinct has prepared for. “You think Fa-Fa knows what’s going on?” As well as those words, complete with our snide nickname for our bitch nemesis.
“If she doesn’t, she’s sure as hell about to.”
Another angle from me toward sardonicism, answered by another predictable shiver from her whole body. I battle the urge to fantasize about other times I’ve made her quiver from head to toe like this and am only partially successful. Which, of course, is the universe’s full justification for tossing me into the cad-with-a-side-of-crap bin. Like Bruce Banner, sometimes my monster roars out at the stupidest times.
