Light

by Angel Payne

  The party.

  With that thought lifting my spirits, I lean over and give Foley a hearty clap on the back.

  “Well done, man,” I murmur, deciding to stay quiet about the fact that he’s practically as pretty as ’Dia in this moment. With his dark-blond hair tamed into a stylish man bun and his tuxedo still miraculously white, the guy’s a candidate for the “Eat Your Heart Out, Jason Momoa” Pinterest page.

  Oops. Too late. I guess I said that last part aloud, since the guy brandishes a scowl vicious enough to peel off my skin. “Did you just invoke DC in a crowd of Marvel True Believers, man?” He cocks his head and clucks his tongue. “Hope you remembered to protect your junk with some Captain America Underoos.”

  I narrow my gaze but lift a clenched smile. The videographer is moving in fast. “Smartass.”

  “Prick monkey.”

  “Fanboy snob.”

  “DC whore.”

  “Would you two stop being dicks and get with the program here?” Lydia spits as she wheels back around on us. The woman looks incredible in a sparkly mermaid-style gown with a frothy veil that perfectly frames her angular face—except that this second, she’s out for blood as bright as the strawberry tints in her long curls. “Holy shit,” she adds in response to her mother’s mortified gasp.

  “Lydia Harlow!” Laurel rushes over in a cloud of expensive perfume and maternal indignity. The second she’s done with the reprimand, she bears down on the video guy. “All of that will be edited out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The guy ducks in, adding for our ears alone, “I’ll make sure you guys get the blooper reel.”

  “Lydia!” Laurel beckons. “No dawdling. We’re three minutes behind on the timeline.”

  Lydia lets out a girl growl. “Hey, Bolt Jolt. For a wedding gift, can’t you just give me a couple of hours of brainwashed Laurel again?”

  Emma impales her with a scowl while bending to straighten out her train. “You want to keep both your nipples, sister?”

  “Heeeyyy,” I chide. “We all know marriage is about compromise. Brainwashing, not doable. But lots of double-shot cosmos for my beautiful mother-in-law…”

  “And thus, the reason why I’m proud to call you brother.” Foley smirks, lifting his fist to bump with mine. “I’ll even get the first round.”

  “From the open bar?” ’Dia volleys though descends into a new moan as Laurel barks for her again. If any of us needed any moment to confirm that the woman is thoroughly free from Faline’s spell, this is definitely that time. Ever since our astounding “night at the ballet” five months ago, we’d been hoping that would be the case. There will always be some uncertainty about the limits and duration of the “black hole” we banished the bitch to that night, but with Faline effectively sealed away—and Mis and Ira free from her enslavement—it seems that the Garand Cult was also wiped from the planet. The process took about a week in total, though Laurel does notice there are sections from her year beneath Faline’s rule that she’s forgotten altogether. Though the memory gaps continue to disturb her, we’re all in agreement that it’s probably a good thing.

  The more we all forget and move on, the better.

  The resolve is foremost in my mind as I step in behind Foley and Lydia and offer my arm for my own stunning woman to take. As she does, I’m frozen solid for a long second. My legs can’t move. My heart can’t beat. With all due respect to the bride, my Emmalina is easily the most breathtaking woman here. Her silver-toned matron of honor dress is a flawless fit across her luscious figure, and the color plays up every sparkle of the turquoise magic in her dancing gaze. There’s a joyous blush on her high cheeks and a love-filled smile lifting the stunning curves of her lips.

  She’ll never stop taking my breath away.

  Never ever stop captivating my spirit and soul.

  Always and forever, she’ll turn every cell in my body into raw electricity.

  Yeah, even now.

  I’m still swooning like a sap from an Austen novel when a chorus of kid-style whoops fill the air from behind us, lilting with the distinct exuberance of an animated little boy and his two adoring sisters.

  “Ho-lee shit! Ho-lee shit! Ho-lee shit!”

  I snicker. Emma moans. With their parts in the ceremony officially finished, the kids dart past us. Lux tosses his little tuxedo jacket at Emma. Mis and Ira, in their fluffy white chiffon dresses, are already scraping the bows out of their curls.

  “Yesssss,” Lydia exclaims. “I knew my Luxie wouldn’t let me down!”

  “Emmalina Paisley.” Laurel’s back, more flustered than ever. Todd accompanies her this time, already rolling his eyes. “Your—Your children and those words—”

  “Talk to your other child, maternal unit.” Emma raises a fast and determined talk-to-the-hand. “When ‘Luxie’ and Dee Dee join forces, I’m not to be blamed.”

  “Speaking of things we can blame each other for later…” Foley addresses me as soon as we get to the head table, where our wives give each other more gushing hugs, tears, and permissions to sample the custom-imprinted wedding candies in the shell-shaped crystal bowls on the table. “You ready to hit the bar, dude?”

  “I can already hear that first cosmo calling Laurel’s name.”

  As Lydia tugs her sister toward the ladies’ room, we make our way over to the bar, tucked in an alcove off the comfortable living room area that separates the dance floor from the venue’s dock. As soon as we’re clustered together, nursing lowballs of Macallan, Foley turns until he can hitch an elbow back on the bar and survey the entire scene while appearing like the two of us are casually shooting the shit.

  “Damn,” he drawls after savoring his first sip of the top-shelf booze. “I guess I really went and did it.”

  “Welcome to the club, my friend.” A couple of beats pass, in which I let him bask in contentment, before getting out my really big harpoon. “So now it’s time to get busy, buddy.”

  “Eh?” He arches a brow. “On what?”

  “My kids need baby cousins, dude.” I smack my hands together. “Chop, chop.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I chuckle hard, relishing one of the rare moments that I’ve managed to roast his weenie, before waving a placating hand. “I’d rather my wife do those honors, thank you very much. And seriously, you take all the time on the baby-making that you want. Atticus’s twins are more than enough entertainment for Mis and Ira—though I’m not sure those boys will be so cool about things once they realize they’re the ones always getting dusted by Thanos and getting saved by ‘Captain Marvel’ and ‘Wasp.’”

  “Goddesses after my own heart already.” He chuffs. “So things are going well with Atticus still? He really does want to start making money in the right ways?”

  I nod before explaining, “Fatherhood changes a guy. And once I showed the man that his business model is ridiculous with all the overhead from dodging the authorities, he began to see that he’s working harder, not smarter.”

  Foley pushes out his glass, openly toasting me. “And who said Reece Richards couldn’t be a superhero without a sexy cape?”

  “We’re not going there about the cape again, man.”

  “Dude.”

  “Shut it.”

  “You need a goddamned cape.”

  “Am I going to be getting you the cosmo instead of Laurel? You want a pink umbrella in it too, sweetheart?”

  As his silent fuck you, he downs the rest of his Macallan in one chug. The dude gets props for not choking, though his eyes are watering as he ducks closer, lowering his voice like we’re plotting a Survivor-style immunity alliance. “Okay. ’Fess up, capeless wonder. Who do you think we’ll get to sling the next nuptial shit at? Wade and Angelique? Neeta and Alex? Kain and Aliz?”

  I whip my head up. “Kain and Aliz?” Then hunch over my whisky again, realizing how loud the assjerk made me rail it. “Kain and Aliz?” I challenge when he’s copied my pose. “She’s used to castles and royalty, man. And he’s starting a ne
w rock band!”

  He flings a sardonic side-eye. “Uh, yeah. I know.” Then nudges his head toward the bandstand out on the terrace, where there’s already a drum kit set up. The logo on the bass is imprinted with The Hundred-Watt Hedgehogs. Sure enough, standing off to the side is our adorable Aliz, who just last week asked if she could stay on at the ridge and continue helping out with the kids. Emma and I eagerly agreed though had been baffled about the woman’s reasoning. I may have the main clue now. The woman makes me smile with her Hundred-Watt Hedgehogs T-shirt draped over her formal dress and a huge plate of chicken wings in her hands.

  My grin grows as I watch Joany join her, also dressed in one of the band’s T-shirts. My brother Chase doesn’t seem to mind, but that’s not shocking either. When Kain and his buddies played some small New York venues a few weeks ago, I sent some tickets to Chase and Joany for one of the gigs. Looks like she became a fan, since Chase offered them representation with the Richards Group’s new entertainment management division.

  My stupid grin continues to grow. And why not? At last, the world is right—and not just for a few minutes at a time. Never has there been a better moment to acknowledge that fact. The air smells like sunshine, sea spray, and roses—and life seems to be smooth sailing and very rosy for everyone these days.

  My satisfaction blooms into joy as I watch my kids scamper to the middle of the dance floor, pulling Tosca and Jina with them, and start bopping to the prerecorded wedding standards that are being pumped through speakers before Kain and his guys start up. As “Celebration” and “Brown-Eyed Girl” give way to “Havana” and “Cake by the Ocean,” they also manage to get my mom on her feet—and for the first time today, my heart crumples a little.

  I push out a rough sigh. “Damn. I wish our predictions had room for the lovely Mrs. Trixie Richards too.”

  Foley takes a contemplative drag on his drink before responding. “Maybe they do.”

  “Huh? What are you…” My voice fades off as I follow the invisible line he draws with his jutting head—at least until my view lands on the person he’s tagging. “Wait. What? Fershan?” When I zip a stunned gape between him and the most brilliant but shyest member of Team Bolt, Foley cocks a confident eyebrow, confirming the detonation of his bombshell. Still, I spew, “Are you fucking kidding me? My mother and Fershan?”

  Foley tilts his head, evoking a perturbing swami-psychotherapist combination. “You think he’s just a kid, don’t you?”

  “He is just a kid.”

  “Yeah? You know that for a fact? Did you ever really look at his file?”

  I down my whisky, signal the bartender for another, and then finally growl, “No.”

  “He’s nine and a half years younger than her,” Foley supplies.

  “Thanks. That and Kim Basinger gets him a kinky-as-hell movie.”

  The guy has the nerve to chuff. And then smirk. “You know that’s ‘Nine and a Half Weeks,’ right? And FYI, I don’t think he wants Kim Basinger.”

  “You really didn’t just go there.”

  “I really just did.”

  I snatch the refill that’s just been brought but don’t take the time to sip it. I’m already back on my feet, battling the force of my weird-ass trauma—all the while trying not to acknowledge the stare of complete worship in which Fershan is all but giving my mom right now.

  The kind of look Dad never showered on the woman.

  The kind of adoration, veneration, and all-around pussy-whipped worship the woman has always deserved.

  Oh, hell. I just thought of my mom and the words “pussy-whipped” in the same train of thought.

  And now, in the thought that comes after that, I actually put a brand-new conviction into a committed plan of action. An action I cannot believe I’m carrying through, as I march straight back toward the dance floor. All the way around the dance floor. Right up to one of the tables that’s closest to the stretch of red-glowing plexiglass. And then right up to the man of the hour—at least my hour—himself.

  “Bennett.”

  Fershan slams down his diet soda so hard, some of it sloshes across his hand. Not that he notices because he’s already scrambling to his feet faster than a spider in a watering can. “Uhhh…yes, boss? Whatever can I do you for—I mean do for you? I—I—errrr—I mean—”

  I cut him short by pushing up into his personal space. Then riveting my gaze to his as if we’re a couple of boxers getting ready to go at it in Vegas—except that my chest is double the size of his and I’m a good six inches taller. “I think what you mean to say is that you don’t plan on hurting my mother. At all. Ever.”

  At once, all the tension in his face transforms into a different texture. Oh, the guy is still terrified, all right—but even with that trepidation crawling through his veins, he maintains his proud stance and determined gaze. “I am in love with her, Reece. I am not ashamed of it or sorry about it. She is an amazing woman.”

  I clench my jaw. “I’m well aware of that fact.”

  “I will treat her like my queen for the rest of our days.”

  I let him squirm beneath the electric storm of my stare for a few seconds longer. But at last, I drop a quick but approving nod. “Keep it that way and we have no issues, man.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  I turn and walk back through the crowd, not exactly stress-free about the encounter but damn euphoric that Mom has found the happiness she deserves. I believe every word Fershan just said. He’s an upright guy who’s never let me down. And who the hell am I to be throwing rocks at glass houses when it comes to normalcy? One look back at my son, who’s pushing the limits by jumping way higher than a “two-year-old” should, pounds in that one with solid meaning.

  I keep walking.

  Seeking out the one person who’ll restore the calm to my bloodstream. Who’ll re-center my careening thoughts as no one else can.

  But Emma’s not at the head table, at the bar, or in the ladies’ room. I know this because Lydia’s returned to Foley’s side, but my wife hasn’t reappeared with her.

  I keep looking.

  The wedding venue is filled with lots of patios, breezeways, and alcoves fit for chatting. She’s not in any of those either—though at last I route her out, lingering on a little porch on the back side of the kitchen. Her light sweater is draped over her shoulders. There’s a thoughtful, faraway look in her eyes…and an entrancing, ethereal beauty in her profile.

  And just like that, all my air is gone again.

  Along with every thought or care or concern in my head. Yeah, even the upheaval over imagining my mother and Fershan Bennett in ways I never anticipated.

  In this quiet twilight moment, there’s only the perfect force of her. The one who’s given magic to my world, pure light to my existence.

  Holy God, how I love this person.

  I walk up quietly, though the little shiver down her form is a damn good indication that she’s already aware of me. This knowledge we have of each other…this surreal awareness…it’s only gotten stronger during our months of freedom from Faline and the Consortium, and I couldn’t be happier.

  It’s so good. It’s so perfect. It’s so us.

  As destiny has dictated.

  As my soul newly promises.

  “Wow,” I finally deadpan. “Killer view you got here.” Which is basically…a parking lot. Then a small strip of the lavender and aqua marina waters. Then…another parking lot.

  “Right?” she snarks in return. “But it’s quiet, at least.”

  “And you’re feeling the need for quiet?” My gentle prompt is hardly necessary. No matter what we’ve been through together, secrets have never worked well for us. Even surprise birthday gifts, like the sex swing she bought me last month, have a tendency to do shit like take out half the ceiling when put into motion. That was the night we both almost ended up in traction…

  I almost laugh out loud about that now but instead jump on the excuse to again suckle her nape. Filling my senses with the vani
lla smoke from the tea lights along the rail, as well as my wife’s honeysuckle sweetness, is the boost I need to utter my chunk of truth.

  “So…I just told Fershan he could court my mom.”

  At once, Emma bursts into a long giggle. I put up with her mirth, simply happy I’ve given her a reason to be laughing so hard.

  Okay, really hard.

  At last, she settles enough to say, “Well, first of all, it’s about freaking time. And secondly, dude…you said he could court her?”

  I clear my throat. “Fine. I probably sounded like some crusty old king about it.”

  She laughs again—not as long or as loud, thank fuck—before leaning back to cuddle our bodies closer. “Well, you’re my crusty old king, so that’s all right.”

  I unfurl a savoring growl into her hair. “Crusty old kings are also known for protecting their own. With swords and guns and even lightning bolts.”

  “Oooooh.” She feels so right, wiggling against my chest. “Swords and guns and bolts. That’s way more fun than crusty.”

  I push her away, but only for the purpose of sweeping her around to face me. “And you know how I feel about giving you more.”

  She pushes in until there’s no room left between our bodies. I groan against her forehead as everything between my thighs cheers in approval. She fans the flames of my erection even higher as soon as she says, so breathy and beautifully, “But you already have, Reece Richards.” She surges up on tiptoes to take my mouth in a warm, wet, nerve-popping, tongue-tangling kiss. “And guess what? You’ve done it because of the magic and excitement and glory that is you. Because of all the ways you make me laugh and all the ways you make it okay when I cry. Because of your passion and your fire, your nobility and your loyalty, and your commitment to being the best man you can be, each and every day. You give my world all of its more just by being in it, my love—and I will never, ever stop being grateful for the gift of you.”

  I’m numb all over again. I can hardly think beyond the certainty of loving her back, in all those ways and a billion more. I can’t feel anything beyond our mingled breaths on the night air and the sweet tugs of her fingers at the ends of my hair. But as her little pulls get more forceful, so do the turquoise fires in her eyes—and the fervent passion in her voice.