You read that correctly. Superhero romance. Just about every comic book and comic book movie has a romance at it’s heart, so it’s about damn time that romance gets a superhero of its own.
Bolt tells the incredible saga of Emmalina Crist and her not-so-typical romance with the city’s super-savior, Reece Richards, who just so happens to be her boss, too. With his superhero alter-ego complicating matters, they are going to have to fight for their relationship as Reece fights more battles than just the physical ones.
I am so excited for everyone to grab this book. Why not put the romance front and center in a superhero story? It’s always been an integral part of just about any well known superhero’s story. Batman, Superman, Captain America, Thor, you name the superhero, and there is a love interest causing the hero to ask himself all sorts of introspective questions.
Do you still need a little more convincing? Check out this exclusive excerpt…
Read an exclusive excerpt of Bolt:
He seems to appear from nowhere, as ceiling lights burst and shower behind him, like he’s descending from freaking Mount Olympus in a fit of rage. Damn good way to describe what the guy’s mood looks like too. His strides are wide. His arms are an A, framing the air on either side of his body. His fists look like brutal coils at the end of muscled ropes. And holy shit, do I mean muscled. Having a tennis star for a sister means I actually know the name of every striation in the human arm, though rarely am I able to recall them while looking at them. His legs present the same fun game, and don’t get me started on his abdominals.
On second thought, go ahead and get me started.
All of that is encased in an outfit I can only describe as motocross meets rock god. The black leathers are so tight he should look like a pretentious jackass but weirdly doesn’t. His getup has flexible fabric insets of some sort which cushion his glorious body in all the key places he needs to move. He even wears kick-ass boots—if that’s what they can be called—evoking black ops or SEALs, pieced in a crisscross up to his knees.
He’s part ninja, part ultimate fighter, part thundercloud—and a hundred percent captivating.
I can’t rip my stare off him. He seems to uncoil power like a live electrical wire—but with an insane body.
“Holy…shit.” I finally summon the bandwidth in my brain to breathe.
“Nothing holy about what I’d love to do to that guy.” Neeta snorts. “Whoever he is.”
“What do you—”
Eros-ninja-thunder-dude interrupts my question, stalking toward the robbers and planting his feet the same width as his fists. He lowers his head as if he’s saying something, and it earns him a triple hoodlum rush—which he answers by raising both fists and spreading his fingers until they’re strained wide. In another universe, I’d expect spider webs or fireballs to fly from his palms. In this one, there’s only a tangible but invisible shudder through the air that acts like a three-way punch striking the robbers.
It’s as impossible to comprehend as the levitation trick on the woman, but it’s the truth. Neeta’s gasp, in tandem with mine, tells me she thoroughly agrees. We’re riveted as the hero lifts his arm a little higher and flings it as if throwing trash away—which is very likely what he’s thinking too—as the hoodlums scatter into the air like a wind-tossed trio of used slushy cups, flying twenty feet before crashing into the drink coolers at the back of the store. They stick there for a few seconds, bawling in terror, before plummeting along with the glass to the floor. Whoever’s taking the cell footage provides a perfect flash of commentary.
“Yeah! Dude is takin’ care of business!”
I’m faintly aware Wade has scooped up his cyberguts long enough to wander in our direction. At the sounds of our reactions to the video, he scoots in behind us. “Fersh!” he shouts. “Get over here. It’s him.”
“Sure as hell is.” Every syllable out of Neeta is just sultry.
“Him who?” I demand as Fershan dips his head, baring a smile that’s brilliant against his dark skin.
“Dude,” he repeats, shoving Wade’s bony shoulder. “You’re right!”
“Nobody knows,” Neeta supplies.
I glance back at the monitor. “Wait. Are you serious?” My scowl becomes a gape. “Is he serious? Is he really wearing a mask?”
Okay, not a big one. It’s like the Maserati of masks. Sleek and black and subtle, fitted like a tight blindfold across his upper face but with eyeholes. I can’t tell a lot from the angle of the video, but the eyeholes look like rectangles, almost making him look like a wavy-haired hipster with designer glasses. But instead of skinny jeans and a cardigan, he rocks custom leathers and weird-but-hot ninja boots.
“I think he’s pretty serious,” Wade responds as the ninja thunder god pivots, grabs a couple of extension cords off an endcap, and makes his way to the back of the store. Next to the hanging cords is a rack of mini flashlights, which all start to blink as his hand passes near.
“What on…” I whip a startled glance at the guys. “Did you see—”
“Yep,” they answer in unison.
For the next thirty seconds, we only see the store owner glancing furtively toward the spot where weird electro man flung the bad guys, though the cell phone owner illuminates with his play-by-play. “Boss is usin’ those cords to tie those slimebags down. Yeah, man. That’s the way.”
When the video feed is filled with red and blue lights, the man in the Maserati mask snaps up. At once, hunk-god rapidly strides toward the front of the shop like a man on his way to save the world. Which, at this exact moment, doesn’t seem like an exaggeration at all.
Despite his near blur of speed, he’s mesmerizing. When he’s in the shot, my sights focus on him alone. I’m nervous but attracted, almost feeling like I’m on a first date—pretty lame, considering I haven’t exactly logged a ton of those—but the symptoms are the same.
In all the worst places.
The reaction tumbles out before I can stop myself.
“Aha. OC finally figures it out.” Neeta’s sarcasm saves me from having to summon a fun comeback to Wade’s and Fershan’s shouts.
“Is he gonna do it?”
“C’monnn. He has to do it!”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Please,” Neeta drawls. “He’s totally going to do it.”
The guys bellow in victory as the hero on the screen checks on Santa Claus, spins away from the counter, drops into a stance similar to a competitive runner on the starting block…
The store fills with flying paper, slushy straws, and condom packets—in short, anything that can easily be tossed around in a strong wind.
A revelation sets in. He didn’t disappear. He just left so fast, that was what it looked like.
Fershan and Wade launch into a leaping high five. “Gotta bolt!”
I want to join Neeta in chuckling at them but am trapped in stunned mode. I do manage to blurt, “Excuse me?”
Excitement adds to the ruddy flush on Wade’s face. “It’s his whoop.”
“His whoop?” I echo both syllables with slow caution.
“Like his war cry,” Fershan interjects. “It distinguishes him. Puts his unique stamp on shit.”
“Because that outfit and the mask don’t do that already?”
“Easily copied,” Fershan asserts. “But the whoop is unique. Nobody can say it like the original.” His gaze twinkles. “Every self-respecting superhero has one.”