Page 10 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

One of my closest contacts married a girl I love like a little sister, and I knew nothing about it.

Because I’m not Mercy Phillips with those relationships.

I’m an abuse victim who is a client of Ty’s, not someone he shares news with.

And I’m no one to the rest of them. I’m no one to anyone because that feels safer.

Fucking. Shards.

Somehow, I resist the urge to crumple to the floor and push out a sincere, “I bet they’re perfect together. I wish I’d been there too.”

He skims his hand over mine in a tender gesture that is both best friend-ish and more than friend-ish—of which, by his own admission, he’s neither. “I think we want a lot of the same things. Did you think about the contract? I have the Docusign ready.”

That is not the ideal segue. I’m too emotional. Too off-balance. He can’t come in here and wave this fictitious life in front of me, expecting the past to, what, disappear? For me not to be scarred and shattered and haunted?

I rise from the table, kiss Remy’s head, and blow it off. “I have no idea what I want. I can barely figure out dinner most days.”

“Ramen,” Remy cheers with a soft R .

I bloom an adoring smile for my sweet tattletale before pinning Ryker with a don’t-push-this glower. “See? My indecisiveness has amounted to salty noodles as fine dining. Risk of heart disease and an unrefined palate are as good as it gets.”

He stands, wipes Remy off, clears his plate, slides the custom-made toys in front of him, and saunters over to the sink, like a whirlwind of fairy-godmother magic in my damn kitchen.

“He’s three, clearly well cared for and loved.

Ramen noodles, hot dogs, and chicken fingers are five-star cuisine to him.

You’re doing an amazing job. And you know what you want. You’re just afraid to ask for it.”

At the sight of his arrogant head tilt, I wave a game-show-host hand. “By all means, Mr. Noire, tell me what I want.”

“A hot bath, a nap, a night out. Some quiet time with a good book. A career that lights you up. Someone to cook and help with the day-to-day tasks that feel insurmountable. A sense of safety and a place you’re allowed to fall apart. How’s that for starters?”

Well, fuck.

“On the nose.” I glare the glare of freaking glares at my non-friend. “But while that might be right, so much about our interactions the last twelve-ish hours was not.”

Ryker turns to Remy, sets him on the floor, and plucks the toys off the table, flying the plane toward the front room with sound effects and calling over his shoulder, “C’mon, bud. Your Lego guys should fit in these,” as if he’s running the show.

“Mama will be right here,” I add in a weak one-upping move before Ryker returns without him.

He lugs a chair to the center of my drab, tiny kitchen and issues the order, “Sit,” while situating his own chair across from mine.

I refill my coffee, but take the seat, thankful that it offers me a glimpse of Remy.

Ryker crowds me, sliding so close that our legs are entwined, which blurs lines and makes my head foggy. “Tell me you’ve realized signing my contract is a no-brainer. We’ll fly back today, get you and Remy settled, and have you lawyering by next week.”

“No, I haven’t decided.” I lift my chin, showcasing my defiance even though I’m spent at eight thirty in the morning and smart enough to gauge where this is headed. “Certainly not without some amendments to your proposal.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less, Counselor.” He smirks; it’s irritating and endearing, and it makes me want to smack him. “Shoot.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to raise a child at La Lune Noire? One morning with you, and he’s already asking for tattoos.”

“That’s a question, not an amendment. And you love tattoos.

Don’t pretend you don’t.” He narrows his glacial blues at me, and I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze, but he still bobs his head like I failed a test. “We won’t ink him until he’s at least ten.

It’s the piercings we need to jump on,” he deadpans before barreling on to more nonsensical reasoning.

“Raising him there is a brilliant idea, and it’s not forever.

We still have that rule about no overnight guests in the penthouse, so no worries about that.

Axel and I raised Maddox, Cash, Jax, and Rena there. ”

It’s not forever. Valid and perplexing since he also said indefinite . How long then? Until Martina buzzes off?

“I’m not sure that’s your best evidence,” I counter, staring him down over the rim of my beloved coffee bowl. “This would be one of those don’t-let-them-take-the-stand scenarios.”

“They are all multimillion-dollar business owners, wise investors, and well adjusted, so I’d argue otherwise, but if you want to be all judgmental—”

“Fine,” I huff, unwilling to drag them through the mud. “What about the indefinite fake engagement? That’s ludicrous. I have needs.”

Embarrassing, but I would have told him that when we were friends, and I’m a thirty-four-year-old who hasn’t come in over three years and hasn’t felt the sensual touch of a man even beyond that.

I can’t wimp out on ranking this as a higher priority than him fooling Martina, the psychotic floozy he’s been dodging for close to a decade.

“Hmm. I will require a detailed summary of the precise needs. Leave nothing out. No stone unturned. No kink left behind—” He halts abruptly because my face surely mirrors the Seventh Circle of Hell.

“I promise to put your needs at the top of my priority list. In fact, let’s add an amendment that by one month’s time, I will authorize an adequate solution to your said needs . ”

“That sounds vague,” I assert, plastering on a contrived grin for Remy, who is pulling apart the La Lune Noire model—prophetic. “What does that mean?”

His eyes rake down my body, as if he’s contemplating solutions that are not on the table, before he finally answers, “It means, use your toys for a few more weeks. Let’s get you and Remy settled there, and I promise I’ll take those needs into consideration.”

The way his deep tenor laces obscenity into that basic word— needs —and the manner in which his tongue and lips form around the single syllable douse my kitchen in humidity.

“You’re not going to slap a mask on me and send me down to Magie Noire, are you?”

“Fuck no,” he whisper-shouts—apparently aware of little ears—as he glides his palms over my yoga-pants-clad thighs, flustering the hell out of me.

Do. Not. React.

He snatches my coffee away, setting it on the table, and returns his hands to my legs, slowly crawling in the direction of the area I’m currently labeling no man’s land . “But if that was wishful thinking …”

This is a perfect example of how opposite our worlds are now.

He owns one of the most coveted and nefarious resorts for underground wealth, complete with a sex club that probably provides a kink menu.

Not that I’m shaming. I used to be a free and confident woman who could embrace erotic encounters as well as I could dominate an argument in the courtroom.

That’s who he thinks he’s visiting. In my current habitat, I’m a barely-getting-through-the-day cautionary tale.

Case in point: I’ve had this recurring nightmarish daydream for quite a while about how life might have been in respect to sexual fantasies.

And like I mentioned before, I tend to latch on to something, and then it sticks around like a thirty-year school loan, deferred twenty times, thereby making it a lifer.

Anyway, if I veer to certain proclivities—let’s take anal sex, for example—I instantly see myself at an old folks’ home, my kids visiting and someone talking about iconic love stories.

And suddenly, there I am, wrinkled and decrepit, screaming, “I used to get fucked in the ass!”

Of course my kids turn ten shades of a color that’s far more alarming than red and hiss, “Mom,” in the hopes of reprimanding the recollection out of me.

No such luck.

“Right in the ass!” I shout again for the hard-of-hearing folks in the back.

And then I zoom back to the present, vowing to never have any type of sex again.

Maybe the reason I haven’t orgasmed in forever isn’t all that deep. This is the type of issue I could have shared with Ryker before. He would’ve teared up and howled, insisting we dissect it. But with the way he’s ogling me, I think he’d receive that information as a conquest.

Or it would catapult us back to a platonic playing field, where I know my way around.

Still, it’s a gamble.

“Where did your mind go?” he asks at the precise second I become aware that my eyes are glued to his mouth.

“Nowhere.”

“Lies,” he declares, moving in so his arm loops around the small of my back, and his cozy-corruption scent—leather and cloves and the seductive sweetness of the flapjacks—cloaks us and thickens the air.

“You’re either deep-diving into a night of exploring kinks at Magie Noire, spiraling, or both because you were envisioning me in said kink. ”

I wasn’t, but now I am.

My palms push against his steel pecs, attempting to move him, to no avail. Good God. “Caught me. What can I say? You would be yummy in a cage beneath my bed.” Before he can twist my sarcasm into a come-on, I switch gears. “Don’t be weird. If you start spewing nonsense about me begging again—”

“Your three-year-old is playing right over there,” he interrupts, so close now that his scruffy cheek prickles mine, showering me with tingles as he speaks into my ear, “and you look like you want to devour me.”

Do I? Maybe the weirdness is all on me. I’m losing my freaking mind.

A nonchalant protest is in order. “There’s that high-as-a-Rüppell’s-griffon-vulture bullshit again.”

His lips wrestle valiantly with a smile as he sits back, putting a smidgen of space between us, though his hands return to their heated posts on my thighs. “You just went ahead and made up your own saying, huh?”

“It seemed best for everyone. Keep up.” My voice is so raspy, so airy. I can’t believe I’m the only one sensing the inexplicable crackling in the molecules surrounding us.

Neither of us moves. He drinks me in, both of our chests heaving. My heart thrums against my sternum as I try to discern what’s changed, why he’s here, why he’s so hands on with me, and whether I should grab Remy and bolt. That might be best.

“For your information, I was thinking about a mustache.” I don’t know why I say it. Call it research. Getting into my attorney role. Sometimes, we have to poke people on the stand to test our theories. It all comes down to tells.

And Ryker coils his hands into fists, knuckles bleeding white, his jaw like stone.

I’m not sure what that means exactly. Maybe it’s simply a reaction brought on because the last man I had been with tried to kill me.

There’s probably some trauma hanging around from Ryker finding me that way.

I can only imagine. Or maybe it’s something else, something I shouldn’t entertain.

Regardless, it makes things exponentially more complicated and this whole La Lune Noire proposal a bad idea.

I’m guessing I won’t have a choice, but if he thinks I’ll make this easy on him, he’s the one out of his mind.

“Another lie, but if you need me to—”

Cutting off whatever asinine route he was about to steer us on, I forge ahead with our negotiations. “Okay, well … look, I’m fine with the fake engagement because I have zero interest in being attached to anyone. It’s the other … but I’ve gone this long without one, so …”

“Without what, Merce? Anything?” He sucks all the air out of the room, fingers pressing firmer into my legs, thumbs mindlessly sweeping over my inner thighs. “How long’s it been since you came?”

What the hell is with him? Again, it’s not the asking because we used to talk about everything . We were also affectionate and close. And Ryker has always been intense.

But he’s … and I’m … hot. Jesus .

“Doesn’t matter.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Focus, Noire. Once we’re settled, I reserve the right to propose my own solution for my needs . Not sure what that will be, but—”

“And I reserve the right to veto anything that interferes with this arrangement.” There’s a smug glint in his eyes with that, but I push forward instead of playing into it.

“Also, this will not be indefinite. I’ll agree to—”

“Five months,” he proposes.

“That’s oddly specific.” My head is spinning. “And you’re not worried about how it will look when the engagement ends in five months?”

His fingers scratch teasingly over my thighs. “I’ll make it work.”

“Fine. Then I guess I can too. We’ll review at that time. I want to be able to take on a couple of cases that have nothing to do with La Lune Noire. For my own enjoyment, especially since human trafficking work will be so heavy.”

“Right, and some criminal law cases are light and fun.” That would be the morally gray man who does God knows what in the shadows mocking me.

“It will have to be approved by Axel and not be a conflict of interest, but if those two things pass, I guess that could be okay. If it requires something off La Lune Noire property, I have to be with you.”

“And that’s not embarrassing or a threat to my professionalism at all.” I arch my eyebrows with my dry retort, even though I’m secretly comforted by that rule. “You really think it’s safe for me to return?”

“The safest place for you is with me.” His tone brooks no room for debate.

I glance down at my lap, my hands restless, his closer to my hips now, which makes my chest heavy and my mind a mess, so I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “Even though we’re not friends?”

“No matter the label, I will protect you and Remy with my life,” he vows, and the sincerity and the protection promised and the hidden meaning behind it is every bit my Ryker .

Which is why I press, “That would make you pretty damn safe. Except … what will you do if I refuse to sign, refuse to come back with you?”

“Hostile takeover.” He chuckles when my forehead wrinkles, but then he slips his finger beneath my chin, tipping my face to him. “Be happy I’m giving you the amendments. You already knew how this would turn out when I showed up, Mercy. I didn’t spend three years hunting you down to let you go.”