Page 11 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

“W hat is the clause about this contract binding all past and future agreements?”

Fucking lawyers.

That is the five thousandth question Mercy has posed as she reviews the fine print on every single page of our contract, which is actually worthless because I’ll be ensuring she adheres to all our rules—especially the ones regarding her needs —with my own special methods.

Still, I thought the legal document would set her at ease.

But we’re nearing the end of our plane ride, and she’s still studying every goddamn word, so I missed the mark there.

Maybe my hostile takeover shouldn’t have been so amicable.

I shuffle Remy, who has fallen asleep against my chest, drooling all over my dress shirt, which fills me with an uncanny notion of heroism.

I didn’t expect him to take to me so seamlessly this morning, but that time with him was everything I’d hoped it would be.

A strong start. And when he crawled onto my lap and wrapped his teeny arms around my neck once we were smoothly in the air, my heart leaped from my chest.

If only matters with his mother were that simple.

When we boarded, she made sure to put Remy between us, keeping physical distance however she could.

We’re on a couch in the lounge area because he wanted to watch a movie.

The seat he was occupying is empty now—aside from his bulldog stuffed animal—but I’m not pushing that boundary just yet.

I slant my head in feigned exhaustion. “It sounds as though you know exactly what that clause is about since you explained it within the question.”

She huffs, adorable even when beating something to death. “It’s odd wording. I’ve never seen that before. If past contracts had been signed—which, in my case, they have not—then why mention them here if they don’t pertain directly to this agreement?”

“Don’t read too much into it. Axel likes to take precautions to remind people that additional agreements do not negate the initial partnership, but are rather addendums to the original.

” I can tell by the scrunch of her lips that she’s mulling that bullshit over as plausible, so I continue, “You should save these skills for next week, when you’re working.

If you get the job. Paperwork was due an hour ago. That’s a dreadful first impression.”

That coaxes a laugh out of her. “Somehow, I think I’m a shoo-in no matter what, seeing as how my new boss’s brother kidnapped me.”

“Escorted, kidnapped. Potato, potahto.”

She shakes her head, exasperated—with me . “No one says potahto.”

“Exactly.” I dip my chin. “No one would call this kidnapping either. But if they did, I’m guessing those types of issues are covered in the contract too. Ironclad.”

“Which essentially proves the kidnapping claim.”

“You can have your woe-is-me tantrum when we get to the penthouse. Sign the damn thing.”

Her finger hovers over the keyboard, an indication she’s unable to commit without another objection.

“We should have ground rules for what this”—her hand waves between us—“will look like. That’s how people succeed at these arrangements .

Clear expectations, which aren’t covered in the document. And who knows the truth?”

The truth is, everything about this engagement is real. She just needs to get on board.

“Don’t overcomplicate it. My brothers know the truth.

And the only rule is that we behave like we’re engaged—faithful, happy, doting—not like you’ve been kidnapped.

” My gaze latches on to hers, and I don’t miss the part of her lips—maybe she’s thinking up kinky amendments—so I smirk. “We’re on a time crunch. Sign.”

“Fine.” She adds her electronic signature and closes my laptop. “I need to text Ty. In about fifteen minutes, when Nelly discovers I’m gone, she’s going to alert him anyway.”

I hum my approval, urging her to contact him. I’ve been waiting for the last possible minute to avoid any type of intervention. That’s why I insisted we leave today. Once I get them to La Lune Noire, I’ll be able to breathe.

Ty is my brother-in-law, someone I respect.

I will forever be indebted to him for hiding Mercy so well that Dalton didn’t stand a chance at tracking her down.

I’ll also probably always hold on to some resentment that he refused to use my money, took her on pro bono, and kept me in the dark.

From his perspective, it was noble. From mine, it was a betrayal that nearly killed me.

He made it right recently by agreeing to the bank transfer, whether he admits to knowing my endgame or not.

She pulls out her burner and messages him while I leer at the screen.

Alice: Hey! Going back to NOLA. Thought I’d let you know.

I’ll hand it to him. Less than a minute passes before he texts back, and she’s one of countless erasing clients, not to mention everything else he does.

Ty: How exciting! I bet you’re ready for the food. What will you eat first?

“What is the meal for being in danger?” I probe because I’m well acquainted with the intricacies of erasing. Everything is a system of coded check-ins.

She hesitates, and that pause shouts how terrified she is to let me in, which means she’s got escape plans simmering. It makes sense, considering all she endured, but as I nestle her son in my arms, it eviscerates me. How the fuck did I get lumped in with all the evil she’s encountered?

Instead of responding to me, she answers Ty.

Alice: Beignets are a must, and I’ll be ending the night with a blackened filet mignon. I’ll probably eat my way through the city.

I study her message, dissecting it. “Beignets are your favorite, so that means you’re safe? And blackened filet mignon—Noire—that means you’re with me?”

“Impressive.” She tucks the burner away, pleased that’s the end of it.

It isn’t for me. Not only did she, Ty, or both of them deem it necessary to have a code for me, but …

“What did the part about eating your way through the city mean?”

She swallows—it’s sticky and loud and a sign of her distress, which is the last fucking thing I want. “Um …” She hedges, jittery, so unlike my confident Mercy. “It means I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”

At least she told me the truth. That’s something. But it sounds like she’ll always have one foot out the door. Since I’m snuggling Remy, I don’t bombard her with the profusion of questions that have been eating at me for years or grind my teeth as fiercely as I’d like.

I simply say, “Thanks for telling me,” as my phone buzzes with a text.

Ty: You followed the bank transfer.

Me: Of course. Thank you for taking care of it and her. She’s in good hands now.

Ty: I believe she is, but I’ll be in touch.

Well wishes, wrapped in a subtle I’ll-be-watching-you warning. In-laws .

Me: I got this. You worry about my sister.

Ty: Always. Dinner soon?

Me: I’ll take it under consideration and be in touch.

Ty: I guess I deserve that.

After I slide my phone into the holder beside my dice, I catch Mercy’s repentant stare.

It’s tentative and anxious. So, I reach over and clasp her hand, like I did a thousand times throughout our friendship.

But neither of us reacts to it that way.

My skin sizzles with greed from the contact.

And she appears confounded when her eyes lock on to it, which is due to more than my pronouncement that we won’t be friends.

From the outside, we’d appear to be a perfect little family, just like the contract calls for.

And I know she’ll do a stellar job, selling that story for me.

But from the inside, we’re a disaster. Broken, wounded, and resentful before we’ve even begun.

My lips have never touched hers, and yet we have baggage that most twenty-year marriages would struggle to survive.

Maybe she’s wise to be scouring for an exit route.

And maybe I’m insane because I’d rather be chained to our pain than live in any reality without her.

She might view this as a prison, but I’ve lived the alternative. It’s a coffin I refuse to return to. And this is the kind of captivity with marble pillars, champagne toasts, and a ticket to her dreams. So I win.

“I’m not the same person,” she begins. “It’s not about a name change. It’s the parts you knew. I’m not sure those exist anymore. I … I don’t even know whether I’ll be good at being a lawyer.”

Her eyes dart around the plane, like she’s searching for clues to something before parking her focus on the space she put between us.

“Maybe it’s better that we aren’t friends.

I’m not sure I’d be very good at that anymore either.

So, I don’t know what to tell you about whether I want to be here.

Despite my distaste for your hostile takeover , I don’t want to hurt you.

But the truth is, I’m not sure where I belong, and if I figure it out, I’ll fight for it.

I’d really like to fight for something other than anonymity and survival. ”

There are so many things I could pluck from that.

She’d probably classify that confession as her sharing her struggles and brokenness.

But I hear that there’s hope, that she’s willing to claw her way toward something she wants.

At present, she’s using that as an explanation for her desire to leave New Orleans, therefore admitting that I’m not what she wants.

That might have been a dagger to the heart at one time.

But she’s already gutted me. I was prepared for this.

Ashes. Oak. Champagne and delusions.

“You might not know who you are, and that’s perfectly understandable.

I’m sure a lot has changed. The same could be said for me.

I’m not the man you knew. And yet I am. Because there’s more to us than occupations, interests, trauma, or animosity.

There’s a deeper thread that weaves through every version. ”

I stop to assess her response, and once her brown doe eyes lift to mine and she seems to accept that, I sweep my thumb over her silky skin, release her hand, and finish with the steadfast assurance she craves.

“Your thread is brilliant and worthy and a survivor. Unstoppable. That’s the part I know.

That’s what you fight for. Let go of every other expectation and trust it. ”

You’ll always be mine.

Two hours later, Bernard, Gentry, and our security team meet us at our private entrance for a formal escort.

We have a personal parking garage, located beneath the North Tower of La Lune Noire, where we store our cars and toys.

It also provides us with a covert route in and out of the resort. Necessary since it doubles as our home.

Mercy folds into herself as we sit in the back of the town car, so I wait until she shares what’s going on.

Remy is rapt with awe for the sports cars.

He’s been slack-jawed since we entered the city and chattering incessantly with excitement since we pulled onto the grounds.

He’s surely never seen anything like this—the resort or the vast array of luxury vehicles.

I can’t wait to take him down to the French Quarter one afternoon, when it isn’t at its most scandalous.

He’ll light up for the music and parades, much like his mother does.

La Lune Noire is about five to ten minutes from there, depending on traffic.

“What do people know?” She side-eyes Remy—silently urging me to be cautious with my answer—as soon as the driver exits the car.

Ahh. I didn’t think of sharing that. She’s been living with the fallout daily, whereas, here, it’s old news for everyone other than my family, who have also suffered through her disappearance.

“There were rumors that we shut down quickly. Of course, once things escalated with the case,” I say, referring to Dalton being arrested for the murder of Hailey Holden, “some speculation resurfaced. I did not personally volunteer anything. You are free to handle that however you wish, but as I said, you’ve been on the payroll as one of our attorneys.

And we have the engagement to contend with. ”

“Got it.” She nods, a little frantic. “I’m good at tall tales. Twirling yarn and all that.”

“Spin.”

Innocent brown eyes beneath a furrowed brow line meet mine. “What?”

“The saying is, spin a yarn ,” I explain, unhooking Remy’s car seat since she seems to be momentarily frozen. “Are you sure English is your first language?”

“Spin and twirl are the same thing,” she sasses back. “Maybe I need to buy you an English thesaurus.”

“Obviously, a thesaurus in your hands should be deemed reckless operation because in this context, the words don’t mean the same thing. It’s a saying about telling a story that contains the word spin . Twirling yarn would only work if you were literally twirling yarn.”

She pops a shoulder and smooshes her dubious lips to the side. “Says the Frenchie.”

Stalling. That’s what this is. Not even Mercy can honestly dispute this one.

“Cute.” I plant a kiss on her temple, which has her breath catching, even though, for years, that was commonplace.

I’m undecided whether that’s because she wants my mouth on her in other places, she’s touch-starved, or she senses the shift in my intent and has reservations.

Regardless, it’s an area I’ll be pushing.

“Let’s save the debate and go inside. You’ve been missed. ”

A genuine smile coasts up her cheeks as she tousles Remy’s hair and softly instructs him to always stay with the two of us, which I count as a small victory, before she peers out the window at the swarming guards. “Wow. You’ve really beefed up security. Is that because we’re here?”

Sure. Let’s go with that.

“I told you La Lune Noire was safe,” I say as I swiftly open the door, guide her and Remy out, and watch Bernard’s face light up.

He’s been with us since long before my parents died as the head concierge butler for us and any of our supremely elite guests. He helped Axel and me raise our siblings, knows most of our secrets, and loves us like his own family. Which is why he knows precisely what to say to my girl.

“Welcome home, Mercy. It’s good to have you back where you belong.”

And as if on cue, my brothers storm the garage, and the happy chaos begins.