Page 2 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

We’ve simply expanded, becoming more than a resort.

We’re a community. Our clients protect our investment as much as we do.

This is where they relax, barter deals, band together, cast grudges aside, find common ground, join forces, and breathe.

They might shell out a hefty price to belong, but losing this place would plunder funds from their bankroll in the long run.

So, they agree to the terms. If you cause a problem—alarm the public or start any trouble—your membership is revoked, and you are never invited back. If you initiate one single act of violence, you never leave. But you will forever be a part of the soil on which we thrive.

That’s the rocky ground my whole world is centered upon. It’s not for the faint of heart. But anything less would result in anarchy.

“Do you know why Cash accepted a delivery of pigs?” Axel’s voice is laced with equal measures of humor and irritation with that inquiry.

Gentry and every surveillance tech in the room avert their gazes. Like fucking kids.

I cock an eyebrow. “Would you like my theory?”

He scrubs both hands over his face with an exasperated scoff. “Probably not. But I’m guessing it has something to do with the Vaseline I made them return the night of the blackout.”

“Ahh.” I smirk. “Great minds think alike. The grease never went back.”

He isn’t shocked by that. We had a security breach here about a month ago, the first one in over twenty years.

The guys were caught and properly disposed of.

Well, most of them. Our friends—who are also our sister, Rena’s, husband and family—are working with us to figure out who else was involved because they were the primary targets of that attack.

It’s been a slow and grueling process with no leads.

So, needless to say, the pallet of petroleum jelly was the least of our worries.

It’s also why the bank transfer I have my private investigator, Knox, following didn’t get wired until last week. If this ends up as a dead end, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.

“As a heads-up, Martina has been looking for you.” Axel can’t keep the goofy grin from blasting across his face.

“Oh fuck,” I sigh.

Martina is the daughter of one of our VIPs. She’s been infatuated with me for the last eight or nine years, in spite of how crystal clear I’ve been. Again, we don’t kiss asses here. But the woman has got tenacity—I’ll give her that.

Axel breaks into laughter, at my expense. “Just steer clear of Café L’Ambroisie. She’s meeting some friends for dinner there tonight.”

I’m about to thank him when my phone buzzes in my hand, and the whole world stops spinning.

Knox: Sinclair, Canada.

There are no words to adequately express how satisfying this feels. I can hardly believe it’s real. But that’s the thing about hope. Plucking one makes another bloom in its place.

I found her. Now I need to catch her.

Axel accurately deciphers my reaction. “Location?”

Without a single breath in my lungs, I nod. “I gotta go.”

“Of course. I’ll walk with you.” He twists back to Gentry. “I’m your contact for anything Ryker handles until further notice.”

With that, we storm into the closet in the surveillance room, taking a hidden passageway to our penthouse. The entire resort has concealed tunnels, among other things. My great-grandfather opened a speakeasy, and his family line grew it into a city in the shadows.

The surveillance room isn’t far from our residence, so we’ll make it there fairly quickly. On the way, I shoot a text to the group chat I have with my brothers.

Me: Not happening, Mad. You’re still master tonight. I’m headed out.

Axel: Ryker will be off premises for a while.

Cash: Did your ship finally come in, bro?

Maddox: If you’re seeing about a girl, I suppose I can slip in there for the toast.

Axel: I’m guessing the slipping part should come easily.

Maddox: Let’s breeze on past that, Papa Axe. We’ve got more important things to discuss. Martina Nicholson was begging for the whereabouts of our very own Ryker Remington Noire. Yep, slinging the full name around. And she was panting, like a dog in heat.

Jesus.

Cash: And drooling. I told her you were celibate.

Me: The fuck?

Axel barks out a laugh that echoes around us. “Maybe it’ll finally scare her off.”

Me: Do not share personal information about me. Or get in my fucking business.

Jax: Use that inner rage to keep yourself out of the friend zone, man. Channel it.

Cash: Backfired anyway. She seemed really turned on by it. Is that something sane chicks like? I’ve never had any complaints about the expertise my experience provides.

Me: Can we stop discussing Martina and never mention her again? Tell her I’m planning on becoming a monk.

Maddox: She’d convert and build you a monastery. But onto bigger matters. Jax joined the chat with a valid point. Going to pick up your buddy, or should we expect something else to happen with our brown-eyed doe?

Cash: He’ll be out of that zone when pigs fly.

Maddox: You never know. He might go hog wild.

Jax: Too pigheaded for that.

I can’t hold back the chuckle as my head snaps up to Axel. “Do you ever feel like they’re still those obstinate teens, testing boundaries?”

His grin is composed of both mirth and pride. “Always.”

Our parents died when Axel was twenty-one and I was nineteen.

We raised Maddox, Cash, Jax, and Rena in the penthouse here.

They were fourteen, twelve, eight, and six, respectively.

We also stepped into the owner/operator roles at La Lune Noire.

Talk about trial by fire. It was a lot, especially for the first few years.

But despite that, seventeen years later, we’re a tight family. Fucked up? Sure. But tight nonetheless.

Maddox: Nah. He’s got this. He’s been in bulldozer mode for years.

That one catches me off guard. Not a playful pun or idiom.

Me: WTF is bulldozer mode?

Cash: Your approach to, um … everything.

Me: You’re all full of shit.

Jax: You really don’t know how intense you are, man?

“They have a point.” Axel’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What’s your plan?”

This is a worthless discussion. Who needs a goddamn plan?

“To get her and bring her back.”

“And if she refuses?” he volleys.

“Too fucking bad.” My hand cuts through the air. “She’s had years of her way. We’re doing things my way now.”

“Right. Where the hell did they get that bulldozer shit?” He pauses for effect, but when I don’t bite, he forges ahead.

“Just remember, you’ve been here nail-biting, hyper-focused on finding her.

Waiting for her. And she’s been off living her life, raising her son, hoping to stay hidden.

Surviving. You’re probably not in the same place. ”

Yeah, well, I need to fix that. Starting with geography.

I took our private jet and landed an hour from Sinclair, Canada, at dawn. Once I knew the town, it didn’t take much effort to collect the precise address.

By the time I rented a car and made my way to the neighborhood Mercy is currently calling home, it was after eight. She’s renting an apartment above an elderly woman’s garage. It’s small, but from what I can tell, it seems to be in decent condition.

For a good hour, the lady bustled about getting coffee, reading the paper, and watching TV.

But Mercy’s space was still. I waited, eager to glimpse the first hint of the life she’s been leading.

It took so long that it made me wonder if she was there.

Mercy had always been an early riser. A go-getter.

When she finally emerged with Jett in her arms and bags slung over her shoulder, I froze.

He’s so big, so perfect. And she’s … everything.

I’m still stuck in that headspace, still frozen, following her all over this Podunk town. Spying. It shouldn’t be this hard.

Since we were teens, she was my best friend, my person. My hope.

But that asshole broke her, and she turned around and broke us. I don’t know what I expected to feel when I finally saw her, but I certainly didn’t anticipate this much distress or confusion.

It’s nearly seven now. The sun is setting. And Mercy just parked at some small street fair. The whole event could be placed inside one corner of the New Orleans French Market, but whatever. I’m sure it has its charm.

While waiting, I rotate my seven-sided, polished-bronze dice in my palm. They’re an inch long, an oblong heptagonal shape. I had them specially made off a thirteenth-century design a few years ago. They soothe me.

She scurries across the road, and I drink her in.

Her hair swishes, and her cool sand complexion shimmers with a tinge of blush on her high cheekbones.

She’s dressed in jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved top that hug every inch of her curves.

Black boots give her a little height on her five-foot-five stature. Casual but extraordinary.

Christ, she’s stunning. It’s not like there was ever a day that I was unaware of how radiant she was. It’s as impossible to ignore as her brilliant mind. But to be away from that beauty for so long and suddenly have it in front of me again is jarring.

She makes it hard to breathe. With her. Without her.

And yet I know one whiff of her cherry-cake scent will be like coming home.

Jett isn’t with her, so at first, I assume she’s working here.

Although I already sat outside a pub where she seemed to waitress or bartend for the lunch and early dinner crowd.

While she was there, I put a tracking device on her car for peace of mind so I could grab some groceries from a nearby store.

No need though. She was in there for several hours after that.

It was unquestionably her place of employment.

Still, my mind holds on to delusions because I’m unwilling to entertain certain realities. Delusions are safer for everyone. Steadying my breathing, I sink into my denial.

Until a man strolls up to her, dragging her into a hug.

So, this … is a goddamn date.

Or worse … a boyfriend.

Fuck. That.

Sweat beads my hairline as I stuff my dice into my pocket and dial Axel. Why the phone call? Someone needs to get me an alibi because there’s about to be a corpse in my trunk.

“Yeah?” he answers.

At the sound of his voice, all my emotions bubble to the surface—the ire and hurt, loss and pain. The sense of sadness, failure, and betrayal. A jumbled mess.

“Axe?”

“I’m here.” He stalls for a second, cautious. “She’s not there?”

“She is. She’s at a street fair in this shitty little town, walking around with some asshole.

I’ve been following her.” I clear my throat, trying to conceal the mental breakdown I’m enduring.

“Her hair is shorter. It hits right at her shoulders. And it’s lighter.

A dark blonde now. She looks … gorgeous.

So damn pretty. Healthy. Maybe even happy. ”

The image of the last time I saw her flashes before me. Bruised and battered, head to toe. Eyes hollow. So fragile. She ran away from him … from me … and now, she’s whole.

“And that’s …” He trails off before a door clicks shut, and he organizes his thoughts. “How do you feel about that?”

“Fucking confused. Pissed. Happy for her—not for being on a date. The healthy part. Hurt. I don’t want to mess things up for her. Again, date excluded,” I clarify.

“Got it.” He’s undoubtedly smirking, even if I can’t see him.

My fingers curl into a death grip on the steering wheel, as though it were her date’s neck. “Everything in me wants to crash her fucking night out, slit his throat, slap a collar on hers that declares she’s mine, throw her over my shoulder, and haul her ass back home.”

He sighs. “That’s one way to go. But I think we should table that idea and circle back to it after we exhaust plans A through Z.”

A jagged breath blasts out of me. It probably isn’t the best idea for our reunion.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I can do that.”

“Progress,” he commends, and it isn’t sarcastic. “So, is your plan to watch her, or do you intend to actually let her know you’re there?”

“I like watching her,” I admit while fully realizing if I’d announced myself earlier, she wouldn’t be gallivanting around town with that dipshit. “But I have no intention of leaving without her. It’s just … if I get out of this car …”

I don’t finish that thought, but he can fill in the blanks with all the threats I just listed. Maybe I do bulldoze.

“Take a few deep breaths.” His tone is the calm and controlled one he uses when he’s talking one of us off a ledge. “But to add to what I was saying last night, she has no idea things have changed for you. When you show up, she’ll be seeing her best friend.”

“Nah. Mercy is too smart for that. The friend ship sailed when she disappeared on me. She became someone else, and so did I. But I guess I see where you’re going. I can’t tackle this head-on. I need to get creative, tie her to me.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” he grunts, resigned.

“But you sound calmer, so let’s roll with it.

There’s a lot she doesn’t know, Ryker. So, regardless of the approach, this is going to be messy.

Having a game plan will go a long way. Keep that in mind before you crash her date, and let me know what you need. ”

There are shades of truth to everything Axel said. Mercy will still view us as friends. That’s who we always were. When we were young, I tried distancing myself, aware that in my world, innocent people often burned with the evil ones.

Ashes and lies.

The right thing to do was to let Mercy go.

But she didn’t stay away. And I couldn’t tell her no. So, we settled into an unwavering friendship.

For years, it worked. We were us.

Until Dalton Montgomery robbed us of everything. Until the day by the car, and that fucking text, and the sight of her dying on that goddamn floor.

White oak and screams.

But even then, after I rescued her, sat vigil at her bedside, and took care of Jett—who was only an infant—she refused to let me help her through it. Convinced my friend to erase her without my knowledge. And disappeared without a backward glance.

So, even if she knew how I felt then, she doesn’t know who’s showing up tonight.

Champagne and delusions.

Absence changes matters of the heart. Some might say it grows fondness. But in my experience, it breeds obsession.

There has been one recurring thought in my head these last three years: Once I find her, I’ll never let her go.