Page 29 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

L a Lune Noire has a pulse. It lives. And breathes. And rules apart from its owners.

The walls have secrets. The doors have codes. Even the air is infused with a time warp of ghosts and spirits and apparitions of a distant period.

It’s more than an escape. It’s an identity that burrows into your marrow, a mask that hides the lesions the outside world inflicted. No matter how disfiguring they were.

“So fucking desperate to get back there? To a place I’m not even invited? And you have the audacity to think you’ll take my son with you? Try it, and you’ll never see your baby again.”

Dalton didn’t get the appeal, and yet he did. If there was one thing in this world that threatened him more than anything else, it was the exclusivity he was banned from. And the fact that I wasn’t.

I should have used that to turn the tables on him, but my emotions went haywire during and after the pregnancy, and his psychological foothold was vanquishing.

Not that I realized it. Neither of us was in love, but we didn’t pretend to be.

For the five months we were living together before Remy was born, he was a decent partner, and I thought he’d be a good father.

Plus, the idea of co-parenting, which he’d initially suggested, was unthinkable.

I didn’t want to part with my baby for days at a time, so I made it work.

And it did, except … he was so jealous of Ryker, insisting that I couldn’t be friends with him because Ryker wanted more.

That wasn’t who Ryker and I were, and yet everything Dalton said had a thread of truth to it.

It’s not like my mother had had close male friendships apart from my father.

She would have wanted me to honor my relationship. And I tried, until …

“You’ve got no one other than me. The only person you thought you had was a liar.

A friend would’ve been honest. He wasn’t a friend.

He wanted to fuck you, and you loved that.

Somewhere in that stupid head of yours, I bet you think you could have a future with him.

You think he’d want you now that you’re used, after having another man’s child?

Your father was one of his members. Did he ever tell you that?

He knew who your father really was, what he did, why your mother died.

And he hid it from you. He’s a fucking criminal!

But he’s on a pedestal, and you treat me like I’m trash. ”

Everything escalated from there. It was the most volatile he’d ever been and the first time I was reckless enough to push back with every bit of fight I had in me.

A disastrous combination. Usually, I’d pacify him if he seemed grumpy about my friendship.

I was respectful of our situationship. But that night, I told him I planned to visit La Lune Noire, that it was nonnegotiable.

I was a few months postpartum, terribly depressed over the weird relationship I’d found myself in, and desperate to see Ryker and all the Noires.

Since I had lost my parents and wasn’t close with my extended relatives, the Noires were the only family I had.

Dalton was enraged, which I’d expected—to a degree.

While he’d been manipulative and inflexible about Ryker, he’d never been so verbally abusive to me.

But some part of me knew it was inside him.

What I hadn’t anticipated was for him to spew crazy stories about my parents and Ryker.

When I defended them, every morsel of anger for me that Dalton must have been stifling came flying out, until he couldn’t stop.

Bits and pieces of what he had claimed made sense, which confused everything.

But the web of deceit he had suggested and the murderous glint in his eyes convinced me to send the text that saved my life.

It was so short that I managed to do it while I checked on the baby.

The first blow came when I left the nursery, blood spattering from my mouth onto a professional picture of the three of us, taken five days postpartum.

I dug my nails into him, kicked and bit and battled.

Three things repeated in my mind.

Keep him distracted so he doesn’t take it out on the baby.

Why didn’t I leave sooner?

I’m sorry, Ryker. Please save my boy.

Waking up to the aftermath was eerily quiet. Beeps and whooshes from monitors and IV pumps. Footfalls on linoleum. Hushed conversations.

The first coherent thoughts I remember after knowing Remy was safe were about the place that felt like home—the person that felt like home—which riddled me with guilt.

I craved the La Lune Noire chaos and ran to silence.

For the years after, I nestled in the quietude, the stillness, the cold mornings, bundled up with my little guy.

The pandemonium in my own brain took center stage. Paralyzing me. I played that night over and over in my mind, trying to collect pieces that slipped away as swiftly as they arrived.

Fragments of that cryptic phone call Dalton had made while I was dying at his feet. Snippets of what he had alleged my father had done. Shards of what he’d painted my relationship with Ryker to be.

Silence is deafening.

Last night with Ryker was the most whole I’d felt since that awful day.

Afterward, I slept in Remy’s bed, like I often do.

Having him close always subdues the nightmares, but it was more.

As I drifted off, the intrusive thoughts didn’t take hold.

I didn’t berate myself for harboring the very feelings that Dalton had wanted to beat out of me.

I simply basked in the taste of family my parents would have wished for me, even if they hadn’t been who I thought they were.

But when I awoke this morning, alone in Remy’s bed, I shattered all over again.

So, the noise is a gift. Lively commotion isn’t only prevalent in the soul of the resort. It’s ever present in the penthouse. These men and their lifestyle are animated and boisterous. Enthralling.

After I’m dressed and ready for the day, I follow the ruckus and the scents of grilled sandwiches and wholesome deviance to catch a glimpse of the bustling late morning energy.

All the guys are here, except Jax. Ryker and Maddox are cooking lunch.

Axel is at the table, glasses on, working on his laptop.

And Cash is sprawled out on the adjacent family room floor, tossing items—pillows and fake boulders—in front of my giggling Remy, who is clutching his beloved stuffed bulldog while driving a rideable bulldozer.

That seems like an outside toy, but I’ve learned that anything goes here.

Like the rest of the penthouse, the kitchen is stunning.

But there’s something about this room that renders it a miraculous blend of grandeur and coziness.

It’s always brimming with pastries and fruit and the warmth of conversation.

Elaborate meals cooked by them or their staff.

Either way, the home-cooked comfort prevails.

The black-and-gold color scheme is dark and rich, but all the surfaces are reflective, ricocheting the light streaming in from the skylights all over the room.

The appliances are vintage replicas with modern features, the floor is a creamy marble with gold-and-black veining, and the coffered ceiling carries out the cabinet design with glossy black molding and gold inlay.

Belonging and sin and forbidden yearnings, tied with an extravagant bow.

When I traipse into the mix, cheers erupt.

Remy chirps, “Mama,” as he jumps out of his riding toy to greet me with a zealous leg hug. I scoop him up, squeeze him tight, and shower him with pecks on his teeny face. In a single breath, he tells me all about his morning with his dozer and his Ryker-friend and the brothers .

Seeing him so elated fills me up. I dust my nose over his. “I love you to pieces, sweet pea.”

“Love you to pieces,” he says before I set the squirmy bugger back down to return to his construction site.

Cash hops up, planting a kiss on my cheek and hollering, “Our bulldozing inspiration has arrived. Maybe we should nickname her Rock.”

Ryker cusses under his breath.

I’m guessing this is an inside joke, but they all bounce off each other so quickly that I don’t have a chance to inquire.

“She doesn’t like nicknames,” Ryker announces.

That’s not exactly true.

“Is that right?” Maddox chimes, making sandwiches on the island griddle. “No pet names for you, Mercy?”

“Maybe she doesn’t need one. I’m sure she was a good girl ,” Cash says with a goading lilt.

“Keep it up, motherfucker—fudger,” Ryker stammers, his eyes shooting to Remy with remorse before flicking to me and mouthing, Sorry .

I think our climax contract has been exposed.

Axel pushes his chair back and rises, waving me into the kitchen. “Ignore them. Can I get you some coffee?” He plucks a mug out of the cupboard as I sidle up beside him. “Or maybe you’d prefer … milk?”

A laugh bursts out of me, even as my cheeks flush. That was impeccably timed. Even Ryker can’t stop from chuckling through his disgruntled disposition. But I really don’t want to delve into anything deeper about last night.

I flash a wry smile at Axel. “Does the Pope poop in the woods?”

That’s not right.

Quick as can be, Cash quips, “I sure as hell hope not.”

The room dissolves into howls and cackles, and I have a hard time keeping it together.

I’m not even sure what my flustered brain was going for there.

It’s not like I’m unaware that I screw up sayings.

My parents and grandparents had a bottomless well of them, and for some reason, they all mesh together in my head.

But once it’s out, I find it’s more entertaining to frustrate people—people mainly being Ryker—with my insistence that I’m right.

You’d think, after all these years, he’d know I employ the misuse as a diversion tactic since I have never once uttered an unintelligible saying in the courtroom. Maybe he does. Either way, it’s kind of our thing.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Ryker corrects.