Page 3 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY ALICE

H is bushy mustache wiggles over his lips. Well, I hope there are lips under there. Hard to say. He could be hiding loose change. Or a sheepdog.

He’s prattling on about his business endeavors. The street fair around us is hopping with music, fried-food smells, and the roar of the crowd. And I was excited about this.

Kind of. Excited is strong. Willing is more accurate. He’s attractive enough. But all I can focus on is that damn broom on his face.

Nelly—the one soul in this town who knows I’m not who I claim to be without knowing who that actually is—insisted I take a night to get my rocks off . I’m not very good with idioms, but I got the gist.

And the moons aligned. This guy is only passing through town, a background check assured me he’s safe, and Nelly offered to pick Remy up from preschool and babysit.

Plus, it’s been years since I’ve been touched by anyone.

Even my vibrator is like a kiddie ride at a subpar arcade.

Akin to one of those circling planes on wheels with tinkly music—exactly like the boats and cars that do the same thing. No liftoff.

That was the confession I shared with Nelly that scored me this rare rendezvous. Fingers crossed Mustache Man knows how to skydive. Metaphorically. Between my legs.

“So, that sums up what I do.” He grins. “I hope I didn’t bore you.”

“Oh, no,” I lie. “Riveting.”

That wins me a quiet chuckle with a trace of adoration. He’s appeased. I’m thinking maybe we can skip right to the main event. I could be in bed with a book by ten. Satisfied.

But then he pushes me out of our damn plane without a parachute.

“Your turn. Tell me everything. Nelly didn’t give me much information. Just that you were from North Dakota and had been living here for a few years.”

You know how people say they wake up one day and don’t know who they are? They’re full of shit. They’re still them. Same past. Same name. Same education. Same family.

I’m a poorly developed caricature. Nothing is real. Being erased to ensure my son and I weren’t murdered meant giving a lot up.

Namely, everything. My past. My people. My credentials.

My career. Hobbies. Essence.

“We all present ourselves like a window, and those around us have various views into who we are. But none of that negates the profound perspective from the inside.” My father’s wisdom plagues me a lot these days.

What happens when the window shatters and the only perspective left is shards? Who am I then?

So, as we stroll down the street, I spew the concocted story, the memorized tidbits of Alice Kincaid. I’ve mastered how to lead a person to ask the right questions in return. That way, the conversation never ventures into rocky territory. Who says those years in law school were a waste?

Once we cover that, he leads me to an outdoor dining area at one of the restaurants.

It’s cute. The patio is lit up, and there’s a girl singing with an acoustic guitar.

The town is charming. It just isn’t New Orleans.

But no place is. The French Quarter and jazz music, the ghost stories and food. La Lune Noire and …

I knew what I was leaving behind, but I didn’t grasp how devastating the loss would be.

“What’s your preferred cocktail?” he asks, like a perfect gentleman. “Wine, beer, something fruity?”

“I’ll have a glass of Merlot.”

When we find a table, he relays that to the waitress. I don’t know why I ordered that. Red wine gives me a headache. It just popped out. My favorite drink isn’t something ordered often, so it’s another one of those tidbits that can allude to an identity. It’s best to give up everything.

A half hour into our meal, I’m mesmerized by the mustache again.

Don’t ask me why. I don’t generally have anything against mustaches.

I like facial hair. But this one is very …

Yosemite Sam . And sometimes, my mind latches on to something, and there’s no letting go.

This time, I’m consumed by the possibility of food landing in it.

I’ll have to forgo those skydiving plans if that happens.

The waitress interrupts my preoccupation, grabbing some of our plates as she looks at me. “Can I interest you in a chicory coffee or a French 75?”

For a split second, I forget to breathe. Those are both staples of NOLA. Things I love. But that means …

Panic rips through me, my spine snapping ramrod straight. My date starts rubbing my back, asking if I’m okay, right as any remaining air in my lungs bubbles up to my throat.

Ryker Noire is standing behind the waitress. My Ryker. Here. With two champagne flutes.

He found me.

I’m not sure what to do. Jump up and hug him? Run? Smile? Cry?

My heart hurts.

He sets one flute down in front of me, his cool-azure eyes twinkling as he winks. “Let’s go with the French 75 now, enjoy the night, and we’ll have chicory coffee in the morning with our pancakes.”

As fucked up as my head is, that makes me laugh. Leave it to Ryker to hunt me down, show up out of the blue, and lead with some cheesy pickup line. Even outside of his kingdom, he still carries himself like royalty.

Case in point: He’s at a street fair in a custom-made black suit that costs more than most people’s homes. And he looks … lethal.

“Is this a friend of yours, Alice?” my date asks, his gaze ping-ponging between my blanched face and Ryker’s smug one.

“ Alice is definitely not a friend of mine.” Ryker pulls out a chair and takes a seat as the waitress scurries away.

“Oh … so do I sense a rivalry here or a childhood frenemy? Exes? Or …”

This night is taking a bizarre turn. None of that is accurate, and yet, maybe after everything, some of it fits. My heart thumps wildly against my rib cage. In my temples. Toes. Everywhere.

“Ry—” I stop short of using his full name, foolishly close to dropping a detail that would have compromised my placement. Maybe that one syllable already did, but I quell those frazzled nerves. “This is, um … I’d like you to meet …”

Oh, holy mother of God, I have no flipping idea what this guy’s name is.

Ryker laughs—big and boisterous and haughty—offering his hand to Mustache Man sitting beside me. “It seems Alice’s tongue is tied.”

They shake hands and exchange a weird, alpha, tight-jawed grunt-chuckle. It’s a thing, I swear.

“It sure does. I’m Chad Williams.”

Chad. That’s it.

Both of them whip their heads to me. One amused. One scorned.

I must have said that out loud. Shit.

Before I can interject anything, Chad slides my wineglass in front of me, and some silent conversation transpires between them.

“She ordered wine,” he asserts, “and we’re almost ready to move on with our night, so thank you for the cocktail, but we’re good.”

That’s bold, considering I didn’t know his name thirty seconds ago, but whatever. This isn’t the time to get hung up on stuff. The town is small. This is going to bring unwanted attention to me.

Ryker sips his French 75, simpering, like he’s in on a secret—one about poisoning Chad. “Alice may have ordered Merlot, but she reminds me of someone. And that girl got headaches from red wine, so I showed up with something Alice would enjoy more .”

As much as my brain wants to dissect that because it sounded like it wasn’t really about alcohol, I’m not going to.

Taking this conversation at face value is stressful enough.

But I am an exhausted single mom who never goes out, my orgasm aspirations have seemingly crashed and burned, and this champagne cocktail is my favorite drink—a drink with a lot of memories.

Unable to resist, I help myself to a hefty sip, pleasantly surprised that it’s made our way. “So much better with cognac.”

Ryker’s lips twitch, like he’s pleased with my response, which reveals what his will be before he even utters the words. “Only degenerates use gin.”

“Filthy gin joints,” I return, and while I love that exchange, I can’t linger there, so I narrow my eyes at him. “This is unexpected. What are you doing here?”

That does not win me favor with my long-lost friend. The boyish charm he was sporting morphs into agitation, clawing its way to rage.

Chad rests his arm on the back of my chair, lightly scratching my shoulder. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

Simmer the hell down, Chad.

Ryker rubs the neatly trimmed scruff on his jaw, his eyes burning holes through Chad’s hand before rising to my face. “I’m here to take her home.”

And here we go.

“That won’t be necessary,” Chad replies with a death wish. “I’ve got her tonight.”

He’s got me tonight? A surge of indignation rises in my chest before I remember that all I was aiming for was for him to get me off tonight. So, yeah, I’ll let that slide. None of that matters because I’m hardly involved in this conversation.

Ryker holds up two fingers, shoots his champagne flute in a single swill, and leans forward. “That’s not going to work for me. I’ve got her forever , so we have plans. Far from here. Far from you. Take your goddamn hand off what’s mine.”

The waitress appears out of nowhere, and in a classic Ryker Noire move, he flashes a suave grin, his eyes creasing and dimple dimpling , as he tosses her a wad of cash, and she thanks him profusely.

“By home, does he mean North Dakota?” Chad can’t seem to catch up, though he wisely removes his arm from behind me.

Ryker fields that as he stands, reaching his hand out to me. “Geography isn’t important. Her home is with me.”

That wallops me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I’ve missed him. So much. Not that I allow myself to think about it. And, yes, he’s being difficult. Rude to my date. Demanding. But that’s Ryker. In fact, he’s strangely controlled right now, which I find a bit more intimidating.

He’s usually easier to read. Hotheaded. Passionate. Sweet, in a domineering, heart-on-his-sleeve, ready-to-off-anyone-who-looks-cross-eyed-at-his-people manner. Like a homicidal teddy bear.

Oddly endearing.