Page 31 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

R yker asked me to go to dinner with him tonight, but I declined because my head was so fucked up.

One second, I feel him touching me. His tongue, his fingers, his strong arms coiled around me, and his scruffy face between my thighs.

The next, I’m mowed over by all the reasons this terrifies me, all the ways it keeps the past alive, all the secrets whispering between us.

So, after Remy passed out at seven, Axel assured me he’d be working in the penthouse all night, so I was free to do whatever.

Instead of having dinner with Ryker, I let Jax drag me away to hang out in his private lounge.

It has an eclectic, vintage vibe with brick walls, blue leather furniture, vibrant art, and one-way windows that show the tattoo shop, the piercing boutique, and another entrance to Noire Underground.

While the employees can’t see us, we have a view of them hustling. Even the hushed areas are hopping with life.

Jax just got done telling me that he comes alive at night. He’s got clients this evening and apparently a waiting list that’s at least six months long. Members book here for the unique tattoos he and his staff offer.

“Here.” He passes me a joint, the pungent stench wafting around us. “You’ll like this. Sativa. Energizes. Increases creativity.”

I take it. Why not? Nothing else is working to bring me clarity.

“You happy to be back?” he asks while I’m sucking in a hit.

After blowing out a plume of smoke, I return it to him. “In some ways. I missed you all, but it’s confusing. And complicated.”

“Shit here is always fucking complicated,” he murmurs.

The buttery leather cushion hugs me as I relax into it, my gaze jumping to Tessa and Maddox near a piercing chair, having a spirited discussion—or argument—before I turn back to Jax. “I can see that.”

His lips part as if he’s readying himself to share something. Jax often has a slight delay before he speaks or between his words, like he’s processing.

“Ryker … he’s … intense. He bulldozes because he cares.” He pauses, but when I don’t interject anything regarding the bulldozing reference, he continues, “Would it feel as complicated if he hadn’t been called away to deal with the fight between the cheaters?”

“Cheaters?”

“Fucking adulterers,” Jax hisses, indignant, ashes falling, like a flurry of tainted snow, into a blue agate geode used as a makeshift ashtray. “I would’ve killed ’em both.”

This is where the Noire brothers are perplexing.

They hate how their father cheated on their mother, so while they don’t necessarily view themselves as husband material, they value the sanctity of marriage.

They loathe any mistreatment of women, absolutely forbid it in their resort. Always have. Moral high ground.

But none of them blink at taking a life, certainly not one they deem worthless.

My champagne diamond ring burns into my finger with a host of confusing messages. As does my dazzling La Lune Noire–access bracelet. Am I one of them now?

Deciding it’s best to steer us in another direction, I flip the focus to him. “You had a rough start to your day—”

“End,” he corrects around the joint. “Stayed up … slept this afternoon.”

“Right. Are you okay?”

His hazel eyes float from the shops to me. “I miss Rena. She settles me. Doesn’t look like she’ll make it for the Prohibition Ball. Feels fucking wrong.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s coming up, huh? A little over a week?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “And it sucks not being able to talk about shit.”

That breaks my heart. They’ve always been so close.

“And you don’t like talking to the therapists?” I probe.

He sets the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table, grabs us each a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the bar area, and plops back down. “Hate it.”

“So, stop going.” I take the water, unscrew the cap, and relish the relief of my cotton mouth as two tattoo artists filter into the parlor. This must be the start of the next shift.

“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to do the opposite?”

A brief pang of turmoil hits me, but I stand firm. “Probably. But I’d be a hypocrite. I believe therapy can be powerful. But people who have secrets that could get them killed don’t find healing from a stranger asking them how they feel when the only safe answers are lies.”

I don’t know what went down the night their parents died.

It’s best if I don’t because something tells me there’s more to that story than an accidental house fire.

Either way, Jax likely has secrets piled up from that day forward.

He might not have to contend with a different identity like I did, but he has to pretend all the same.

“Exactly.” He guzzles half the bottle in a single swill. “I don’t go for me. I go for them—Axel, Ryker. They need to believe I’m being fixed. The fucked-up thing is, I’m the healthiest. I don’t hide my scars.”

That lands like a brick on my chest. Ryker shows his emotions, but rarely his scars. I’ve seen the cracks in his armor since I returned though. His admission to being stuck on that floor with me lingers.

“It’s not the same as having Rena, but you can talk to me.”

He leans forward, reaching for the joint. “I know. Same.”

“I’m surprised Rena isn’t here more often.”

“Can’t be”—he takes a hit, finishing his answer as he blows out his smoke—“after all that fucked-up bullshit from a month and a half ago. She married into a bizarre life, even by our standards.”

Maybe it’s the weed in my system or my years as a lawyer, although I’m admittedly rusty, but that sounds like a group of sentences I need to poke holes in.

My brain is moving at a breakneck pace. Rena is married to Ty. The erasing world might be wild, but not by Noire standards. And something happened to keep her away?

It makes me think of what Cash said this morning before Ryker cut him off and all hell broke loose with Jax.

“Says the man who booked the meeting that had the worst security breach—”

“The security breach,” I respond nonchalantly.

He bobs his head, passing the joint back to me. I shouldn’t take it, but I do.

“They mentioned that this morning. And it was because of an erasing client or …” I raise the joint to my lips, letting my assumption dangle in the hope that he’ll fill it in.

“Nah. Well, kind of.” His head lolls back, gaze directed at the ceiling. “It was part of some deal with KORT. Fucking complicated.”

KORT. On one of the transfer documents that Axel shared with me, that name was listed.

He was very clear it was for my eyes only and said he’d explain more as we got further into the process of revamping the other resorts.

Other than learning the ropes my first week, all I really did was take a brief look at each of the properties.

So many questions bombard me that I’m not sure which to pick.

They whip by me in a shaky blur. I told Jax he could talk to me, but I doubt Ryker would sanction this conversation.

I suspect that Jax thinks he’s filled me in, so I use what I know.

It’s wrong, but no more so than all the stuff they do.

“How did Ty’s family get involved with KORT?” I’m not sure if that makes sense, but I can rephrase and blame the weed if I need to. I’m already feeling it, which is why I draw in one last hit and set the joint in the ashtray.

“Fuck knows,” he sighs, arms flying off the couch. “My guess is, the same way Axel did, through fucking mind-numbing, twisted shit.”

I’m so lost. “Does Rena like it?”

“She loves Ty and the whole family. Not really interested in the whole secret society thing, but that’s not surprising. She’s pissed she can’t visit, but wants to get pregnant and knows it’s best if she doesn’t get shot at again.”

Secret society? Shot at?

My head is spinning. Veins blistering. “She’s okay though?”

“Yeah. Just not here.”

It sounds like our rooftop date was to spy on another cabal because Axel is involved in one that apparently nearly got Rena killed. Not information Ryker should be sitting on after bringing Remy and me here.

I’m panicked and pissed and a host of other emotions that seem as perplexing as my rapid pulse. I whip out my phone and send Ryker a text.

Me: Hey, if Axel is okay with watching Remy for another hour, are you still interested in getting dinner with me?

Ryker: Always.

Me: I want Creole. Café L’Ambroisie?

Ryker: Perfect. Are you high?

Me: As a vulture.

Me: Are you watching me? That’s fucked up.

Ryker: No. You’re with Jax. It was an educated guess.

Me: Touché.

Ryker: There are no cameras in his lounge anyway.

That makes me laugh. So, he watched me come here. If it were anyone else, I’d be infuriated, but Ryker has always made me feel safe. And something about him watching me is … exciting.

Ryker: Finishing up my walk-through. Axel’s good. I’ll be there to grab you in fifteen minutes.

Me: I’d like to talk.

Ryker: About?

I make him wait through a full minute of prancing dots, knowing it will absolutely kill him, before finally swiping out my response.

Me: The farm.

My teeth sink into my lip as I wait the three seconds it takes him to reply.

Ryker: See you in five.

That is some addictive power.

Tucking my phone away, I peer back at Jax, who is the most perplexing mix of tortured and serene. “Are you okay if I go take care of something?”

“Yeah. I got a client in twenty minutes anyway. Where ya goin’?”

In a poor attempt to stifle an onslaught of giggles, I press my fingers to my lips. “To fuck with Ryker.”

A blustery laugh gusts out of him. “Perfect. Give him hell, Mercy.”