Page 33 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

“So full of yourself, Mr. Noire. This isn’t like last night.

I already got mine. I will meet you in the middle though.

” She licks her strawberry lips ever so slowly while the anticipation of whatever seductive promise she’s about to extend hovers heavily between us.

“I won’t beg, but I will follow orders.”

“Jesus,” I hiss, right before a grating voice interrupts us.

“There’s the happy couple.”

Motherfucker.

Martina Nicholson stands in front of us in a slinky black dress, her dark hair too poofy and her cleavage too there . She’s considered a hot commodity among many of our La Lune Noire guests. I’ve never bought it, but my disinterest won me the prize of never shaking her.

“I heard about this engagement . Let me see that rock, Mercy.”

“Hi, Martina,” Mercy warbles, presenting her ring—the champagne one I held on to for years—with an uncharacteristic snarky finger dance.

“Blinding, right?” She studies Martina’s incensed reaction, and a grin coasts up her cheeks, nearly revealing her venomous fangs.

“It’s been forever. You look … well. What’s new? ”

“Nothing this exciting.” Martina levels her with a glare before flipping her scrutiny to me and gliding her hand over my back. “This surprised me, Ryker.”

“Hands off,” Mercy demands, her features stony. “Now.”

Fuck. Me. That’s my goddamn queen, striking like a viper.

My dick salutes that dose of possessiveness, so I move my suit jacket to conceal it, kiss Mercy’s temple, and stare Martina down until she withdraws her hand.

“Shouldn’t be surprising. I’ve always been clear about my intentions.” I might not have vocalized my obsession with Mercy, but for a long time, I’ve made it damn clear I didn’t want anyone else.

Martina’s eyes grow cold, announcing the challenge in store. “I guess you were. That explains all those lawyers you found jobs for in other states. Hell, you sent some to other countries. And they all had one thing in common, didn’t they?”

Shit . I may have— allegedly —incentivized anyone who sought a second date with Mercy ever since our French 75 night.

She wanted to have her fun, remain unattached until she was well established in her career, and I simply ensured her aspirations were fulfilled.

That’s what I told myself. There was initially no additional conscious motive behind it.

I didn’t know what the hell I wanted and wouldn’t have professed that she was my forever.

I just knew I couldn’t bear the idea of her getting serious with someone.

Mercy ping-pongs her gaze between the two of us, probably slowly piecing things together.

Martina’s father is a judge—one who handles a considerable number of cases for our members.

It’s not shocking that she’s onto me. Initially, I declined sleeping with her because she was inherently clingy and burning that bridge with her father would have been disastrous.

I insisted I didn’t mix business with pleasure.

Mostly true. But she couldn’t accept it.

As the years went on, she became intent on finding other reasons.

I’m guessing her father supplied one by divulging my scheme with the lawyers and suggesting I had a thing for Mercy.

The question of how long I’ve been waiting for my queen might get answered sooner than Mercy wanted.

My arm drapes over the booth behind her, scratching her shoulder in an unambiguous claiming. “I’m looking forward to seeing your parents next week, Martina. But you probably need to get back to your friends. Mercy and I are in the middle of our meal, so if you’ll excuse us.”

“Of course.” Martina catalogs the dissension building between us and smiles. “I’ll let you get to it.” She shifts her weight to leave, but stalls for one more bomb drop. “Too bad you didn’t find Dalton a job elsewhere, huh? He was never willing to cooperate.”

“Enough.” I’m halfway to standing when Mercy clamps her hand on my wrist, tugging me down and shooting daggers at our unwanted guest.

“You’re in Ryker’s house, so you’ll show him some goddamn respect. If I have to climb out of this booth to get you to walk away, Martina, I swear to—”

“Mercy?” An ecstatic shriek slices through this shit show, absorbing whatever threat was about to blast out of my girl’s mouth. Across the restaurant, the woman attached to it rushes toward us. “Oh my God, Mercy Phillips!”

Mercy bypasses Martina and extends an enthusiastic wave as she scooches to the edge of our small half-moon booth. “Emma, hey.”

Emma Campbell was Mercy’s closest friend in postgrad. As much as I would prefer to clean up the mess that Martina just made, this is good for Mercy.

When Emma reaches us, her whole face is splotchy, tears streaming.

She unapologetically launches herself at Mercy, hugging her like you would if someone returned from the dead.

Because to Emma, that’s what this is. “Oh my God. I thought … there were rumors … and I was so worried. And you’re blonde now. And so beautiful.”

Mercy hugs her back, drops of her own heartache trickling onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

Not wanting this reunion tainted, I glower at Martina, who is still hovering. “I’ve been polite for years, but that’s over. If you come at my soon-to-be wife again, you’ll be out of here for good. And your daddy won’t have anything to say about it.”

He’s in too deep with us now, and she knows it. She reluctantly retreats, with a smug grin for the damage she hopes she inflicted, and I return to my girl, only to meet Emma’s glare.

“You could have fucking called me, Noire.”

“She just returned.”

“Like, today?” she snaps back.

Emma doesn’t take shit, which I appreciate, but I don’t answer. Mercy’s reentrance into New Orleans is at her own pace. Not Emma’s. Not anyone’s.

She huffs and flicks her attention to Mercy again. “You’re not going to tell me where you were or what happened, are you?”

Mercy shakes her head. “It’s for the best. Tell me how you are.”

“Better now.” Emma’s lips tug down to a frown, but she pulls it together.

“I’m the director at Winding River Treatment Center.

Still friends with a lot of the girls from school.

And engaged.” She flings her hand to a table near the dueling pianos, where a guy I’m familiar with offers a two-finger wave.

“That’s Bryce. He doesn’t people well after a long week, and he didn’t want to interrupt Ryker Noire during a date . ”

“I’ve always known Mr. Wakeford was a smart man,” I quip while internally vowing to avoid public with Mercy in the future. I want her all to myself.

Mercy laughs that off and turns back to Emma. “You always did go for the introverts. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am.” Her face brightens, and she begins to update Mercy on their old social circle, so I whip out my phone and do a little recon work.

When I get her alone again, I plan to be ready.

Me: What the hell did you tell her, asshole?

Jax: Everything. Or nothing. Somewhere in between.

Me: No specifics or a fucking heads-up?

As if the musicians are privy to my current debacle, one of them kicks her chair backward, grabs a fiddle, jumps on top of the piano, and joins in with the others to play “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” as the text appears.

Jax: Where’s the fun in that?

Me: WTF?

Jax: Some of us are busy working here, man.

Me: So sorry to fucking interrupt. Maybe you could spare a goddamn minute since I’m about to be blindsided, thanks to you.

Jax: Exactly. You should be thanking me.

Me: ???

Jax: I got her high first so she wouldn’t kill you and let her unravel things at her own pace. It was time. Her eyes this morning … she’s hurting.

That spears me, even though her pain has nothing to do with what I’m hiding.

Me: I know.

After I swipe that response, my attention is drawn to an old friend of Mercy’s father on the other side of the restaurant.

Christ. Is everyone and their brother here tonight?

Jax: Still, she wants this. Wants you. Don’t lose her trust by keeping shit from her. Let her have some control, or she’ll feel trapped.

Me: When did you get so wise?

Jax: Had some good role models.

Me: Thanks.

Jax: I was talking about those stuntmen who trained me, but sure, bro, you did okay too.

I chuckle and check on Mercy and Emma to be sure everything is still good before replying.

Me: Well, thanks for helping with Mercy. Try not to set anybody on fire tonight.

Jax: No promises, and don’t thank me. Get Rena here.

That slams into me. One more way the fault lines stay intact.

Rena might be half an hour away, safe, and happy, but her absence at La Lun Noire is a hole we all feel, even the staff.

She’s a light for all of us. The one our employees confided in, the one who drove us crazy and kept us sane in one fell swoop. But Jax is the one who needs her most.

Ashes and lies.

Me: I’ll work on it. You good?

Jax: Trying to be.

The only words of comfort I have are the same ones he extended to me.

Me: That’s all we can do.

“Does you coming back mean …” Emma begins when she notices my focus rising to them. “Is this finally something?”

“Yes,” I reply before Mercy can, and while Emma heard the rumors and suspects the truth, I stick with our story .

“She was off doing amazing things, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I told her she was no longer my friend, that I wanted more, and that she had to return to New Orleans as mine . ”

Mercy produces the ring after that, not as forthright as she had with Martina, but it doesn’t come across as forced, and a possessive beast roars to life inside me.

“How the hell did I miss that?” Emma yells over the music, examining Mercy’s finger. “Engaged? Makes sense. I went for the introverts, and you dreamed of a bossy man. I told you he was the one.”

I’ve always liked Emma.

“You did, but don’t inflate his ego.” Mercy beams across the booth at me, so I slide her back to the center and point her toward the appetizers she’s ignoring.

“Deflating egos is kind of my specialty.” Emma directs her sass to me. “So, in that case, I used to nag her about you two all the time, and she insisted she never thought about it, never dreamed of little Noires running amok, never fantasized of what the kings did down in Magie—”

“Emma,” Mercy cuts her off. “It’s good to see you. We should catch up. Just the two of us.”

“Message received.” Emma giggles and stretches toward her for another half hug just as Bryce sidles up to the table.

He kicks up his chin to me. “Hey, man. I apologize for the intrusion. Emma likes to chat.”

I appreciate that he isn’t trying to slip in an unscheduled conversation. Running into non-members in our public restaurants can often be tedious.

“No worries,” I assure him. “It’s good they caught up.”

“If I promise to behave,” Emma starts, wrapping her arms around his waist, “maybe the four of us could do something.”

“We’d love that,” Mercy says before we all exchange a goodbye. As they saunter away, she looks at me. “Is it me, or does New Orleans feel very small right now?”

“Well, it’s Saturday night, so … Let’s not breeze over the most important tidbit Emma dropped.” I clamp my hand over her thigh, mirroring her gesture from earlier as I inch north. “You never thought about miniature Noires running amok, huh?”

She likely expected me to harp on the mention of the sex club, but even if she’s surprised, she tries her damnedest to battle a smile. “Never. You?”

“Once or twice,” I admit, though it’s a lie. Hundreds of times would be accurate, and they always have her beautiful smile.

“I thought you never saw yourself in that family role. I mean, you did it with your siblings, but—” Her shoulders tense. “A clerk from Monroe’s office is here.”

I follow her line of sight, noticing a guy from the governor’s office. “You know, Monroe’s second term ended last year.”

Dalton’s father, Monroe Montgomery, was a beloved governor who served out his term in the nick of time. Otherwise, I would have terminated it for him.

“No, I didn’t. I hadn’t thought about it, but …”

“C’mon.” I clutch her hand under the table and haul her out of the booth.

After stopping by the server station to give instructions for our food that is likely about to come out, I lead Mercy toward the patio, which is lit with string lights and mostly empty.

We slip behind an ornate trellis, and once I press in the loose brick at the bottom, the wall unlocks for me to push it back so we can sneak inside and shut out the world. As she requested earlier.

“Thanks,” she breathes. “It’s just … I’m not sure I’m ready for … people, questions, all of it.”

“Makes sense.” I flip the switch to light the electric sconce, illuminating the weathered brick and industrial ceiling—an extension of the decor from the restaurant.

“So, how do we get back to the penthouse from here?”

“We don’t,” I tell her. I have no intention of leaving this room without giving her what she came for.

“What?” It isn’t fear lacing her airy whisper. She’s aroused.

Stepping closer, I eat up the space between us without touching her. “We bide our time. Wait for them to leave. Then we’ll finish our meal. Tell me about the phone call.”

The amber lighting. The burgundy blouse.

Her blonde locks framing her big brown eyes.

She’s ethereal. And hungry. Jax’s idea of handing her control was brilliant.

And after seeing how fierce she was over me with Martina, I realize how much I need her to fight for us, even if it’s just to scratch an itch.

I’ll take whatever scraps she’ll give me.

She glances around the small space, her voice a feathery wisp. “What is this place?”

“A safe room. So, let’s use it as such. Tell me your secrets, and I’ll give you what you need.”

“No way out?” she probes for further confirmation.

“Only the way we came. You face them or me.” I drag my thumb over her pouty lip, and her breath hitches. “You claimed you wanted a taste. Don’t fuck with me, Viper. I’ve been as restrained and gentle as I can manage. Get on your knees. It’s time I brand your pretty throat.”