Page 43 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

T here’s a peculiar freedom that escorts power.

I’d like to claim that’s a new perspective for me, but I’d be lying.

It’s why I thrived in a courtroom, holding the fate of someone’s future in my palm.

Knowing I had the skills and privilege to turn their upside-down predicament around was invigorating.

Back in those days, I would have insisted the thrill was doing something noble with my life, helping those who got a raw deal. There was truth in that. But on the other side of things, I’m wondering if that was mostly bullshit. If it was simply who I thought I should be.

Of course, this revelation is occurring while I’m sandwiched between two mischievous Noire brothers, having the time of my life, swing dancing with a throng of villains.

And shrouded by fear and reverence.

I didn’t fully grasp it the night at the rooftop party, when the men wouldn’t even spare me a glance. That was right after Ryker threatened everyone at the Blind Tiger. I was too caught up in my undeniable desire for him to pay too much credence to how others were perceiving me.

But I saw the slight shift of heads toward me when he announced me as his fiancée tonight.

And the stares I’m garnering now are telling.

I’ve always embraced Ryker and the Noires despite their nefarious dealings.

It’s one of the reasons I never seriously considered being with him.

Not until that day by my car, when I was pregnant with another man’s baby, and I realized a door I’d been subconsciously holding open was slamming.

Everything since has been a blur of mixed emotions.

Including tonight.

Because this dance floor is magically transporting me to a time when life made sense.

When Leslie Noire still brightened the earth and Ryker and I were full of simple dreams. When my parents were alive and grateful I had a friend who looked after me so well.

When they were my heroes because of who they were to me, not the cause of my disillusionment about who they were to the world—or underworld.

I also don’t hate that in a room full of reprobates, I’m considered worthy of protection and veneration. It doesn’t pacify my inner turmoil, but it certainly tips things in a direction I wasn’t anticipating.

Power bestowed on a person who has lived the epitome of powerlessness is like a drug.

A good majority of these nefarious guests probably practiced these dance steps for the past month, preparing for tonight, or learned them for some other event here.

But it’s an integral part of being a Noire.

Embodying the joy of the era that built them is as much a marking of who they are as the royal-gangster posturing they encapsulate.

Maddox’s hands land on my waist, and he lifts me up without warning.

As if the moves were ingrained in my muscles, I place my hands atop his, brace my back against his chest, and kick my feet out in front of me.

Cash bellows a catcall of approval, which must signal Maddox because as soon as my feet lower, I’m tossed to Cash and swinging my legs behind me in an effort to go with the flow.

I’m not sure how pretty the execution is, but after all these years, to know I can still hold my own here is restorative.

Not all is lost.

My skin is flushed, and pearls of sweat dot my hairline.

I’m not used to this, but my endorphins are chanting appreciation to the rhythm of the rumbling drums and the stomping heels and the raucous roar of cheers and whoops.

As Cash sets me on the floor, finishing with one last twirl, the third song of the night wanes.

And the herd of people romping in front of us parts like a sea. Maddox laughs at the sight, tipping me off seconds before Ryker emerges.

His glacial blues are piercing and savage and locked on me. I won’t be surprised if he drags me away from Cash and Maddox. That’s expected.

Stopping right before me, he ignores his younger brothers bracketing me, grips my chin, and presses a swift peck to my lips. “You’re fucking stunning. You’ve had your fun with these two. The rest of the dances are mine.”

I love the idea of that. The two of us cultivating something that doesn’t feel burdensome or weighed down by anguish.

“Is that so? You gonna kick up your heels with me?” With a roguish grin, I glance down at the dance floor—a black-and-gold skyline mural painted on a mirror-like material—and ensure we keep the tone light. “Cut the glass?”

A hissed, “Jesus,” falls from his mouth, like I knew it would, mingling with a chuckle. “I am, and you don’t substitute the exact flooring in that saying. It’s always cut the rug .”

Pursing my lips, I ready an absurd argument that will serve to derail the possessiveness he’s clutching. “Are there any rugs other than the occasional Persian ones in La Lune Noire?”

“Doesn’t matter, but this does, Merce.” He holds my gaze, and so much swims inside those ardent eyes—things that were presumably there long ago, things I caught glimpses of but was terrified to grab.

Heat and hope.

Plans and promises.

The pause he takes is probably three seconds, but stretches out like a lifetime until he’s confident the room has faded to only him. “You might think you’re playing a role, but this is what fighting looks like. Don’t ever try to leave me again.”

Maybe I am starting to claim my throne because I know he isn’t referring to me scurrying away with Maddox and Cash.

But as the soft clacks of another electro swing song slowly rise with the jingle of a tambourine, I jump right back into step, dismissing the threat in his words and simply hearing the plea.

Ryker doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs my hands and coaxes me into a dance more suited for couples than the free-for-all Charleston I was doing with Maddox and Cash. Anxiety frays my nerves. It’s been a long time, and the choreography for these moves is more precise.

Of course he senses that because the man can read me like a fortune cookie. He finds the meanings that even I don’t have.

He twists me into a hammerlock turn and back out, which has us connected while spinning, arms entangled like a pretzel. “It’s just you and me, Merce.”

“Always.” I could leave it at that and keep the peace, but riling him up could have its advantages, so when he twirls me back, I tack on some snark. “And a few hundred of your closest hoodlum friends. So intimate.”

As if the ballroom itself is conspiring on his behalf, the brassy notes of a trumpet and the rich bass of a trombone enter the scene, and a chorus of claps spurs on the musicians.

And Ryker.

“For that, you’re getting flipped.” He chuckles, spinning me back into him and flipping me over his arm.

It happens so fast that my mind barely registers the blur of gold and glitter and opulence. The whoosh of the air against my skin and through my pinned-back hair. The light ricocheting off the reflected floor and chandeliers. My heart accelerates with the resonant bass and the heat of his arms.

When my heels touch down, I let out a shriek of surprise that I didn’t break my neck or flash everyone my panties.

Ryker beams with pride. And for a split second, my body hasn’t been through a beating or motherhood or nearly two decades of aging.

That seventeen-year-old boy who enjoyed teaching me new things and learning about my weird, homeschool-project deep dives is standing before me, encouraging me to leap when the tempo picks up.

Maddox and Cash whistle, drawing me back to the cognizance that we aren’t alone. The crowd has provided us a wide berth, but even those on the dance floor with us seem to be taking in the Noire kings letting loose.

We pick up with choreography that keeps my feet primarily on the buzzing floor, though I feel the need to warn him because he has a devilish glint in his eyes.

“No more flips. I’m too out of practice.”

He cocks an eyebrow, his feet still shuffling as the audacious lilt of a saxophone steals the show. “That sounds like fear, Merce.”

I shake my head. “It’s not happening. If I’m afraid of anything, it’s you throwing out your back. Your brothers had a point, old man .”

That does nothing to dissuade him. He dips me, those crystal-clear blues so hauntingly impassioned that they sear into my soul as he has me arched and off-balance. “You know what’s worse than fear, Viper? Regret. Both snuff out hope. But fear we can conquer. Regrets are forever.”

He drags me up and proceeds with the buoyant steps while I match him, in a bit of a daze about that statement.

It’s so much more than whether or not I let him thrust me into the air.

I live with far more fear and regret than hope.

But I never pitted the former two against one another.

It’s like, with one sentence, he summed up the traits that separate the present from the pre-Dalton me.

And gave me a plan to tear down the wall in between.

He must see the enlightenment strike me because he doesn’t let up. “Sidecar and candlestick. You remember.”

His suggestion is yet another string tying me to the past—the past I nearly buried because things that came after it were so heavy. The combination he’s referring to was his mom’s favorite. I remember her excitement like it was yesterday.

The harmony of jazz instruments reverberates off the vaulted ceiling and regal decor and din of hoots and hollers.

Each vibration rattles my bones and hooks into the depths of me, urging me to surrender.

To let his cozy-corruption scent entwine with the sparkling citrus from the cocktails and the decadent chocolate from the fountains and the puff of perfume that reeks of timeless debauchery.

When he spins me into the crook under his arm, I concede. “Fine. But then champagne and a foot rub.”

“Deal.” His dimple appears with a haughty wink, which reads like a vow to make this one of our most carefree pacts.