Page 5 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY ALICE

“I ’ll stay with you tonight. We’re going home tomorrow.”

That’s about right. Ryker doesn’t dabble in small talk or niceties. He starts most conversations in the middle, expecting everyone to catch up. Everything is zero to one thousand in two-point-three seconds.

He takes the right turn toward my neighborhood without being told, and I roll my eyes.

An unavoidable huff leaps from my lips, but otherwise, I maintain a gentle yet stern response. “I’m not going back there.”

He scoffs, the hand that isn’t throttling the steering wheel diving into his dark brown hair. “To the place you love, with beignets and jazz music and parades in the streets?”

“Yep.” I shrug as if those things mean nothing. I’d shoot New Orleans into my veins if I could, but I’ll take that to my grave.

He pulls into my driveway, puts the car in Park, and stares at me, the why question hanging between us without him vocalizing it. Which is good. I can’t put the answers out there either.

But I hear it all the same. Why won’t you come home, Mercy?

The air thickens in the car as we simply take each other in, my mind scrolling through my reasons.

One: Because you’re there, Ryker. Because you warned me, but I pushed you away and ignored you and didn’t ask what I should have asked, and it nearly cost me my life and possibly the life of my precious boy.

I feel stupid. All. The. Time.

Two: Because when I finally managed to open my swollen eyes, I saw the way you looked at me—a blend of pity for me and venomous rage for Dalton. And I couldn’t bear for you to see that monster in my sweet boy’s face.

He has to come first, to know he’s beautiful, to be seen separate from the evil man he was created by.

Three: Because that night and all the terrifying weeks and months that followed still haunt me. Bits and pieces float through my mind uninvited, robbing me of any peace.

Dalton might be dead, but I’m still scared. My gut stirs like someone’s after me. Like there’s someone who wants me to stay quiet. It’s petrifying.

Four: Because I know you had Dalton killed, despite what I was told about some prison fight. And I wanted to hate you for it, to be pissed that you did the very thing I’d begged you not to do, but instead, I was elated, grateful, proud.

That makes me question everything I am. I’m no less of a monster than Dalton was.

What would my parents think of me? My parents, who instilled good morals and ethics in me, who I still believe died on the right side of justice?

What would my son think if he knew I’d celebrated the murder of his father? I can’t be this person.

And lastly—this is a big one.

Five: Because if I succeed here, I won’t have to admit staying away was wrong.

I really, really hate being wrong. Obviously.

There’s no sense in tiptoeing around it. “I needed a fresh start. And I took one. We’re making it work.”

“Making it work? It’s over. Dalton is dead. It’s time to come home.” He thrusts his hand toward my apartment. “What the hell are you doing, Merc—”

“Alice,” I correct.

“Mercy.” His face turns to stone, and I wonder—not for the first time—if I’ve lost him for good. “This isn’t you. All those years in law school, top of your class, so you could waitress or bartend?”

“Don’t shame me. I work my ass off. I’m doing okay.

There is nothing wrong with bartending.” I glance up at my tiny apartment, knowing there’s some merit to what he’s saying, that it kills me not to be able to do what I love, that I’m barely hanging on, that I’m lost as to who I am beyond being a mother.

My house of shards.

But again, you’ll pry that truth out of my cold, dead hands.

And that’s when it hits me. “You’re the one who gave me that loan. Fuck.”

I am going to have words with Ty and Ivy.

Ty erased me, and Ivy has been involved more recently—the last year and a half or so.

I’m not sure how she fits with Ty’s crew, but she’s amazing.

They both are. Except they fed me a story about a donor allotting funds to all their pro bono clients.

I was suspicious because I had inquired about a loan a while back, but I needed it, so I didn’t push.

The house’s furnace had broken, and my landlady needed to raise my rent.

She is a sweet old woman. It wasn’t her fault, but it left me working double shifts, barely scraping by.

Ryker doesn’t acknowledge my revelation about the loan, admitting to it by default.

Instead, he doubles back to my previous beef.

“You’ve always worked your ass off. No surprise there.

You’re doing an amazing job for someone who had to sacrifice the education they’d worked so hard for.

And of course there isn’t anything wrong with bartending.

If you loved it—” He stops abruptly, gripping the steering wheel again. “You know what? Forget it.”

“How did you know I was bartending? And that I was at the street fair? And where I lived?” I stare at the wide driveway. “Which parking spot is mine? How long have you been here?”

“I followed you today,” he says.

That’s one thing about Ryker: He is matter-of-fact and unapologetic about the insane things he does.

“Since when?”

“I was here before you were awake.”

How did I not notice this car following me? That’s terrifying. It could have been anyone. I’m always so careful, but I was in a rush. So careless.

“And you thought the best time to announce yourself was while I was on a date, in the middle of the town where I’m seeking refuge? You’re acting crazy.” I rub my temples, so overwhelmed and needing to regroup. “Can we just catch up, enjoy some time together? Go inside? I miss my friend.”

His glacial eyes grow flinty. “We’re not friends, Mercy.”

That spears me the way he clearly intended. Maybe I deserve it, but …

“No? Then why the hell did you come here?” I rip the door open and climb out of the car, glaring back at him. “I’m going in so my sitter can go home. You stalked me and ruined my date. Good to see you. Don’t bother coming in unless you fix”—I wave my hand in front of his face—“this.”

Slamming the door, I race for my apartment, tromping up the stairs, desperate to get inside.

Nelly greets me immediately, hands on her hips. “Got a better date, huh?”

I sigh, embarrassed. “Chad called?”

She nods, and I internally praise myself for remembering his name.

“Please apologize for me. This is … complicated.” I gaze down at the driveway to see Ryker still sitting in his car. “How was my little guy tonight?”

“Good. He’s fast asleep. But I’m going to skedaddle. You know …” She appears conflicted. “I’m always here, but it’s better if I don’t know unless I need to. So, as long as you’re safe.”

“I am,” I assure her, waiting for her next question.

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“Yes. Night shift.” If I were in danger, my answer would be, I’m off till Tuesday.

Nelly is a contact of Ty’s and the reason I was placed here. There’s a whole network of underground people who help abuse victims in hiding. She’s a real-life angel.

Once she leaves, I peek in on my little guy, verifying that he’s sleeping, and try to settle my thundering pulse. As I saunter back to the living room, there’s a knock on the door.

After peering through the peephole, I pull it open to find Ryker standing there. His suit jacket is off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flaunting his corded golden-beige forearms. His hair is messy yet perfect, and he’s carrying a suitcase.

Looks like he’s staying.

Wordlessly, he brushes past me without an invite, assessing my space before he takes a seat on the couch.

After a cleansing inhale-exhale, I greet him as if we didn’t share an intrusive cocktail; a strange, sultry hug; or an irate disagreement in the car. “Welcome. It’s been a long time, friend. I’m glad you’re here.”

He relaxes into the tattered couch cushions, arm draped over the back as he sets his steely blues on me. “I told you, we’re not friends now, Mercy.”

Why does he keep freaking saying that?

“What the hell is the point of this?” I whisper-shout. “Why are you here then? And my name is fucking Alice.”

“Well,” he drones in a low rumble that curls around me, “I don’t want anything from fucking Alice . But I do need something. Well, actually, Axel needs something, so I’m here to make an offer.”

This is completely hypocritical and not at all fair since I’m the one who ran. But humans don’t have emotions that are always logical. That’s one of my many takeaways from my self-healing. And at this precise millisecond, I’m hurt, enraged, scorned.

After all this time, he’s here to make an offer? So, that hug was, what, a taste of what we had been to remind me of what I had given up?

What in the ever-loving hell?

I plop down on the chair across from him. “You should have said so to begin with. What does Axel need?”

“We’ve recently acquired another hospitality empire with properties worldwide. The previous owner conducted some heinous practices. We need to clean it up, ensure we aren’t in any way liable for past ventures, and handle any criminal issues with discretion.”

My head slants as I arch an eyebrow. “The Noires want to clean up an unethical hospitality empire?”

“Yes.”

Not only is this the last thing I expected him to bring to me, but the entire concept is baffling. I love the Noire family, and La Lune Noire is one of my favorite places, but none of them, not the individuals or the resort, have any sort of moral compass.

“I’m fearful of what that would entail since …” There is no point in spelling out my insinuations. “What do you need from me?”

“Legal counsel.”

“Ryker, please tell me you didn’t really come all this way for that. You have access to countless lawyers. And my bar status isn’t even active. I didn’t do anything necessary to keep it up, no formal letters or education. I can’t.”

He bats that away. “I did it.”

“Did what?” I ask, feeling like I’m experiencing a head rush. And not the kind I was hoping for. Although the prospect of being a lawyer again is tempting.

“Kept everything active for your bar status.”

“How? Why?” I stammer.

“I handled it.” His face remains impassive, as if this news isn’t life-altering. “It’s always good to have people to call, in case we need them.”

That has a nervous laugh flying out of me. “Well, too bad you’re on the wrong side of the law. I went into criminal law—”

“I already told you, this is to clean up a business. You’d be helping shut down places that had human trafficking cells. I’d say that’s exactly what you went to school for. And the salary will make things”—he glances around—“easier.”

“What’s the salary?” I’m not sure why I asked. I know this is a trap.

But human trafficking? There would still probably be some compromising situations to maneuver through, concerning what the Noires deem ethical. But I could put my foot down about involvement in those. This would be good. I’d be making a difference. I’d have money again. And be in New Orleans.

No. I will not be lured. This is such a bad idea. For all the reasons previously stated.

“Two hundred fifty thousand, plus benefits and a healthy bonus structure.”

Or a phenomenal one.

My head is about to explode. “I, uh … I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course.” A winning smile tugs at his lips. “There are a few conditions we should discuss too.”