Page 51 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)
His dimple winks in the dawn light as his hand slips under my T-shirt, scratching up and down my spine. “Toothless could have its advantages.”
“Right.” I trace my fingertip over the ink on his left pec, a 3D fleur-de-lis, which is a symbol of New Orleans. “At least this time, I’m bragging about you.”
He kisses my nose. “Do go on then.”
“So, the sweet young gal, who is just anxious to get through her day so she can go home and put her feet up, is looking for tales of flapper gowns and chocolate fountains, swing bands and dancing, and maybe a bit of scandal in the shadows. But I don’t give her any of that.
In my jumbled inability to censor myself, I lay it out and shout to the room that I was on the arm of one of the Noire brothers himself and he swept me off my feet.
There will be oohs and aahs, and the crowd will grow because now it’s getting interesting. ”
“Naturally,” he deadpans, underestimating his ability to draw a crowd of women, even sixty years from now.
“But do I tell them about your toast, or the suite full of dresses that I tried on, or the meal with a view and the escape-room mayhem? Nope. I tell them you stuffed my panties in my mouth, fucked me in a jail cell, baptized me in champagne, and drank it out of my pussy.”
His shoulders shake so violently that he has to bury his face in the pillow to pull himself together.
“I’ll be freaking banned, Ryker.”
He finally lifts up on his elbow, glistening eyes scanning my face. “Banned from the old folks’ home—that I will never let you be fucking put in, by the way—for what? Good sex stories? We own Magie Noire, Merce. It will be expected.”
I shrug with a yawn, nestling myself against his chest, the thump-thud of his heartbeat lulling me to relax, even as the words we own cause a small stutter in my pulse. “Maybe we should consider adding a La Lune Noire nursing home. Nothing would be shocking there.”
“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers, and it’s the last thing I hear.
The ringing phone feels distant, like an echo reverberating within the sea. Ripples and bubbles and an obscure murmur.
“Yeah?” Ryker’s clipped answer slices into my dazed sleep. He listens, chirping a slew of muttered responses. “Fuck.” He waits. “Nothing on the footage?” Pause. “I’ll be right there.”
Once he ends the call, he plants a peck on my temple and slyly attempts to slide his arm out from under me, but then his gaze hitches to mine. “Go back to sleep, Merce.”
“What happened?” I ask, all the while wondering if I want to know and if he wants to tell me.
Similar reservations must coast through him because he addresses it all as he sits up and pushes the covers off him.
“How much do you want me to share? I’m willing to fill you in, have you stand beside me in all of this because I believe in your strength.
But I’m also okay with sugarcoating and minimizing. Ignorance can be a gift.”
For a minute, I ponder that. I’m honestly not sure what I can handle, but I’d like to help him carry his burdens, to be worthy of the queen title he used. In the past, ignorance was my demise, so maybe it’s time to flip things.
I wipe my bleary eyes and shimmy up to rest against the headboard. “Tell me. I’d like to try. And history tells us that keeping secrets from each other won’t work in our favor.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Trafton—the guy we passed on the way to the escape room—was murdered. Someone dropped him off at our safe harbor tunnel and drove away.”
My hand presses against my sternum, fruitlessly trying to subdue my rapid heartbeat. “The silver fox who tried to talk to you?”
“That’s not how I thought of him, but, sure, that’s the guy.” He smirks, and that seductive quirk of his lips only accentuates how mussed and sexy his dark brown hair is, despite the morbid subject matter. But it falls away as quickly as it arrived.
“I’m sorry,” I say, noting the distress shrouding him. “No idea what happened?”
“No.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “But I need to tell you something else. I’m not sure if it’s related, but I can’t shake the connection.”
“Okay.”
“Monroe emailed, wanting to see Remy”—he raises a palm when my breath gets lodged in my throat and my mouth pops open, urging me to give him space to explain—“which, of course, isn’t fucking happening.
But … the timing of the email seems off.
He must have known you were here before now.
We had seen too many people who knew him.
Maybe he was nervous to send it, but then Trafton needed to speak with me—only me—the same night.
And now he’s dead? Plus, they’re both in The Order. ”
“Like my father was.”
“Exactly.”
I may have made the correlation, but I’m still lost. “Why would that matter?”
“No fucking clue.” He stands, readying to get dressed for the day, but he still seems stuck, his hands low on his hips, shoulders tense.
“Have you ever felt like someone was swindling you, playing your own game against you, but it happened so fast and smooth that you could sense it, but not see it?”
That’s similar to how I felt with Dalton, so I nod, my stomach wrenching with unease.
“Yes.” But then I realize this isn’t business as usual that’s upsetting him.
This is all centered around Remy and me, and it’s more than the request made by my son’s grandfather.
I can only think of one other loose end that would be a factor here.
“The phone call Dalton made, it wasn’t to Monroe? ”
“No.” His troubled gaze meets mine, and it’s plain he’s preparing for some sort of battle. “I’ll fix this, Merce. I promise. But … I don’t know what the fuck I’m fixing yet.”