Page 6 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

“C onditions? What kind of conditions? Like noncompete clauses, confidentiality, intellectual property rights, and such?”

She knows her shit. Years away, and she doesn’t miss a beat.

I suspect she’s hungrier for it than she even admits to herself.

Her apartment is barren—no pictures, nothing personal, no mark of my girl, other than a bin with some of Jett’s toys.

She’s obviously prepared to vanish if necessary.

For someone who once dreamed of having it all—a cozy house with a wraparound porch and kids running in the backyard when she came home from the career she loved—I can’t believe she’d want to stay here. Not if I remind her of those dreams.

Hiding any sign of excitement that I think she’s salivating over this, I maintain an all-business air.

“There will, of course, be all of that, but that’s not what I was referring to.

These aren’t typical conditions of employment, but they are stipulations you will need to adhere to if you want the position. ”

“Fine.” She blows out a heavy breath. “This sounds interesting. Lay them on me.”

“Condition one: You and Jett will live in my penthouse, and you will not leave La Lune Noire property without me.”

“You’re joking,” she scoffs, her cheeks pink with indignation. “You’re offering me a job, but only if I live with you and agree to be glued to your hip? What the hell, Ryker? Jax must have given you some good shit before you came here. You’re as high as a bird.”

“Kite.”

“What?”

“It’s high as a kite.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she insists, and she is dead-serious pissed about a goddamn saying. “Birds fly higher than kites. So, is high as a kite only moderately high?”

I rub my hand over my jaw, trying to conceal my amusement. “It’s not a comparison. Kite stands on its own. You’re the one bringing the fucking bird into it.”

“And I will continue to side with the damn bird because you’re as high as a Rüppell’s griffon vulture.” She huffs, correctly gauging my confusion. “That’s the bird that holds the record for flying the highest.”

Messes up idioms but can geek out on the most ludicrous knowledge. Precious.

“Why do you know that?”

Her brow line furrows with a challenge. “Is that really what we should be discussing? Or do you have a drug habit you came here to talk about?”

“The only thing in my system is a French 75 and the shot of adrenaline from watching you come unglued on the first condition. It’s weak, Counselor.”

“So is your negotiation,” she contends. “Why wouldn’t I return to New Orleans, resume my intact bar status, and work for someone of my choosing? The salary might not be as good, but the freedom would be worth it.”

Fuck, I love the snark she’s throwing at me. This is Mercy Phillips. A fighter. A go-getter. A move-over-because-I’m-climbing-to-the-top badass.

She changed with Dalton. It was gradual, but blatant nonetheless.

She got quieter, argued less. Who has ever heard of a lawyer who doesn’t argue?

She isolated herself more and more. Stopped working when Jett was born, which would have been fine, but I knew that hadn’t been her choice.

And after Dalton beat her to a pulp and she finally woke up, it was like she wasn’t there. I saved her body, but not her spirit.

So, I’m not willing to be her friend for various reasons.

One being that angering her seems to fuel her feisty side. And I’ve missed her spark. Craved it.

And two is due to that hug we shared. Having her in my arms after all this time was revitalizing.

There was something there, something between us that was different, more, new.

The little whimper she released said it all.

I wanted to tell her that I needed her, that she was everything, that life without her had been unbearable.

But there’s still a skittish part of her in there, like she’s looking for the chance to bolt.

The last thing I want to do is scare her away.

No bulldozing.

But I also will not be put back in the friend zone. So, boundaries are imperative.

As is goading her.

“Working for someone else is not an option. I kept your bar status active by putting you on the books as a La Lune Noire attorney six weeks after you gave birth to Jett. If you don’t continue working for us, it all goes away.”

“Wow, okay.” She holds up a disbelieving hand to me, getting her bearings. “I’d love to know what inspired you to do that back then, but I think the present picture is more disturbing. Not only are we not friends, but you came here to manipulate me?”

“No manipulation. I came here for you, Mercy. We both want something, and I’m making it happen. But friends? No. Friends don’t disappear and refuse to communicate ever again. So, let’s call it like it is. But no matter what we are, I will always show up for you. Always. That’s what this is.”

Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on her. She’s been through so much. But I’m not a good actor when it comes to heightened emotions. I can’t pretend she didn’t wreck me.

Her features soften, shouting that she is somewhat aware of the decimation she inflicted. “You always did. And I’m sure you believe that’s what this is with your own twisted logic. But … this isn’t even legal.”

“It might not be legal”—I shrug, compounding the agitation this will cause—“but you’ll be hard-pressed to dispute it without losing everything. So …”

“Spoken like a true Noire. Daddy would be so proud.”

There she is.

The more she goes for the jugular, the more confident I feel this is going to work, that she’s coming home with me, that we’ll finally have our fresh start. I just have to keep pushing her buttons.

And I don’t even feel guilty since she’s choosing to push mine by bringing my father into it. The only person I’ve ever hated as much as Dalton.

“Don’t be a brat,” I say, and her pupils dilate. Interesting. No matter how vehemently she convinces herself that we couldn’t be more, she feels something here, so I stick with my plan and go on. “I’m nothing like him. You know that. The first condition is for your own safety.”

She folds in on herself, instantly on edge. “What do you mean? You said it was over since Dalton was dead. Is there someone else?”

“Not that we know of,” I reassure her, hating that fear in her eyes. “But for your peace of mind and mine, when you return, staying with me and not leaving without me escorting you is best. Until we’re one hundred percent certain that—”

“You’re worried about Dalton’s father,” she blurts out.

I wasn’t expecting that.

“No. Should I be? Did you remember something?”

A lot of clarity was lost when Mercy woke up.

She was fuzzy and confused, and her brain protected her from the trauma, making it difficult to recall all that had happened.

I always felt some things were off about the way everything had gone down that night, but getting her to the hospital, taking care of Jett, and monitoring her recovery were my top priorities.

And with her memory hazy, it didn’t leave us much to go on.

When we finally got Dalton prosecuted, it was because of a tip I’d gotten from Ivy—the wife of my friend Wells, who works with Ty.

They’re the ones who erased Mercy. Anyway, initially, I had every intention of killing Dalton, but he disappeared.

Ivy had intel that proved Dalton had killed another girl, Hailey Holden.

That tip was enough to convince Dalton’s father—the beloved Governor Monroe Montgomery—to turn him in.

Dalton was never charged for what he had done to Mercy.

He was found guilty of killing Hailey Holden a few years prior.

Mercy bites her lip, her eyes darting around. “I just don’t want him to ask for visitation.”

“Ahh. Grandpa Montgomery won’t be an issue. I handled him too.”

“Okay.” Her chest deflates with what appears to be an exhale of relief, and that might be the largest indication that Mercy is different. Once upon a time, she would have peppered me with twenty questions about what handling entailed and chastised me for the answers.

“And La Lune Noire is safe?” she tacks on.

“There is no safer place for you,” I avow, and when I see she’s accepted that, I try to move us forward. “Good to go on?”

“Sure.” She bobs her head, still somewhat shaken. “Why not?”

“Condition two is that I get to be Jett’s full-time caregiver while you’re working.”

“What?” she gasps. “Why would you … you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” So much.

Her hand rises to her throat, her big brown eyes watery. “You do? Why … how will you manage that?”

“I work at night,” I explain. “You’ll be working more during the day. If there is any overlap, there are various options—Axel or any of my brothers, the staff day care, Gentry or Ber—”

“There’s a staff day care?” She cuts me off before I can even finish naming all the people who will treat them like family.

“Yes. We started it about … probably three and a half years ago.” For you. Because I hoped.

“Why wouldn’t you just have me use that?” Her face has bafflement written all over it, like maybe she’s waking up to the way things have always been with us, my willingness to do anything and everything for her.

So, I don’t hold back. “Because I’ve missed years with him. I want the time. We’ll have fun. Axel and I raised Rena from the time she was six and—”

“I wasn’t thinking that you couldn’t. I know you’d be great.” She drops her gaze to her fidgeting hands, picking at her nails in a move that isn’t Mercy at all. “I’m surprised—that’s all. I mean, we’re not even friends, so …”

“Well”—I pause because my throat feels raw—“Jett and I are separate from that.”

“His name isn’t Jett anymore,” she says, and it’s an instant reminder of how I took care of him for months while she recovered and I lost my fucking mind over whether or not she’d survive, only for her to rip him away from me in the dark of night.

“Jett will be his name again there. Just like yours will be Mercy.”