Page 72 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)
RYKER
THREE MONTHS LATER
H ope is cognac and contracts and coming home. The gleeful second before you get the news. Good or bad, doesn’t matter. Because that’s what comes after. Nothing compares to the fleeting anticipation when you hold a world of possibilities.
Champagne and delusions.
Eleven years ago today, Mercy saved me. When people hear our story, they might be led to believe I’ve been saving her all these years. But it is undoubtedly the other way around.
She wouldn’t see it that way because her heroism was masked in the simple. It was shrouded in her boldly being who she was meant to be, refusing to accept defeat, and aspiring to the greatness she craved. And in that boldness, she single-handedly restored hope within me.
She had always been my glimmer of good, but I let her go, accepted my fate, and resigned to live out my ashes-and-lies penance. I was on top of the world and dying with every step.
The night of our French 75 birthday celebration, she revived me by trusting me to be her person and planting a dream I’d never dared to imagine.
Something about the picture she painted colored everything with the stunning shimmer of champagne.
The sexual fantasies she suggested dripped with it, of course.
But there was a rich comfort to the other elements that was equally alluring.
The wraparound porch. The coming home after a long day. The kids running in the yard.
I had never yearned for those things. In fact, I had vehemently opposed the mere idea of them. But the vision of her there, aglow by the setting sun, blissfully content, was what made me realize I wanted her and any vision she was part of.
It still took me years to nurture it, to trust it, to fight for it. For a long while, it was the tattered delusion that many would have claimed was killing me. But even when I was terrified to make her mine, I knew she was my reason.
For every-goddamn-thing.
“Why do I have to be blindfolded if Remy doesn’t?” Mercy flaunts the cutest pouty lips from the front seat of our Lamborghini Urus.
Otherwise, she’s been a good sport, especially since I tied the scarf over her eyes far earlier than necessary because Remy couldn’t stop laughing about it. I can’t pass up an opportunity to make him giggle.
His arm flings out in front of him. “I see it, Da—”
“Shh.” I raise my index finger to my mouth as I cut the engine, just in time because my little man still hasn’t mastered handling anything in a covert manner. “Not yet, Rem.”
Mercy’s lips are folded, snuffing out her amusement. That joy blanketing her takes my breath away for a second.
The last three months have been excruciatingly beautiful.
She claimed her place by my side after that day in counting room two.
But the months that followed have been rough—ups and downs, trials and triumphs.
The night of the Prohibition Ball, I’d promised her we would tackle one day at a time, and we’ve been living that truth since then, but even more so since she lost Emma.
Sometimes, she relives it all, gets stuck in her head, and retreats into the darkness those monsters thrust upon her.
The sight of her struggling is nearly more than I can bear because I can’t fix it.
And I’m so fucking desperate to take it from her.
Healing doesn’t come in a neat and tidy package though.
It’s messy and unpredictable. But I’m honored to be the one she’s leaning on.
And grateful that I’ve been able to surround her with a family invested in her well-being.
My brothers take every opportunity they can to celebrate her milestones.
And today is a good day, so I’m forging ahead with my surprise even though I debated about it all week long.
“Hang on a minute.” I squeeze her thigh, jump out of the car, open her door, and help her out before unbuckling Remy and guiding both to where I want them. “Ready.”
When she whips off her blindfold, she stares at the long, dirt road, and her nose crinkles. “It’s a street.”
Before I can explain, chaos ensues. Thanks to my brothers and a pathetic yip emanating from the creature they were in charge of watching.
Remy squeals as the ten-week-old white bulldog immediately pegs him as a buddy, barking and jumping—albeit two inches off the ground. Strong effort though.
He’s got floppy ears—one white and one brindle to match his spots.
Mercy’s eyes widen, and it’s hard to say if what follows is gratitude, disbelief, or a reprimand. “You got him a dog?”
Declining to answer since Jax—who just sprinted out here—and Remy are rolling around on the lawn with the most adorable puppy in existence and it’s obvious only a sadist would make them leave it behind, I shrug.
“You don’t know if you got him a dog?” She’s headed into attorney-interrogation mode, hands on her hips. “But Jax came early to meet us here so we could all see the dog that belongs to …” She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, does it belong to someone else?”
I’m torn between pleading the Fifth and lawyering her back, so I settle on pointing to the jubilant trio. “It looks like he’s theirs now.”
She takes in the exuberant scene unfolding before us, the shrieks and licks and laughter that are challenging to begrudge.
“It’s fine. He is cute.” She smirks, only mildly miffed now, and rests her hand on my forearm.
Doesn’t matter how often it happens, I really fucking love it when she touches me. Still makes me feel like a giddy teenager.
Unfortunately, she moves that hand and flattens it against her sternum. “He’s just like Remy’s stuffed animal.”
“That was the idea.”
She squats, petting the puppy and beaming, like I knew she would, because she can’t get enough of the bouncing furball, her little guy so excited, or even Jax’s lazy grin. “You said I’d never guess my birthday gift, and you were right. I didn’t see this coming.”
I slide my hands into my pockets, gripping my dice. “That’s not your birthday gift. That’s Remy’s present for the adoption going through.”
Her face twists into a blend of exasperation and mirth. “You had a circus to celebrate that. I think we’re good.”
The adoption was finalized a few days ago, and the event was a no-brainer.
It was a contemporary circus, like Cirque du Soleil.
La Lune Noire already had them scheduled for this month.
I just booked out the night for our family and had the performers change a few elements so it was geared toward Remy.
“Well then, the puppy is because he gave me a new title.”
Remy called me Daddy that night. The kid can have any goddamn thing he wants. I might actually buy him a zoo, but I’ll hold off on announcing that.
As if he knows the power he wields, he squawks something about Ryker-friend being his daddy, which has Mercy stifling her amusement again.
She stands back up, brushes her palms on her jeans, and peers at me beneath the fringe of her lashes. Anticipation encircles her like a halo against the late afternoon sun.
“Okay. So, the blindfold was for …” She trails off, glancing between the house and me and back to the house.
A brick drive and walkway, shaded by ancient oaks, lead to a grand nineteenth-century home, fully restored to the beauty of its original craftsmanship, with a wraparound porch, old cypress doors, and a picturesque living and entertaining space inside and out. On about fifty acres.
“You didn’t …” She blinks several times, and her mouth pops open, stumped—which is one of my all-time favorite looks on my girl. “When did you?”
I grab her hand and tow her along, motioning for Jax to round up the puppy and Remy.
“I might have bought this as an investment property right around the time I got the viper tattooed on my arm. But I don’t want that to …
” I stop, one foot on the stairs, my gaze capering all over her gorgeous face, trailing the smattering of freckles that still bring me back to that young girl on the playground.
“There are no expectations for this day, this house … well, that’s not true.
There are some, but this house is whatever you want it to be. ”
A lot has changed since she shared her ideal highlight reel or even since I bought this place. For starters, I’m no longer harboring delusions. I’m seizing the gifts of my reality. That’s Mercy and Remy, but the rest may or may not be here in the country.
She nods, her forest-brown gems glistening. “It’s already perfect, Ryker. I know I’m still … I’m more than okay. This is”—she soaks it all in again—“like you were in my head. I mean, I know I told you, but if I could’ve designed my dream home back then, this would have been it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, but it’s not really about the house.”
Jax’s booming excitement blares past us. “Bernard is a good name and not too confusing.”
It sounds like Remy decided to call the dog Bernard, which I’m guessing will make the old man’s day.
Mercy’s brows furrow as she watches Jax carry the puppy and Remy—one under each arm and both yapping—around back. “It’s not about the house?”
“Nope.” I smirk because her vexation with my elusiveness is growing.
She huffs but masks it with her dazzling smile. “Are you going to tell me what it is about?”
“Contracts.” I open the door before she can ask anything more about that.
As we stroll inside, I could detail the spacious rooms and natural light, the crown molding and expansive windows, the kitchen that is a culinary haven with its top-of-the-line appliances, the furnishings that were chosen based on Mercy’s taste, or the library housing all her favorite books, from romance to thrillers to biographies.
It’s all here. But again, it’s not really about the house.
Mercy catches on to that the second she sees the cocktail napkins with notes scribbled on them, strung up and lining the foyer. “Those are from the Blind Tiger.” She whips her head to me, but can’t stop wandering toward the atypical decor. “There are so many.”
“One thousand twenty-one.”