Page 9 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

ALICE MERCY

A s I’m getting ready for the day, I hear the soft murmur of chatter droning from the kitchen. So, no, all that twisted shit that occurred last night was not because my red wine had been spiked. Ryker is here. He said all the bizarre things that made no sense and messed with my head.

About a half hour ago, Remy charged into my room with his plush bulldog in his arms, bouncing, stringing his fingers through my hair, and telling me I’m bootiful , like he does most mornings.

My little hyper Casanova. I told him we had a visitor and bribed him with a show so I could make myself feel human before we emerged, but apparently, the lure of our guest was more thrilling than cartoons.

With Ryker in my space, offering me opportunities and claiming things that confuse everything, the past three years of self-help I’ve trudged through swirl down the drain with my face wash.

I can’t quite explain it. But part of me is back in that living room I loathed, with the country-chic decor, pristine white furniture, and pictures of lies on the walls, praying that if the next blow kills me, Ryker will get to my baby before Dalton takes him.

Pieces of Dalton’s cryptic phone conversation jam together, but never fit, my mind unable to grip them.

The recollection of him being far more aggravated than remorseful yet still somewhat desperate, confessing, “It happened again,” and, “I need help getting her out of here,” and some other mumblings comes and goes.

Like he’s talking underwater and I can’t quite make it out.

It’s not Ryker’s fault that he sends me back there. He was always the person who showed up for me, who strengthened me, who was my ride or die. Except part of me did die that night, and he’s tangled up on that bloody floor with my corpse.

My chest is instantly heavy, limbs like lead. Telltale signs of an impending breakdown.

Not today.

Shoving the dread and panic to the place where I store the remnants of that girl, I run a brush through my hair, smooth out my long-sleeved top, and sneak through the hall, sliding down the wall to a crouched position so I can stay out of sight but still listen.

A quick peek around the corner reveals that Ryker came here as a threat to ovaries everywhere.

I’m not sure what he’s playing at. He’s all raw sex appeal and determined to flaunt it, to turn everything we were upside down and ask me for commitments that feel like more .

“We’re not friends, Mercy.”

It’s equal parts infuriating, overwhelming, and … alluring .

That may be because my libido is an angry sea monster, threatening to swallow all life-forms if she isn’t fed.

Thinking back on my willingness to overlook my subpar attraction to Mustache Chad in pursuit of a flimsy promise for a three-second orgasm, I decide that is entirely likely.

There’s nothing to see here. My ex -best friend is hanging with my boy. That’s all.

Ryker is flipping pancakes—wearing a tight T-shirt that pulls taut against his sculpted muscles and gray joggers that drape loosely over everything , which I’m definitely not looking at—while Remy perches at the table, watching with intrigue.

“I like your picture,” Remy says in his sweet voice, pointing to a tattoo sticking out of Ryker’s sleeve as he uses his other hand to push his messy chestnut locks off his forehead.

If we’re speaking purely of physical characteristics, he favors Dalton.

I wonder sometimes how that will shape him as a man, to bear resemblance to a convicted murderer, a woman beater, someone who left his mother for dead and him screaming in a crib.

Is there a part of him that already senses his messed-up beginnings?

Kids are intuitive, and I’ve had a hell of a time acting normal .

I’m not even sure what that entails anymore.

Ryker turns out of my view and lifts his sleeve, giving Remy a bigger glimpse of the ink on his chiseled bicep. “My brother drew on me. Can you believe that?”

Remy’s hazel eyes grow as big as saucers. “You let him?”

Ryker’s mouth twitches as he tosses a chocolate chip pancake in the air. “I did. He’s an artist, and it relaxes him to practice new designs on me.”

“Can he draw on me?” Remy asks.

I should have seen that coming.

Ryker chuckles. “I don’t think Mama would like that.” He fixes a plate with one mini pancake, whole, and cuts another into pieces. “You’re beautiful, like her, just the way you are. Already a piece of art. But if you draw me a picture, I’ll have him put it on me. And I’ll never erase it.”

Oh, my heart.

“Really?” Remy stares at him in utter stupefaction, and I realize that we rarely have interactions with men. Certainly nothing compared to this. “We only friends today.”

Cautious and untrusting, like me. I’ve unwittingly raised him to be skeptical of everyone. Depending on perspective, that either wins me a gold star or a finger-pointing from his future therapist.

“Actually, we were friends a long time ago, when you were a baby,” Ryker corrects, setting the plate down in front of him and tapping his button nose. “And we’ll be friends forever now.”

That knocks the wind out of me, so I tuck myself back into a ball on the floor just as Remy yells, “Smiley-face pancake!”

“Thought you’d like those. And Mama should be out any minute now. Isn’t that right, Merce?”

Busted. At the worst imaginable time. I’m a puddle, but like I do most days with Remy, I choke back the lump in my throat and rise as though I’m not a hot mess.

“It’s Alice, remember?” I shoot Ryker one of those get-it-together, I-have-a-new-identity scowls that only people in erasing situations get to sling before flashing a big grin at my chocolate-covered three-year-old. “Hey, sweet pea. You couldn’t wait to meet Ryker, huh?”

Ryker’s thunderous tenor piggybacks our greeting with a lilt that is woven with amusement. “You know, Alice, I’m a sucker for nicknames , so I think I’ll call you Mercy.”

That has my little guy giggling before he shows me his plate and yammers about his smiling pancakes and his Ryker-friend’s body pictures and the new toys he got—a kid-proof model of La Lune Noire and a jet.

Then he peers over at Ryker and very seriously informs him, “Mama gets in her emotons a lot.”

Kids never miss a damn thing. And he talks so well that the mispronounced word made that news bulletin louder. I wipe at my misty eyes, all the fun and games of their morning crashing around us. My pain muddies everything.

“Mama’s okay, Rem.” I smooth his unruly hair off his forehead, soothing him before twisting this into a life lesson, like mothers instinctually do. A sweetener to gloss over the hiccups. “It’s good to feel what we feel, remember?”

He nods, and I try in vain to convince myself that my tears won’t screw him up.

Thankfully, Ryker doesn’t zoom full speed into his intense posturing, making a big deal about that.

He hands me a cup of chicory coffee with a spoonful of sugar—the way I take it—and a dish of cinnamon-chip pancakes, which are my favorite, and plops down at the table with his own blueberry stack, as if all of this were completely normal. “I bet she does, buddy. We’ll work on that.”

Where the hell did he even get the ingredients for this? There is absolutely no chance that I had cinnamon chips or pancake mix. Did he shop? There wouldn’t be chicory coffee around here, so maybe he brought groceries with him. For breakfast.

Presumptuous.

It’s all a little too much, but I play along, eating my pancakes, drinking my coffee, and listening to the two of them carry on like this is how it’s always been. I should be elated to have the warmth filling our often-lonely home, but instead, I feel so … broken.

“All I want is to be the man who builds you back up.”

Moving on. “So, how is Jax? How many therapists has he gone through since I left?”

Ryker’s jaw pulses, so apparently, any mention of me leaving is a sore spot.

Noted.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know for sure. Axel keeps better tabs on that. A lot. Thirteen? Fourteen?”

That has a genuine laugh falling out of me. Noire antics are always a great distraction, so I go with it. “Jax is the artist, Remy. He’s so funny, and his hair is blue.”

He murmurs something unintelligible around his mouthful of pancake, and Ryker assures him it’s true while sponging his chipmunk cheeks clean and instructing him to chew before he cuts up the other pancake for him.

Fascinated by the scene, I sip my coffee, breathing in the chicory and ignoring the pang in my chest. “Maddox and Cash still keeping things colorful?”

“Always.” Ryker smiles, his eyes creasing to alert me that something good will follow. “We recently accepted shipments of Vaseline and pigs, so I’ll let you imagine how colorful they keep things.”

I shake my head, trying not to choke on my coffee as giggles gurgle out of me, and wave him off, entreating him not to expand because that visual is already too much. Finally, I pull it together. “Anything new with Axel?”

He twirls his fork in front of him, but doesn’t look at me. “He misses you.”

Deciding to breeze past that heaviness, I move on to the little spitfire that causes Ryker’s blood pressure to spike. “And how’s your little pest? Is she making you crazy? Convinced you guys to let her date before she’s forty?”

He pushes his pancake around his plate, making everything suddenly awkward. “Rena’s … married. Last spring.” His icy blues rise to my face. “Would’ve been nice to have you there.”

It’s evident by his expression that he didn’t mean to hurt me with that, and yet it spears me. I don’t know how to navigate this. It’s too tangled. And while I know I did what I needed to, guilt snakes around me.

So, I try my best to engage. “That’s wonderful. Who’s the lucky guy? I can’t picture you approving of anyone.”

“She married Ty,” he says, and in yet one more simplistic bomb drop, my world implodes.