How he planned to handle an engagement?
The Ryker Noire I knew never pictured himself married. What changed?
MERCY
Chaosis the only word that could adequately describe what I’m witnessing. The Underground primarily occupies a large auditorium beneath the North Tower. There are poker tables in the corners, a few bars, a stage, what appears to be a fighting ring, and a roped-off area that will undoubtedly be utilized for something interesting. Probably the squealing pigs.
Hoots, hollers, music, and toasts abound. It’s all wholly different from the classy establishment that thrives above with hushed secrets and quiet corner meetings. One of their speakeasies—The Corpse Reviver Cabaret—has a similar feel, but that’s more of a burlesque experience, a wild show. Here, everyone participates.
On our way, Cash had us swing into their conference and banquet center. It’s an area I’d never been to. Still the same Art Deco ambience, complemented by pearls and lace rather than the beads and penis drinks from Bourbon Street.
It serves as a soft introduction for prospective associates. Established members who are professionals from the business world, not part of organized crime, have a more challenging timesharing all La Lune Noire offers without ousting themselves. So, holding a convention allows them to pique the interest of those who may be candidates with an innocent sample of the amenities. Those who have a palate for corruption will beg for a peek behind the curtain.
That information was both fascinating and disturbing.
I have officially joined forces with the other side.
Choosing not to dwell on that, I simply enjoyed the adventure. Otherwise, I’d have curled into a ball, contemplating how disappointed my parents would be with all my life choices.
Cash was master of ceremonies tonight. Every conference is kicked off by a different Noire brother—a glimpse of one of the wizards—giving a toast. Nothing starts until they arrive.
Tonight’s group was Veteran Business Owners. Cash, Maddox, and I waltzed in, and a hush fell over the room. With our drinks in hand, Maddox and I waited off to the side while Cash took to the microphone. His tousled blond hair stood out against his navy sport coat and the hint of ink peeking through his unbuttoned collar. He looked every bit the part of a royal Noire.
Without any formal greeting, he raised his glass to the room, his face poised with all the veneration the group merited, and he launched his toast. “A soldier’s home is on the land. A sailor’s home at sea. But a whiskey glass and a stripper’s ass are home sweet home to me. Welcome to La Lune Noire. Drink and conspire.”
To say it landed well would be an understatement. The Veteran attendees erupted in cheers, applause, and swigs. Cash strutted away like a pro athlete fleeing the madness of a postgame frenzy, linking his arm with mine to tow me out of the room and handing me a black rose that he’d bloomed from God knew where.
With a gleeful yet single-minded focus, they led me to the employee hangout.
While I’m familiar with many unique methods to be granted entrance throughout the resort, I was never invited to the Underground. We dipped into a vintage library lounge. At the back of the room, hidden by a shelf, there was a door markedLibrarian’s Office, No Admittance. To the right was a light switch that Maddox flipped three times. The door unlocked, and once we were inside, he scanned his thumbprint.
And here we are.
Now, Maddox is onstage, microphone in one hand, drink in the other, kicking off these festivities with a vastly different vibe. “What’s the number one rule of the Underground?”
The entire room raises their drinks and shouts in unison, “Never tell Axel or Ryker!”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of me. I love that rule way too much.
“Number two?” he bellows.
The audience chants as one in response, “Nothing’s more exclusive than Noire Underground!”
Maddox jumps into a recap of the greased-pig trial they held last night. It seems they had to rework the number of pigs and competitors because someone had lost a tooth. No one appears to be concerned about that, but I decide I’ll be an onlooker more than a participant at these events.
“Everywhere I Go” by Hollywood Undead blares from the speakers. The roped-off area is transformed into lanes, and employees with numbers pinned to—or painted on—them wrangle a piglet behind the starting-line tape. Animal activists might be pissed about this, but they’d be relieved to see the pigs are in control. They’ve already got a wiggly edge on the humans, and they aren’t even lubed.
“You’re back. And a sexy blonde at that.”
I twist in my high-back stool toward the raspy voice to find Tessa. She worked in the piercing shop before I left and was also friends with Rena, though I think she’s only four or five years younger than me. I never interacted with her much. She’s got a don’t-fuck-with-me energy about her, which I admire. Silver hair, greenish-blue eyes, doll-like ivory skin, and of course, piercings.
“Hey, Tessa.” I stall for a second, conflicted as to whether this is a go-in-for-a-hug situation, but ultimately settle on my brightest smile. “It’s good to see you. I got back today.”
She assesses me, her eyes scanning my entire body as she takes a seat. “Good.”
One-word answers always mess with my head. I simply can’t believe all the thoughts had in that moment fit so compactly.
But I’m saved by Maddox announcing, “Grease your pigs,” through a megaphone.
