“Is this normal?” I ask.
Her eyelids and shoulders droop in unison, as if that inquiry disappoints her. “Does any of this look normal?”
“Fair point,” I concede.
She taps the side of my glass. “Drink up. I suck at small talk. Why are you back?”
With nothing being what it seems and so much said between words lately, I appreciate the directness. So, it pains me to lie, but I suppose that’s what I’m here to do. “A few reasons. I’m working on a project that Axel needs me on-site for, and Ryker and I are engaged, so I’m staying in the penthouse.”
“Hmm. That’s either the world’s fastest courting or the longest. You’ve known each other since you were kids, but …” She sips her cocktail, shaking her head when the race ensues and there is immediately a head-on collision and two lubed-up, free-running pigs that evidently outsmarted the boundary.
A chorus ofoohsrings out, along with some guffaws and orders for the remaining contestants to keep their heads in the game and for those watching to catch the pork escapees.
“Fucking morons,” Tessa mutters before turning back to me. “Best thing to do if things arefuzzyis fuck with him.”
That catches me off guard. “Fuck with who?”
“Ryker.”
“I’m not opposed, but why am I fucking with Ryker?” I take a drink of my espresso martini, realizing the extra jolt of caffeine that inspired me to order it was unnecessary with so much stimulation at every turn.
For a beat, she appears as exasperated with me as with the swine, but then she storms ahead. “Thisengagementis new, even with your past friendship, and it’s Ryker. A goddamn Noire king. Get the upper hand right out of the gate. Don’t let him pull all his alpha, controlling bullshit. If you haven’t fucked yet, that should be easy since he’s celibate.”
“What?” I gasp, spitting the mouthful of my martini back in the glass. “Ryker—celibate? No way.”
“That’s what I hear.” She shrugs, but then situates herself sideways, her face serious and compassionate. “I generally stay out of the rumor mill. I hate gossip. There’s nothing worse than a Sunday knitting circle, where everyone drinks lemonade and basks in tales of lives more screwed up than theirs.”
“Got it,” I assure her, and I do get it. Maybe not with the same urge to poke someone’s eyeball out with a knitting needle, but I also hate gossip. Except in this particular instance when she’s discussing Ryker and his utterly foreign sexual habits. Here, I support it one hundred percent.
“Right.” She nods, as if she were privy to my internal justification. “But I … well, I heard what happened to you.”
As if she summoned Dalton’s voice from the grave, it crashes into me as violently as the toe of his shoe did.“It was all a lie. They weren’t who you thought, and he knew it.”
And the window of everything I was shatters all over again.How many shards can she see?
Tessa raises her palm, likely noticing the color draining from my face. “You don’t have to confirm or deny. There’s some truth to those rumors. It’s none of my business what it is. But you deserve to be fawned over. If anyone does, you do. So, regardless of that massive rock on your finger, whether you’re engaged—orengaged—”
“Why the emphasis onengaged?” I scrunch my lips together, curious how I fumbled this ruse already.
She rolls her shoulders back, her Caribbean blues glimmering with mischief above her cocktail. “I pierce, and I know things.”
“Well, don’t keep the cat in the bag.” I waggle my brows, urging her to cough up the goods. “You know Ryker is celibate?”
She laughs, the amusement gracing the apples of her cheeks. “I’m not entirely certain about that particularcat. Could be. Makes sense. Point is, you should make him chase you. Make him suffer a little.”
That’s the last thing I want, so without giving details, I simply refute her plans. “He’s already suffered—”
“Fuck. That. Never enough.” She twists back and points toward the race, where a shiny, bare-chested guy with a red number nine painted on his pecs holds a golden-pig trophy over his head, cheering. “What doesn’t break ’em makes ’em stronger.” She grins and lifts her drink. “Do your fucking worst, Mercy. Badass bitches make badass alpha-holes better.”
I nod along, eating up this dose of feminine rage. I’m not sure it fits me, but I’m not opposed to trying on some of the accessories. “You’re mean. I could use a mean friend.”
“Then we’re a match.” She wags a warning finger at me. “Just don’t make my list.”
God, I missed how eccentric La Lune Noire people are.
“What kinds of things make your list?”
She glances around the room, ticking several things off about the idiotic activities, the whiners, the volume, and some random tirade about the absurdity of labeling a glass half full or half empty. “Shit makes me angry,” she explains before, “Oh, and Maddox. Always on my fucking list.”
