I guess we’re done. I killed the good time we’d been having. “I’ll stay. I have a part to play.”
“You do, and you play it well.” He’s all business again, which annoys the hell out of me.
When he strides back toward the crowd, I follow, keeping pace. Fuming.
Most of this is my fault. I suck as a human these days. I get it. I just don’t know how to fix it or make sense of anything.
I came back home, but home isn’t whoheused to be.
Part of me is terrified by that. It confirms a lot of fears. The other part is enthralled.
As Ryker veers off to greet some of his Mafioso buddies, I beeline for the circular bar, order myself a French 75, and relish the lemon fizz on my tongue while drinking in the La Lune Noire opulence. It’s a rare gem. NOLA spirit in an extravagant package of decadence and depravity. Glee hiding gore.
The old me would’ve been out there on that dance floor, embracing the jovial side of what the resort offers.
“Mercy.” The girl from the restroom—Kim—sidles up beside me.
She introduces me to her cousin, whose name I don’t catch, though I fake it well. There are three of them, wide-eyed and crowded around me as if I were a modern marvel. This is because I had to twist things to snag the information for Ryker, which served two purposes. One: I fulfilled my duty for the night, thereby feeling like less of a mooch.
“It’s not only the threats. He went completely insane, being away from her, begged her on his knees and refused to eat until she moved here,” Kim reiterates my spilled tea from our restroom gossip trade.
Which served the other purpose. Two: Tessa had encouraged me to fuck with Ryker, and after his kiss that made my knees weak last night and his vow to keep me prisoner, it made sense to embellish. A little.
“It’s true,” I sigh, sipping my champagne cocktail. “The man is down bad. What could I do? Well, other than not accept a shot of Jäger ever again. Lesson learned.”
“I hear ya, babe,” the no-named cousin replies. “My husband throat-punched a dude once for carrying my groceries.”
Dear God, I hope there’s more to that story.
Kim nods in agreement, waving a hand at me. “Exactly. Never thought anyone would nail him down either. Still hard to believe someone caught Ryker Noire though.”
At that, the three of them bounce off each other swifter than serves in a tennis match.
“Or any of the Noires.”
“Gods.”
“Legends.”
“Bottomless pockets and big-dick energy.”
“They do rule the underworld.”
“Fuckboy charmers.”
“Except Ryker, who hasn’t given a woman a second glance in years.”
It’s like they’re speaking about a different Ryker Noire.
“Until Mercy,” Kim tacks on. “Insanity equals true love.”
That is an alarming statement.
“Or,” the third, yet to be introduced, woman chimes in, “she’s got an addictive pussy.”
“Don’t listen to her.” Kim huffs. “She’s a mistress.”
Themistresstakes no offense to that. She pops her hip and shoos that assessment away. “It’s complicated. Labels mess with our heads. Sometimes, people just need each other.”
