“Fucking adulterers,” Jax hisses, indignant, ashes falling, like a flurry of tainted snow, into a blue agate geode used as a makeshift ashtray. “I would’ve killed ’em both.”
This is where the Noire brothers are perplexing. They hate how their father cheated on their mother, so while they don’t necessarily view themselves as husband material, they value the sanctity of marriage. They loathe any mistreatment of women, absolutely forbid it in their resort. Always have. Moral high ground.
But none of them blink at taking a life, certainly not one they deem worthless.
My champagne diamond ring burns into my finger with a host of confusing messages. As does my dazzling La Lune Noire–access bracelet.Am I one of them now?
Deciding it’s best to steer us in another direction, I flip the focus to him. “You had a rough start to your day—”
“End,” he corrects around the joint. “Stayed up … slept this afternoon.”
“Right. Are you okay?”
His hazel eyes float from the shops to me. “I miss Rena. She settles me. Doesn’t look like she’ll make it for the Prohibition Ball. Feels fucking wrong.”
“Oh, that’s right. It’s coming up, huh? A little over a week?”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “And it sucks not being able to talk about shit.”
That breaks my heart. They’ve always been so close.
“And you don’t like talking to the therapists?” I probe.
He sets the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table, grabs us each a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the bar area, and plops back down. “Hate it.”
“So, stop going.” I take the water, unscrew the cap, and relish the relief of my cotton mouth as two tattoo artists filter into the parlor. This must be the start of the next shift.
“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to do the opposite?”
A brief pang of turmoil hits me, but I stand firm. “Probably. But I’d be a hypocrite. I believe therapy can be powerful. But people who have secrets that could get them killed don’t find healing from a stranger asking them how they feel when the only safe answers are lies.”
I don’t know what went down the night their parents died. It’s best if I don’t because something tells me there’s more to that story than an accidental house fire. Either way, Jax likelyhas secrets piled up from that day forward. He might not have to contend with a different identity like I did, but he has to pretend all the same.
“Exactly.” He guzzles half the bottle in a single swill. “I don’t go for me. I go for them—Axel, Ryker. They need to believe I’m being fixed. The fucked-up thing is, I’m the healthiest. I don’t hide my scars.”
That lands like a brick on my chest. Ryker shows his emotions, but rarely his scars. I’ve seen the cracks in his armor since I returned though. His admission to being stuck on that floor with me lingers.
“It’s not the same as having Rena, but you can talk to me.”
He leans forward, reaching for the joint. “I know. Same.”
“I’m surprised Rena isn’t here more often.”
“Can’t be”—he takes a hit, finishing his answer as he blows out his smoke—“after all that fucked-up bullshit from a month and a half ago. She married into a bizarre life, even by our standards.”
Maybe it’s the weed in my system or my years as a lawyer, although I’m admittedly rusty, but that sounds like a group of sentences I need to poke holes in.
My brain is moving at a breakneck pace. Rena is married to Ty. The erasing world might be wild, but not by Noire standards. And something happened to keep her away?
It makes me think of what Cash said this morning before Ryker cut him off and all hell broke loose with Jax.
“Says the man who booked the meeting that had the worst security breach—”
“The security breach,” I respond nonchalantly.
He bobs his head, passing the joint back to me. I shouldn’t take it, but I do.
“They mentioned that this morning. And it was because of an erasing client or …” I raise the joint to my lips, letting my assumption dangle in the hope that he’ll fill it in.
