Heat and hope.
Plans and promises.
The pause he takes is probably three seconds, but stretches out like a lifetime until he’s confident the room has faded to only him. “You might think you’re playing a role, but this is what fighting looks like. Don’t ever try to leave me again.”
Maybe I am starting to claim my throne because I know he isn’t referring to me scurrying away with Maddox and Cash. But as the soft clacks of another electro swing song slowly rise with the jingle of a tambourine, I jump right back into step, dismissing the threat in his words and simply hearing the plea.
Ryker doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs my hands and coaxes me into a dance more suited for couples than the free-for-all Charleston I was doing with Maddox and Cash. Anxiety frays my nerves. It’s been a long time, and the choreography for these moves is more precise.
Of course he senses that because the man can read me like a fortune cookie. He finds the meanings that even I don’t have.
He twists me into a hammerlock turn and back out, which has us connected while spinning, arms entangled like a pretzel. “It’s just you and me, Merce.”
“Always.” I could leave it at that and keep the peace, but riling him up could have its advantages, so when he twirls me back, I tack on some snark. “And a few hundred of your closest hoodlum friends. So intimate.”
As if the ballroom itself is conspiring on his behalf, the brassy notes of a trumpet and the rich bass of a trombone enter the scene, and a chorus of claps spurs on the musicians.
And Ryker.
“For that, you’re getting flipped.” He chuckles, spinning me back into him and flipping me over his arm.
It happens so fast that my mind barely registers the blur of gold and glitter and opulence. The whoosh of the air against my skin and through my pinned-back hair. The light ricocheting off the reflected floor and chandeliers. My heart accelerates with the resonant bass and the heat of his arms.
When my heels touch down, I let out a shriek of surprise that I didn’t break my neck or flash everyone my panties. Ryker beams with pride. And for a split second, my body hasn’t been through a beating or motherhood or nearly two decades of aging. That seventeen-year-old boy who enjoyed teaching me new things and learning about my weird, homeschool-project deep dives is standing before me, encouraging me to leap when the tempo picks up.
Maddox and Cash whistle, drawing me back to the cognizance that we aren’t alone. The crowd has provided us a wide berth, but even those on the dance floor with us seem to be taking in the Noire kings letting loose.
We pick up with choreography that keeps my feet primarily on the buzzing floor, though I feel the need to warn him because he has a devilish glint in his eyes.
“No more flips. I’m too out of practice.”
He cocks an eyebrow, his feet still shuffling as the audacious lilt of a saxophone steals the show. “That sounds like fear, Merce.”
I shake my head. “It’s not happening. If I’m afraid of anything, it’s you throwing out your back. Your brothers had a point,old man.”
That does nothing to dissuade him. He dips me, those crystal-clear blues so hauntingly impassioned that they sear into my soul as he has me arched and off-balance. “You know what’sworse than fear, Viper? Regret. Both snuff out hope. But fear we can conquer. Regrets are forever.”
He drags me up and proceeds with the buoyant steps while I match him, in a bit of a daze about that statement. It’s so much more than whether or not I let him thrust me into the air. I live with far more fear and regret than hope. But I never pitted the former two against one another. It’s like, with one sentence, he summed up the traits that separate the present from the pre-Dalton me. And gave me a plan to tear down the wall in between.
He must see the enlightenment strike me because he doesn’t let up. “Sidecar and candlestick. You remember.”
His suggestion is yet another string tying me to the past—the past I nearly buried because things that came after it were so heavy. The combination he’s referring to was his mom’s favorite. I remember her excitement like it was yesterday.
The harmony of jazz instruments reverberates off the vaulted ceiling and regal decor and din of hoots and hollers. Each vibration rattles my bones and hooks into the depths of me, urging me to surrender. To let his cozy-corruption scent entwine with the sparkling citrus from the cocktails and the decadent chocolate from the fountains and the puff of perfume that reeks of timeless debauchery.
When he spins me into the crook under his arm, I concede. “Fine. But then champagne and a foot rub.”
“Deal.” His dimple appears with a haughty wink, which reads like a vow to make this one of our most carefree pacts.
He doesn’t give me a chance to change my mind, so I follow his lead. Swinging me over his right hip and then his left with my legs kicked out straight, he then centers me so I can spread them around his waist. Finally, in a smooth sweep up, he lifts me, and I throw my legs in the air behind me, the ballroom streaking to a blend of metallic colors and thrumming notes.
And simply because I’m coming down a bit fast, he returns me to his waist. A cackle rips out of me before he sets me upright. Some onlookers applaud, but they quickly resume their own dancing.
I melt against Ryker, my panting breaths billowing onto his neck. “I’m not sure how it looked, but that was so much fun.”
“It always is. You did perfect.” His voice is husky, either from emotion or exhaustion, as he squeezes me back and ushers me off the dance floor.
All four of his brothers greet us there. Pats and pecks and accolades in full force. We’ve all lived a lot of life since the breezy afternoons spent capering around their great room. And this ball—an idea they birthed out of horrific loss—tells people everything there is to know about the Noires.
