Then I slam the door in his face.
TESSA
My phone lights up with an incoming text from my sister Eden, and all eyes snap to it. I’m sure it’s some insufferable request that I’d prefer to deal with in the privacy of my apartment, so I flip it over.
I’m at the Underground, and my prison guard is onstage. Maddox gave me the option of him driving me home at the end of my shift at six thirty or my waiting through his master-of-ceremonies duty. I chose the latter. After the last several days of his demanding and nonsensical, domineering behavior, a vat of alcohol is in order. When he found me having drinks and playing poker with Mercy, Brasi, Jax, Cash, and Amy—our head stylist—he breezed on past without a second glance.
I think Mercy suspects something even though I haven’t alluded to anything. The other day, she insisted we take a winding path to lunch, which had us swinging by the penthouse gymnasium. It was as over-the-top and eccentric as I’d have expected, but damn impressive. Maddox, Cash, and Jax were working out together. Jax did some flips and walked on his hands. Cash was running up a wall, like thoseNinja Warriorguys do. And Maddox was elevated in a plank between two towers of stacked boards, every muscle glistening and chiseled, while hula-hooping.
I rolled my eyes. Mercy only smirked.
Now Maddox is getting ready to do a rundown of what we have scheduled for the upcoming employee event. They hold it every year, and it never fails to be a gathering of the most ludicrous practices in existence. While I refuse to admit this out loud, I always look forward to it. There’s something about seeing hardworking people spoiled with opulence and celebrated with childlike idiocy at once that redeems the Noires a smidgen. They stand atop a mountain, but rejoice with those in the valley. I’m sure there’s a self-serving angle to it, but still. While I don’t know any other billionaires on a personal level, that strikes me as rare.
“What’s the number one rule of the Underground?” Maddox shouts into the microphone, which is how we begin any event.
“Never tell Axel or Ryker!” the room chants in unison.
The loudest voice is that of our Noire queen, who is giggling like it’s the first time she heard it, which has the rest of our table laughing with her.
“Number two?” Maddox asks, and we all raise our glasses to belt out the response.
“Nothing’s more exclusive than Noire Underground!”
Once that’s concluded, I lay down four eights and smile at Cash. “Don’t you need to be up there for this moronic display?”
“Giving me an out?” He sips his drink, determined blues set on me. “Tone down the arrogance. That will be the only hand you win.”
I lean forward and hiss my rebuttal. “I smell fear.”
Mercy wags her finger at him. “Don’t disgrace yourself by pulling cards out of your sleeves. It’s too late for that. You lost the last three rounds.”
“This is how he does it.” Jax shakes his head, taking his signature newscaster-delay pause to formulate his thoughts and relay the rest of his sentiment. “He lets you get overconfident and believe he’s having an off night. Then he goes in for the kill.”
Cash pins him with a whose-side-are-you-on glare.
Jax shrugs, snapping his fingers and producing a lit match, always entranced by flames. “Merce is family. I can’t let you pull that shit on her. It’s not my fault the table’s full.”
Brasi takes a modest swill of his beer. “I already knew how you operated, so it’s fine.”
“Is that so?” Cash chuckles, sweeping the cards in to shuffle them. “It still doesn’t prevent you from losing your ass to me.”
Jax throws his cards into Cash’s pile, shaking out his match and waving his hand at Brasi. “He only plays … when Maddox tells him to keep an eye on one of us.”
“Okay,” Amy warbles with cartoonish wide eyes, “I’m going to refill my drink and avoid being the next person ratted out or whatever this is. Anyone need one?”
“Wisdom, Amy,” I quip. “Knowing when to flee is paramount to survival.”
She giggles under her breath, but leaves it at that. She’s never quite sure how to take me.
Mercy grabs my empty martini glass and passes both mine and hers to Amy before turning back to Jax. “You just feel like stirring stuff up tonight? Sharing everyone’s secrets.”
Before he can answer, our attention is drawn back to the stage.
“Tomorrow is the final day to sign up for competitive events. I am going to quickly shout out some answers to frequently asked questions, but everything you need to know should be in your employee portal. There will be time and space provided to change into evening wear after the entry maze, so bring everything with you. Teams will be announced for the HungryHippo games next week. Eyewear is nonnegotiable during pea shooting. Speaking of safety, do not sign up for hobby horsing if you struggle with motion sickness. We spin contestants several times to start the race. And, yes, cowboy attire is required. You would never see a rancher or a jockey in a sundress or a tank top.”
To enhance the gravity of his message, the six-five Noire king, swinging his knife around, shouting about hobby horsing through a microphone, and moving like he has a boombox on his shoulder finishes with, “You’re either here to be serious or you’re not.”
“Dance Monkey” by Tones and I plays in the background, and I swear Maddox is fighting the urge to act the song out.
