Jax: I’m guessing it sounds something like, “Fuck.”
Cash: So, the obvious kind. Yelling, “Fuck,” while having sex is the equivalent of jumping and shouting, “Parkour.”
Tessa: I will never be able to not think that now. lol
Maddox: Back to the traceur of the hour, who knew the man shrieked like that?
Jax: She broke Papa Axe.
Maddox: Based on the reports we’re getting, it doesn’t sound like he’s broke. Maybe going for broke.
Mercy: Or breaking his balls.
Ryker: That’s not what that means, Merce. But … yeah, okay.
Maddox: Not to worry. I just spread a story that a group of raccoons got into one of the bootlegger passageways. That should throw them off Papa Axe’s scent.
Tessa: What is your obsession with raccoons?
Maddox: No obsession and no bathtub.
Cash: If that is some kinky code, I really don’t want to know. It’s worse than the triathlon fucking or the five hundred bottles of champagne. You all pair up and get fucking weird.
Jax: Speak for yourself. That shit is a train wreck. I’m not looking away.
Tessa: You’re all freaks. It’s nothing kinky. What the hell could even be kinky with a raccoon? He just thinks about raccoons more than the average person.
Mercy: It’s a gaze. Or a mask.
Maddox: You lost us.
Ryker: A group of raccoons.
Jax: Like a wisdom of wombats.
Ryker: A mob of kangaroos.
Cash: A conspiracy of lemurs.
Maddox: I propose changing the raccoon story to the following in the spirit of inclusivity: Master Axel Noire was without a lick of wisdom when attacked in the bootlegger routes this evening. Caught by a mob, in a conspiracy, and held by a masked gaze, our very own king broke his balls. We apologize for the disturbance.
I can’t smother my laugh, regardless of the possible disruption. “They feed off each other and harass you like this all the time, huh?”
His chest inflates with utter pride, and his lips battle a smile. “Yep. All the time.”
I swipe out a response and show it to him. “Is this okay?”
He chuckles and presses Send.
Me: Slugger has apprehended Papa Axe’s phone. He is indeed a dirty slut. But you might want to tweak your announcement, or he’ll be adding crows to the report.
Mercy: Murder.
Maddox: She gets us, Papa Axe. Let’s keep her.
Once we emerge in his corner of the penthouse, he carries me into the en suite, which is almost a castle in itself. There’s a skylight through the center of the vaulted ceiling, adorned with hefty wood beams. And a fireplace in the corner, which seems wholly unnecessary in New Orleans, but absolutely divine. The floor is stone, matching the rock on the accent walls. The cabinetry is chocolate, the tub is copper, and all of it is opulent and cozy and rustic, with a grand overlook of the city.
Axel starts the shower—which has multiple showerheads shooting from every direction—undresses me, and orders me to sit on a leather bench. He meticulously folds each item of our clothing, laying them in a neat pile, even though they’ll likely be placed in a hamper. But that barely holds my attention.
