Chapter 24 Ridge
TWENTY-FOUR
Ridge
Louis Armstrong and King Oliver: Joe "King" Oliver, a prominent New Orleans cornet player, mentored a young Louis Armstrong, recognizing his talent and giving him opportunities to perform. Their close friendship began in the city’s vibrant jazz scene, laying the foundation for Armstrong’s rise as a global icon.
This bond, formed in New Orleans, profoundly influenced the development of jazz, shaping the genre’s history.
The closet is cramped, humming with electronics and thick with Coco’s perfume.
She’s pressed against me, every curve lining up like it was always meant to be this way, and the lack of space only sharpens the need.
Every instinct in me is still screaming the same warning. Anyone who realizes she matters to me will see her as a vulnerability.
My hands slide up her thighs, rough and impatient, pushing her dress out of the way. I need to touch her. Not gently. Not carefully. The lace of her underwear gives with a quiet rip, the sound final in the small space. Her breath catches hard, and that sharp inhale goes straight through me.
She’s clawing at my shirt, fingers scrabbling for purchase. I don’t bother helping. I yank it over my head, buttons scattering across the floor.
Our chests collide, putting her softness against me. The heat, the friction nearly undoes me. There’s no buffer left.
I fumble with my belt, irritation spiking as the wait stretches thin. When I finally free myself and press against her, she’s already wet. The sound she makes is low and unguarded. It drags one out of me, too.
Lifting her takes no effort. Her legs wrap around my waist as I pin her back against the shelves.
Something creaks. I ignore it. I push into her hard enough that the force should register as caution, but all that exists is the need to be inside her. To anchor her there. To claim the moment, if nothing else.
Her moans fill the closet, breathy and unrestrained. My own voice comes out rough as I move, the sound of skin meeting skin swallowed by the hum of the equipment around us.
Her nails rake down my back, sharp enough to sting. It only drives me harder.
“I love you,” I mutter against her ear, the words tearing loose before I can cage them. “You’re mine.”
The admission lands hard. There’s no room to take it back. There is no alcohol to hide behind tonight.
She answers me with my name, her voice breaking, her body tightening around me. The sound sinks deep, settles somewhere it has no business settling.
We lose whatever rhythm we had left. Everything turns frantic, desperate. She clenches on my cock, her body pulling me with her, and I follow without restraint. I come hard, buried deep, the release leaving me hollowed and breathless.
My father used to say that anything truly safe stayed boring. The moment it drew attention, you were already late.
When I set her back on her feet, my forehead drops to hers. Sweat slicks our skin. Our breathing is uneven, tangled together. My thumb traces her hip without thinking.
“You drive me insane,” I murmur.
Her reply is quiet, stripped bare. “I love you, Ridge.”
I pull her in, my arms closing around her. My arms close around her before I realize I’ve done it.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I say. “No matter what.”
The silence afterward is heavy but not awkward. My hand stays at her waist. She toys with the collar of my shirt, then snorts softly when she realizes most of the buttons are gone. I huff a quiet laugh.
Her eyes search mine, intent enough that the rest of the world drops away.
She smooths her dress down over her thighs. Watching her do it makes the want coil again, sharp and unwelcome. The air in the closet feels thin now.
“We should get out of here,” I say.
“I want you to meet someone first,” she replies, catching me off guard.
I tilt my head. “Who?”
“Delphine. My best friend.” Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “She matters to me. And so do you. I want her to know you. The real you.”
The words hit harder than they should. I stare at her, instinct screaming refusal. After a beat, I nod anyway.
“Fine.”
Her smile twists something in my chest. She kisses me quickly, murmuring her thanks.
Letting her pull me into this says more than the words ever could. I don’t like it. I don’t stop it.
When we step out of the closet, my lungs drag in smoke-thick air like it’s fresh. The music slams back into us. She spots her friend near the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“Delphine,” Coco calls.
“I thought y’all ghosted me,” Delphine says, her glare aimed straight at me.
“This is Ridge,” Coco says.
Delphine looks me over. Measuring. “So you’re Ridge Stone.”
I nod once. “I hear you keep her out of trouble.”
She smirks. “Someone has to.”
“I’m standing right here, guys,” Coco says.
We don’t last long at the table. The noise is relentless. Delphine leans in, shouting about somewhere quieter. Coco gives me that look.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I know somewhere that we can go where we can actually hear each other.”
Not that I have any desire to talk to her friend or hear what she has to say. I want to go there because I know who comes and goes.
“It’s quiet and discreet,” I add.
The ride is quiet. My fingers tap against the console as I drive. Coco’s hand brushes mine once. Intentional or not, it lights me up.
“Why were you at the club?” she asks.
“Someone on my security team said the Duvalls still pass through,” I reply. “I wanted eyes on it myself.”
Delphine stiffens. “I thought they were done.”
“Alton Duvall… is gone,” I say carefully. “That doesn’t mean the business is suddenly gone. Whatever they wanted to do with our ports, that still exists to some extent.”
She doesn’t push, but the attention makes me uneasy. I clock it and move on.
When we arrive, I scan the street before opening Coco’s door.
Inside, the Black Orchid is dim and warm, low jazz threading through the room without demanding attention. I nod to the host, and we take a table along the side, far enough from the main flow to talk without raising our voices. Coco settles in close, her hand resting on my thigh.
“So,” Delphine says, studying me. “What now?”
I glance at Coco.
I’m asking myself the same thing.
The air is heavy, warm enough that it clings to my skin. My muscles ache in that deep, loose way that comes only after effort.
My body hums with exhaustion, muscles sore in a way that borders on indulgent, while Coco lies curled against my chest. Her warmth seeps into me, steadying, anchoring, as I stare up at the ceiling and try to sort through the mess in my head.
My hand moves over her back without thought, following the gentle curve of her spine. I want to stay right here to trap this quiet and keep it from slipping away.
She breaks the silence.
“Why did you react the way you did tonight?” Her voice is soft, but the question carries weight. “When I saw you standing there, you had a look on your face I’ve never seen.”
I take a slow breath and run my hand through her hair. “Because I saw you there, and every instinct I have went sideways. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you. I will make sure nothing touches you.”
The words come out controlled, even if the feeling behind them isn’t.
“I just don’t understand why all the violence. Can you just do your job without all of this? That’s why you see danger everywhere. Because you participate in it.”
“Coco. When a logistics organization like the Duvalls collapses, everyone connected to it scatters. We’ve dealt with the murder of my father, secret alliances, and vying for use of terminals and shipping lanes.
There absolutely is danger. And I’m mitigating it, protecting you, making sure you don’t get caught up in all of this. But the danger is real.”
My jaw locks without warning, a familiar pressure setting in behind my eyes. The same place it hit the night I found my father’s blood on the floor.
The pressure deepens when I look at her, because I know exactly how this started.
She shifts, propping herself up on her elbow so she can see my face. “You sure it wasn’t a little jealousy there, too, Mr. Stone?”
A corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “Maybe.” I meet her eyes, my tone softening. “For a minute, I thought you might be there with someone else. It was stupid. But seeing you like that, dressed the way you were, surrounded by strangers, shaking your ass on the dance floor…”
She gently touches my cheek. I shake my head once. “It got under my skin.”
Her smile flickers, but something more serious settles behind it. “My father confronted me about us, Ridge. He said his men saw you at my house last night.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice level. “What did he say?”
Fuck. This is exactly what we were trying to avoid. I never should have gone over there.
“That you’re dangerous. That I should stay away from you.” Her fingers brush over my chest, light but unsteady. “He has someone watching me. For my protection, supposedly. But it’s really just to keep tabs on me.”
I curse silently. I should have known better. Maybe part of me wanted it exposed. Wanted the line crossed so I could stop pretending this wasn’t inevitable. Hearing it out loud fills me with regret anyway, because now she’s boxed in. I’m surprised he even let her out tonight.
“I’m sorry you’re in this position,” I say quietly. “No one should control you like that. Not your father. Not anyone.”
She exhales and settles back against me. “He’s scared for me. I get it. But it’s suffocating.”
My hand keeps moving over her back, slow and steady. When she speaks again, the question is careful.
“What happened with the Duvalls, Ridge?” A pause. “Did you do something yourself?”
The tension in her voice is unmistakable. I know she’s trying to reconcile the man she’s curled up with now and the version she’s heard about from her father and the streets.
“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “I did.”
She waits, and I know silence won’t cut it.