CHAPTER TWENTY #2
I’m forty years old, and I’ve never brought a woman home, so it would stand to reason that when I did, my entire family would be balancing precariously on the furniture. Like a zoo exhibit.
“We homeschool him,” I mutter to Zara, which might be the dumbest explanation I’ve ever given for anything.
She finally grants me her ebullient laughter before she kicks off her heels, breaks into a sprint, and springs through the air in a graceful front tuck, seamlessly landing on the far corner of the couch, ten feet away, her shiny tresses flying behind her like a cape.
The feat garners a round of applause from my family.
Remy’s eyes widen in excitement before flitting to me as he whines, “Uncle Axel. Lava!”
Jax is doing a headstand on the back of the love seat, his blue hair draping the leather, his heels holding him steady on the wall, beside a Picasso painting, and his hands free. He snaps his fingers. “Wake up, Papa Axe. You’re about to be scorched by the floor.”
Cash flashes his smug grin as I remove my shoes and suit jacket. He’s lying across the sideboard cabinet, like a fucking centerfold model. “Late and an inability to follow simple instructions. The disrespect is out of control. Must be your generation.”
I level him with a glare. “You’re only enhancing the temptation to have you six feet under within the hour.”
The room erupts in cackling and more belted-out song lyrics. Even Bernard—the dog—gruffs a retort, though I think he might be sleeping standing up and chasing a squirrel in his dream.
“It’d be cheaper,” Ryker jeers, knowing it cost me half a million dollars to enter the Underground. He’ll be harping on that for years to come.
He, Mercy, and Tessa are planted on the vast kitchen table.
This entire area is open concept. Art Deco charm.
Black-and-gold color scheme. Priceless art and nostalgic photographs.
All in an expansive but cozy space. If it wasn’t for Zara, I’d join them on the table, but I’d like to stay near her, even for this bizarre game.
So, with Remy barking orders at me to get moving, I jump to the couch cushion.
Maddox is planking between two chairs, as if he were lying on a beach. “It’s a floor-is-lava and musical-chairs mash-up of sorts. Find a place, keep it until the next song. As long as Remy can pick a fitting tune, he calls the shots for where you land next.”
I quickly shoot a look at Tessa. Between the doting parents (who will do anything Remy says) and my younger brothers (who could scale walls in their sleep), she’s the only one who will align with me on the ludicrous nature of this.
She rolls her eyes and pulls Pixy Stix out of her pocket. She’s bribing the little guy with candy. Zara catches the meaning and snickers behind me.
Maddox proudly announces, “No one messes with my Nightmare,” as the music stalls, and he pitches the next challenge. “A song with a girl’s name in it, Rem. Twenty seconds.”
Remy scans the selections, and when he presses a number, the first notes of “Come on Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners resound. Everyone cheers, and his whole face brightens.
This is an opportunity for Remy to show off what he’s learned in Uncle Maddox’s music education class. Homeschooling is truly a family affair.
Thrilled he’s still in charge, Remy starts shouting instructions at everyone.
“Walk on your hands to the kitchen table, Blue. Only on furniture.”
Blue is what he calls Jax most of the time.
“Love seat, Daddy. Couch, Uncle Cash. Dance on the coffee table, Uncle Maddox. ’Clining chair, Uncle Axel. Mama and Aunt Tessa can stay.” He clearly has everyone’s strengths down—a Noire through and through.
“Circus Girl”—he pauses, deciding whether that’s adequate for Zara—“come to the jukebox with me.”
Smart kid.
“You got it, Music Man,” Zara chirps, and Remy beams from her attention.
Ryker guffaws when he passes me, aware I’m being upstaged by his son. “You can’t trust any man in this family with her.”
The room is in a frenzy of commotion as we all switch spots and settle in.
Zara hops from couch to coffee table to chair to sideboard until she reaches her destination, where she perches atop the jukebox, cheeks pink, her entire being aglow and utterly comfortable to be using her ninja skills for an unorthodox kindergarten game.
My lungs empty. I wasn’t prepared for what having her among them would mean.
Maddox gives the next directive. “A song with a food, Rem. Fifteen seconds.”
Remy doesn’t hesitate with his selection, throwing his hands in the air as “Cherry Pie” by Warrant begins.
Fitting.
Hoots and hollers abound. Remy and Zara shout some lyrics before he issues more orders.
We do this several more times until the chefs arrive with our catered dinner.
The meal is no different. Maybe it’s her training to be adaptable. She’s probably been through the gamut of finishing school, but whatever the reason, you’d think she’d always been a part of us.
I sit at the head of the table, Zara by my side and next to Tessa, who interjects her disgruntled sidebar, painting us all in a human shading that keeps things relaxed.
Remy delights us with more fun facts that he’s learned.
He’s as brilliant as his mother. The rest of them all bounce off one another, like they always do, and Zara stays in step the entire time.
The weight of what I’ve built being tarnished by the beauty I can’t bear to look away from twists something inside me violently. A tortured pang rips through my sternum.
How will I ever trust her?
Needing a moment to think, I ask Zara if she’ll be all right for a few minutes, and when she assures me she will be, I excuse myself.
I stride through the sitting area of my suite into the dressing room, wrangling my tie as if it were a noose.
After splashing cold water on my face in my en suite, I traipse out to my bar and pour myself a drink, staring out at the illuminated cityscape before I begrudgingly transfer five hundred thousand into Cash’s account.
He can deal with splitting it with Maddox.
I’ve never been so in over my head. Bringing her here was a mistake.
Why did Cash have to fucking push things?
I don’t care about the money. I’d spend a hundred times that to keep people away from her, but I need to rein this back in.
A casual evening isn’t a luxury we can partake in without scrutiny from all the wrong places.
The last thing I want is to force her into a union with me.
Although she’s already here. There’s no sense in ruining tonight.
As I’m pondering that, my phone buzzes with a text on a thread with my chief of security and Bernard.
Kane: We’ve been notified that the Secretary of State will be visiting Magie Noire at eleven tonight. I’m starting passageway clearance and closing off a few of her preferred rooms.
Bernard: I just spoke with her partner. Arriving within the hour. I’ll alert you. She’ll wait at the bar.
Kane: I assume Axel will want to greet Madam Secretary personally?
Bernard: It will be expected.
Me: Yes. Keep me posted on her arrival, but I’ll be in the club on time.
This day has been absolutely exhausting. The last thing I want to do is pay my regards to the Secretary of State tonight, but Bernard is right. She’ll be insulted if I don’t personally welcome her.
Not all our members also belong to the sex club.
It’s an extra perk. Outsiders can’t buy a membership, but we require members to be invested—personally and financially—so the club can’t be weaponized.
We also provide complete privacy for those whose public life is heavily dependent on them not being involved in these types of places.
Another text appears, though this one is far more welcome.
Rena: Missing you so much. Sorry we skipped out on story time tonight. The twins were fussy, though they cried for their Papaw before they crashed.
Well, that simultaneously breaks my heart and fills it.
Me: No worries. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Kiss their chubby cheeks for me. How is their beautiful mama?
Rena: Exhausted.
Me: I figured. You’re doing such an amazing job. Why don’t you go to sleep early?
Rena: Ty said the same thing. I think I will. Love you, Axe.
Me: Love you too, sweet girl.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and walk toward my door, only to find Zara with her hand frozen in a mid-knock position.
“Sorry,” she rasps, an unusual innocence cloaking her as she studies the sitting area and wanders in a few steps. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I was getting ready to head out, and Maddox thought …”
“I got held up. Someone’s coming in tonight, and I …” Not wanting this to turn into a work discussion, I switch gears. “Did you have a good time?”
She swallows and rolls her lips in, so authentically vulnerable here. “I had the best time. Really.” She glances around again, wrestling with something. “I want you to know they’re safe with me.”
That hits me square in the chest.
“I know they are,” I confess with certainty.
A melancholy smile coasts up her cheeks, and she turns, prepared to leave.
In a flash, I’m behind her, shutting the door before she can escape through it. She keeps her hand on the knob, her forehead falling to the wood, and I can practically hear her heart drumming a solemn dirge. Being here made her lonelier.
Resting one arm above her head, I wrap the other around her waist, my hand splaying over her taut stomach, my nose buried in her vanilla-scented hair. “Don’t go yet.”
“Aren’t there a lot of reasons I shouldn’t be here?”
“Countless.” I nod against her head, unable to stop myself from planting a kiss there, a jagged breath flowing from my lungs with it. “But you are here, and I think we should clear the air. I’ll go first.”
A laden pause thrums between us. Her racing thoughts loom like a living beast. She’s undeniably curious as to what clearing the air will entail. She also probably knows it won’t be easy. But the only way through a fire is to accept the impending burn.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Your name was Penelope. They called you Penn.”