CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR #2
This boutique is primarily by appointment, so Amy works alone—one-on-one personal service.
I showed up early, hoping she’d be busy.
And she is. When she escorts two women to an exclusive area, reserved for the most prominent members, who are searching for gowns for the Prohibition Ball in two weeks—the ball I realize my father must’ve been referring to on our last call—I decide to access the reservations to see when Shep booked his room.
The computer is set in a recessed area, shrouded by clothing racks, which keeps me hidden from the shop entrance.
Although there is a security camera pointed at it.
I thwart that by piling clothing in front of the computer to obstruct the view of the keyboard.
Then I scour through my purse and spill my makeup all over the counter.
It stages a clumsy-girl scene for the cameras and in case I’m caught.
As I pretend to frantically pick up items, I prop a mirror on the counter, angling it so I can see the entrance to the shop, and another facing the door to the exclusive area—which is camouflaged by a full-length mirror.
This entire resort is like a funhouse.
With a smidgen of foundation on my index finger and a tissue in hand, I move to the keyboard.
There’s a woman perusing the dresses in the window as I scroll to the name Shepherd Lange and search for booking dates and any notes.
Apparently, Shep is a bit of a diva. He likes herbal tea and an everything bagel with low-fat cream cheese at precisely eight thirty a.m. when he finishes his morning workout, Evian water bottles stocked in his room, dinner reservations at a senior-citizen early-bird hour, and a seat at the poker tables by seven, among other things.
To think they do this for every member is mind-boggling.
It takes about fifteen seconds to sift through it, my heart hammering and my gaze flitting between the screen, the lady shopping, and the full-length mirror that Amy could pop out from at any minute.
My stomach bottoms out when I see that Shep made the online reservation this weekend, which means it had nothing to do with Claudia. He used her to throw me off his scent.
Fuck.
In his warning, he mentioned something like, “… if orders come in.”
He must only be expected to observe me, to gain a pattern of life on me and resort security.
He’ll have to establish a way to neutralize me in a place swarming with mercenaries who are willing to defend and adhere to Noire membership rules—the most notable being that an act of violence is punishable by death.
Poison.
I close out the program, stuff Amy’s access card in my pocket, and round the desk just as she emerges from her cave of luxury.
“Oh no. I spot an organization issue,” she sings. “Do you need me to get you a purse with more pockets so you can find things easier?”
“Maybe.” I huff, blowing a strand of my messy hair out of my eyes. “I was looking for my lipstick, and everything went flying. I even got makeup on your computer keys, but”—I hold up the dirty, crumpled tissue—“I got it all cleaned up. I’m so sorry. And I think you have another customer.”
She peeks around me and watches as the woman leaves. “It’s fine. It takes her days to pick anything. She’ll make an appointment when she’s in a decisive mood.”
After I scoop up the last of the makeup, I follow her gaze.
But it isn’t a woman I see. It’s Axel in a navy-blue suit.
I bet his eyes are piercing with that on.
He smiles at someone who is just beyond my vantage point, but I already know I hate whoever it is.
Whoever is the recipient of that smile—the warmth and fire and crisp scent of autumn retreating—while I’m left out in the cold.
I wasn’t prepared for this. The frostbite.
“No wonder there are rumors,” Amy interjects with a teasing lilt. “After the way he stormed the Underground to get you and now that look on your face.”
Shooing away that presumption, I launch the fabricated story—Cash setting Axel up so he came down there to get me and ended up owing him money, all because I was needed to translate a section of a legal document from one of the new properties.
“And I’m not sure what you think you see on my face. The man looks good in a suit, but that’s not the Noire I went on a date with,” I conclude.
A pang of guilt strikes me because Axel seemed so sensitive about that, but if we’re avoiding suspicion, that’s a logical way to do it in girl talk.
“Are you getting all of these?” Amy asks, sorting through the mess of clothes I piled on her computer. She must think I’m the biggest slob.
“Yes, please. Put them all on the card on file.”
She checks each garment, hanging them and determining whether they should be steamed after the way I rumpled them, but eventually, she returns to my cover story while she works. “That’s pretty much what Axel said on Friday night.”
Friday night? He said he was meeting with someone. Why would he meet with Amy?
“Where’d you see him on Friday night?”
Her face brightens as she tucks her caramel hair behind her ear. “Vander and I—that’s my husband—were at Magie Noire Friday night, and we had a drink with Axel while he was waiting for someone.”
Magie Noire—the sex club.
For the second time since I arrived at the dress shop, my stomach somersaults.
I try to steer us in a direction that will tell me what I want to know while acting like a woman who isn’t flayed open by the possibility that a man had his mouth on my pussy an hour before he buried his cock in someone else’s.
“I didn’t realize employees could go there. ”
“Oh, they usually can’t.” She peers at me, her mouth twitching with pride. “Vander is a member, so Axel approved me.”
“Well, I’m glad Axel cleared things up.”
“He did,” she says just as a lady emerges from the exclusive room and joins us.
Navigating a world where nothing is what it seems means I refuse to jump to conclusions about this, but without being able to talk to Axel alone, the torment is branded on me, searing my flesh with anxiety and embarrassment. And suddenly, this dress shop is a thousand degrees.
Leaning toward her, I return Amy’s access card under the guise of rubbing her back. “Would you please send those to my suite?”
I’m out before she finishes saying, “Of course.”
I hardly slept last night. I am crushed, brokenhearted, emptier than I thought I could be.
I’ve grieved plenty in my life. I’ve held death closer than anyone should.
I’ve mourned the loss of childhood daydreams and accepted realities that made my bones ache.
I’ve learned to walk that fine line between depression and resilience, self-loathing and ambition.
And, yes, I raged when I realized I’d been conned into becoming an assassin by a person I thought cared for me, even though I had always known I’d be great.
But despite being romantically involved with the asshole, the loss of a lover’s touch from Keller wasn’t the betrayal that took center stage. It was disappointment in myself.
It’s always been that way—my relentless mission to be formidable enough that nothing can break me has never been upended by grief or lust or heart-hammering hopes.
But now?
Maybe it’s a means of survival, but I’m confident there is another explanation for Axel’s presence at Magie Noire.
The man I was with on Friday night—the man who held me and made me drink water and strung his fingers through my hair, who swore he couldn’t regret me—did not leave me to go have sex with another woman.
I won’t condemn him before I know, but that requires me to corner him.
Of course, I have that other matter of keeping myself alive to attend to, so I spend my morning implementing that plan first. And just as I’m finishing up, I get a text.
Mercy: Have you sulked enough?
Me: What would I have to sulk about?
Mercy: What indeed?
Mercy: Come to the tattoo boutique. Tessa and I need to chat with you, and you’ve been scarce all week.
Me: On my way.
I had such a great time with them on Friday night, but it didn’t occur to me that they’d feel like I was avoiding them.
As I round the corner, Ryker approaches me. “The girls are going to invite you to join them tonight, and you will,” he says.
His brusqueness doesn’t surprise me. There’s an intensity that rolls off him—different from Axel’s.
It was present even during family game night, though he was a tad sweeter then.
And positively chivalrous with how he doted on his wife and son.
Still, the lack of a friendly greeting isn’t shocking, but the order is.
Mercy and Tessa were part of the cover story Axel cooked up, so Ryker is obviously in on it, too, which is why I feel comfortable replying, “I was told to stay aw—”
“He won’t be there, but you will be.” He scans the hallway, probably cataloging who is witnessing this—there are several passersby, but no one that stands out as notable—and then he peers down at me, a glint of compassion seeping into his icy eyes. “Say it.”
For a beat, I wonder what his motive is—what all the Noires’ motives are concerning me.
Yes, they’re in the habit of harboring those who might otherwise be at odds with the underworld.
I’m not unique in that regard, aside from the potential for my mission to involve taking them down in some capacity.
But regardless, this shielding that goes the extra mile is perplexing, and it fucks with my head. And my heart.
Maybe that’s the objective.
But the notion of another evening of warmth is too hard to resist. Not that I’m in a position to refuse much at this point.
“I’ll be there,” I vow, and he dips his chin, squeezes my forearm, and swaggers off.
When I arrive at the tattoo shop, I hover at the entrance near Tessa’s station. She’s seated, and Jax is leaning lazily on the desk, sketching over a printed-out design for her.
“That’s it. You’re ready,” he insists.
“He’s not going to be happy,” she argues. “He’s used to you. He’s had this appointment for months—”
“Which is why … he and I both agree … giving you a shot is worth it. Trust yourself.” He stalls, but the pause seems more of an assessing one rather than the delay he utilizes to gather his thoughts. “Even if you fuck it up, it’s on his calf. He can live with it until I get back.”
“Okay,” she relents with a slight frown.
“Text me progress pics.” He pulls her in for a hug and pecks her hair. “And try not to look like you’re being tortured when you do it.”
Mercy saunters out of what appears to be an office overlooking the shops, and Jax moves to hug her, too, whispering something in her ear. She nods, but her face is etched with worry. I’m not sure what to make of it.
He lets her go, strolling toward the exit and stopping before me. “Remy is expecting another visit soon. Better not stay away.”
Same message as Ryker’s, but what a dramatic contrast in delivery.
A genuine smile blooms on my face, reflecting Jax’s ease. “That’s the first thing today that’s made sense, Blue.”
He chuckles at my use of Remy’s fitting nickname for him. “He’s a smart kid. You’re a keeper, Circus Girl.”
He leaves, and just like Ryker said, Mercy and Tessa invite me to join them for dinner and movies this evening. The invitation is a bright spot in an otherwise dreary week and almost enough to make me forget how my life is in shambles.
For the rest of the day, I’m a little lighter.
Though I am curious what has Axel, Jax, and Ryker tied up this evening.
Maybe the girls will fill me in later. I finish my translation work and rush back to my suite to get changed into something more casual than my professional dress.
But as soon as I step off the elevator, the ease of my day dissipates, and I’m reminded of who I am.
Bernard is standing by my door, with three La Lune Noire security guards in tow.
“A word, Miss West.”