CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MADDOX
The wind whips around us. The midday sun ricochets off buildings and vehicles and the Mississippi River.
The rumble of traffic and the howl of the city harmonize with my riding playlist. I would have turned the helmet mics on, but Tessa doesn’t want to talk, and my mind is racing.
As it is, we could have been back at La Lune Noire fifteen minutes ago, but I needed time to breathe.
And more time with her body molded to mine, her arms tugging me closer, like she knows she’s right where she belongs.
Her declaration that she didn’t want to talk was clearly an invitation to fuck her, but she complicated it by asking to go to La Lune Noire. She doesn’t want me in her space, and instead of focusing on the invitation, I’m obsessing over what that means.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Deciding enough is enough, I veer to the right with a turn low to the ground, taking the back roads home.
“Riptide” by Vance Joy guides us into the resort’s safe-harbor entrance, and Tessa squeezes my waist, either in question or appreciation.
Regardless of her reasoning, I clutch her arm in return.
She’s only seen this area twice. The first was when I brought her and Violet here to be examined.
The second was when Kane’s men drove her out of here the day she gave me that earth-shattering blow job.
Once we’re waved in, we cruise by the check-in station, and two more security guys rush out to assess the situation.
Like our members, we only enter here in an emergency.
When everything gets turned upside down and immediate intervention is required—whether that be medical attention, a cleanup crew, an alibi, or some other save-your-ass measure—this is the place.
Idling my bike, I pull off my helmet to update them. “We’re good. But I need a female wig, a mask, and a discreet escort into The Corpse Reviver Cabaret. You can meet us with the items at the two-way mirror.” I cut the ignition and toss one of them the key. “Park the bike in my garage.”
“Right away, sir.”
With that, I help Tessa off the motorcycle and guide her through the sliding doors connected to our urgent care and triage area.
Once we’re inside the passageway that leads to the front of the resort, she removes her helmet and lets out the knot in her dress.
The fewer people who recognize her, the better, even though the guards won’t open their mouths.
“Why Corpse Reviver?” she asks, stringing her fingers through her staticky hair.
I take the helmet and grab her hand. “Thought we could use a drink, and I need time to set things up.”
She accepts that, so we breeze through the walls in silence until we turn the corner to the concealed entrance into the cabaret. The guard is waiting with an auburn wig and an ornate black mask. I trade him my helmet for the items and help Tessa disguise herself.
The advantage of going incognito at La Lune Noire is that half our guests do the same, for a whole host of reasons.
The resort is neutral territory, a haven for our members.
While we demand that peace be kept here, that’s rarely extended beyond these walls.
So, in their line of work, people knowing their whereabouts in real time is always risky.
No one will think anything’s off with Tessa’s getup.
We slip through a password-protected entryway within a framed mirror at the edge of the room. It has a funhouse vibe to it, reflecting doors and curtains and other mirrors. It makes it nearly impossible for onlookers to determine where the actual entrance is located.
Anticipating our arrival, a waiter ushers us to the owners’ booth, which is primarily out of view from most of the other tables.
Not that we have to worry much about that.
Our summer matinee shows are often empty, so they reserve a few tables up front for our most coveted guests and give a private performance.
That makes The Corpse Reviver the perfect haven for us to have our own secluded bubble without the immediate pressure of being alone.
Despite the time of day, the ambience is dark and intimate, like a smoky jazz club with lively entertainment.
Lit by amber lamps and flickering candles.
Fragrant with the sensual scents of Chanel No.
5, incense, and debauchery. History dresses the walls with sepia-filtered photographs of hushed conversations, performances, music legends, and the opulence that built the era of our roots.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask Tessa as we take our seats in the half-moon red velvet booth.
“Whatever you were going to make for my father.” There’s a chill to that response. It seems she’s still salty about me meeting the fam.
But she’s here with me, so …
“Two Twelve Mile Limits,” I tell the waiter, who scurries off to get them while I sail my hand over Tessa’s thigh.
She’s not shutting me out, but her chest heaves as she focuses on the dancers, and I don’t think it’s because she’s turned on or enamored by the theatrics.
That’s all right. The cocktail I ordered is a salute to evading boundaries. No matter where they’re set, there’s always room to push.
The waiter promptly returns with our drinks, setting them down and giving us the privacy I request.
I set the toothpick with the maraschino cherry garnish on the cocktail napkin and lift my glass, relishing the first sip and the sight of the gorgeous redhead by my side. “You’re still pissed at me.”
“Livid,” she sneers, practically vibrating with wrath while she chomps her cherry as if she were envisioning it to be my head.
“So …” I leave my question dangling, waiting for her to fill it in, and we both hitch our gazes to the singer onstage, clad in feathers and beads and thespian vanity.
Finally, Tessa picks up her drink and peers at me. “So, that’s why we’re drowning this train wreck of a day in a Twelve Mile Limit.”
She downs the entire glass in a single swill, unflappable turquoise beauties lasered on me the entire time until she discards the empty with a huff.
“Jesus,” I hiss. “That’s some potent shit, Tess. Have you eaten today?”
A mirthless laugh puffs out of her. “Yeah. I had some chicken and dumplings before I left my apartment.” She glides her finger around the rim of the tumbler, despondency mantling her. “You were going to make that for my father? What the hell is in it?”
A smile crawls up my cheeks. I love everything about this drink. “Rum, whiskey, cognac, lemon juice, and grenadine.”
The drink that preceded it was the Three Mile Limit—same ingredients sans whiskey.
It was named for the original nautical boundary imposed during Prohibition.
Bootleggers couldn’t have alcohol within three miles of shore, so many dropped anchor and brought people to them.
Eventually, that boundary was extended to twelve miles, making it more difficult to smuggle spirits.
But for the determined, the enhanced restriction being thwarted was only cause to celebrate.
Tessa narrows her eyes and cocks her head, indignant. “Hoping to get him drunk enough that he’d become a fan?”
“No need.” I wink, knowing this will ruffle her but also move us forward. “He’s already a fan.”
“I suppose he is.” Another humorless chuckle escapes her as she shakes her head, and her eyes dart back to me.
“You had no right to barge in there today. They have nothing to do with … this. Do not ever speak about them to anyone here. I don’t need you telling—” She stops abruptly, licking her lips and studying me.
She’s stuck between what appears to be guilt and desire.
I think she knows I’d never say a word about her family, but still, I set her straight.
“I would never share anything about your private life without your permission, but whether I had the right to be there is both debatable and irrelevant. If Hunter or any other man is sniffing around you, I’ll be there to remove them.
No matter the location.” I rub my hand over my mouth, willing myself to keep it together.
“And for the record, I don’t think your mom is a bad person. I just—”
“You think she’s a good person after what she said to you?” she scoffs, but it doesn’t go unnoticed that she dodged my jealous rant in favor of discussing her family.
“I don’t give a fuck what she said to me.
But I can’t remember the last time I felt that angry at an ordinary person.
” Twisting in the booth so I’m sideways and facing her, I trail my knuckles down her cheek, and the air between us thickens.
“The way she spoke to you, the way Eden spoke to you—it’s not okay, Tess.
It took every morsel of strength I had not to throw you over my shoulder and tell them that was the last time they’d ever be talking to you. Next time, I won’t—”
“There won’t be a next time, Maddox.” Her words say this can’t go anywhere, but those captivating blues promise a whole host of untapped fantasies, so I ignore her vow and go on.
“Regardless, it’s clear your mother loves you. Her concern is valid. She just doesn’t love you well.”
She presses her fingertips to her forehead, her breaths staggered. “You really fuck with my head. I don’t understand that perspective from you. I know that. She’s stubborn and narrow-minded and … terrified. None of that excuses what she said though. I’m sorry she brought your mom into it.”
“Me too, but that’s not on you.” I have a thousand other thoughts whizzing through my brain, but they all die as I soak in the rise and fall of her teardrop breasts, the slight part of her luscious lips, and the mixture of hope, candor, and resolve to take what she wants.
Splaying my hand across the small of her back, I tug her closer and tap my lap. “Come here.”