CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TESSA
Art was everywhere that day. In the colored lights and the intricate murals and even the elaborate gingerbread houses.
We didn’t go into the city much, certainly not at night.
But I had seen pictures of the holiday festivities at school and begged my parents to take us.
My mother wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but my father seemed excited.
And it was more. More than the giant Christmas trees or ice skating. More than hot chocolate and carolers. It was trolley rides and parades and jazz music in the streets. The fusion of cultures bellowed from cast-iron balconies.
There’s an exuberance to New Orleans that acts as a siren song. The simplest of experiences are heightened because something about the atmosphere morphs history and liberation into a celebration of deliverance. I was only thirteen, but I felt that emancipation deep in my bones. And I wanted more.
We ate at this restaurant that had a carousel in the middle of it, and three twenty-something girls sat at the table behind us.
While my sisters and parents chatted, I eavesdropped on the enthusiastic conversation the girls were having.
It was all about La Lune Noire. The young kings and their secrets, elegant parties, and hidden doors.
Tatted men in three-piece suits and women in pearls and lace and glittery flapper dresses. I was enamored.
After we left, I asked my parents about the resort, and I was quickly shut down. But I never forgot.
Years later, when I moved out, I knew the city was where I wanted to be.
More than that, I felt La Lune Noire calling to me.
I applied several times before they even gave me the time of day.
You have to be related to someone to get an interview, and my relatives wouldn’t have dared set foot in there.
Finally, I stopped in, insisting they hear me out, and Bernard took pity on me. He chatted with me for a few minutes before Jax moseyed in and plopped into a chair.
He was only eighteen and kind of a wreck.
Haunted. But he was Noire royalty, so my breathing was shallow, almost painfully so.
I didn’t show it though. I answered his questions until, eventually, Axel was called in.
He was more intimidating than Jax. I’d seen pictures of the Noire kings, and while they were all good-looking, a different one—who I later learned to be Maddox—had caught my eye.
I was glad he wasn’t in the room because I was sure my nerves would have won out.
Axel flipped through my application and some other papers Bernard had handed him. He only asked me one thing. “Why do you want to work at La Lune Noire?”
It was something I imagined my father would inquire about if he were in the same position.
“I belong here.” It was a stupid response, but all I could manage.
To my surprise, Axel nodded. “Welcome to the La Lune Noire family. Plan to stick around.”
That was a warning more than a greeting, but I wasn’t afraid.
As I drift in and out of sleep, I’m not sure why my mind keeps filtering through all those memories. Maybe because it was the decision that changed everything.
Suddenly, I’m hit with a more disturbing recollection though. Before my eyes even open, I’m bewildered and horrified. Did I vomit in front of Maddox?
Oh God, please let that be a nightmare.
I don’t think it was. There’s a phantom weight of him wrapped around me, like he held me while I slept. And his sin-and-spirits fragrance cocoons me in the kind of darkness that feels like coming home—the smoky scent of a bonfire and the freshness of rain, cozy elements that only mingle in dreams.
And my sheets.
There’s also a trace of lingering candy cane, so maybe I’m still lost to my unconscious reverie.
When I finally pry my heavy lids open, Maddox is the first thing I see. With a steaming mug. And a concerned grin.
“There’s my beautiful Nightmare. You’ve been stirring.” He sets the cup down and kisses my forehead. “That’s peppermint tea. Sip it. Helps with nausea and headaches. There are some saltine crackers too. If you keep those down, I’ll make you some food.”
I don’t answer, but I shimmy to an upright position and hold on for dear life. Did the formidable gangster who dances at random moments break into my apartment and make me tea? Yes. Yes, he did.
“Migraine gone?” His silhouette retreats into the darkness.
Wading through my murky thoughts, I realize the intensity of the pain has subsided. “Mostly.”
It’s quiet for a minute, which is a treasure I’m grateful for, but I briefly wonder how he’s faring without music. Maybe it’s in his ear.
Picking up the mug, I let the peppermint steam waft over me, already appreciative of the benefits of the aroma. Of course that brings another thought to my cloudy head. “I didn’t have peppermint tea.”
“I had my guards pick up some items for us,” he answers from the other side of the room while shuffling something.
It’s so dark that my vision is still adjusting. My blackout curtains create a time warp. “Is it night?”
“It’s after nine.” He sounds distracted, the signature clicks of his butterfly knife accompanying his response. “You slept a good seven hours.”
“Seven hours,” I mumble, and that’s when I notice the boxes. Several boxes.
I set the mug down, but it’s as though I’ve been hit by a Mack truck, so I inhale slowly instead of jumping up like I intended. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.” He’s either being blasé or short with me. It’s hard to say.
Packing my stuff? He’s lost his mind. And I almost forgot I was already pissed at him.
“Well, stop,” I demand while bracing myself on the nightstand and flipping on the dim bedside lamp. “You have no right to touch my stuff.”
He doesn’t stop, nor does he look at me. “Drink your tea and stay calm, baby girl. I don’t want that headache coming back.”
“I’m a galaxy past calm.” I scrub my hands over my face, abundantly aware that I need to shower but caring very little about that. “What would possess you to go through my things?”
He turns his head slowly, and when those wintry gems park on me, they swirl with hurt that pierces my depths.
“I held you for about three hours, but then I got restless and wanted to do something. To help.” He drags his hand across his mouth and chin, evidently distraught, but his voice remains a bridled roar, likely due to my migraine.
“I lost my fucking mind today when you didn’t answer your goddamn phone, Tess.
So, the next time you walk out of this apartment, it will be with me and all your shit. I can’t …”
I’m a little thrown off by that level of emotion from him. From anyone. No one has ever been so distressed that I didn’t answer a phone. It’s heartwarming. And terrifying.
“You can’t what?” I press, unsure if I should be starting there or with him insisting that I move or with what I saw earlier. My thoughts would be cluttered without the post-migraine hangover, but with it, I’m a mess.
“I don’t want to do this if you’re not feeling well.” His focus darts to something in his hand.
“I’m a little off-balance, but much better,” I assure him, grabbing the tea again because, based on his intensity, I’m going to need it. “What do you have there?”
“Your lists.” He arches a brow, silently informing me that he read them all.
I purse my lips and sip the aroma therapy, reveling in the warmth and tingle it instantly bestows. “Oh, those.”
I’m not gonna lie. Part of me feels bad about what’s coming next, but the rest of me stands firm that it’s an apt consequence for snooping.
“I’m on them all.” He lifts a stack into the air before dropping them back into a box. “Every fucking one.”
I hum in feigned consideration. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His tone is gruff, but his demeanor is petulant, bordering on a tantrum.
“Well”—I lift a shoulder, in full-on goading mode—“you should be flattered.”
A whisper inside me shouts how accurate that statement is, but I stuff it down, not quite ready to reconcile it.
“Flattered?” he scoffs, waving another in the air. “The title at the top is, Things That Piss Me Off.”
“Yep.” I climb off the bed, still holding my tea and glaring at my empty closet. “I have an entry for today. Or ten. People touching my stuff, reading my stuff, and packing my shit without asking.”
“My intention wasn’t to snoop.” That admission has remorse woven through it, so it piques my interest. He drops that box on the floor, but it seems he’s not done with the subject matter.
“I was trying to take some things off your plate since that headache was obviously incapacitating you and probably due to stress. But our brains are wired to catch our names.”
That’s valid. I would read something if I saw my name on it, especially in his room. Of course, I’d never dream of breaking into his penthouse.
Still, I take another swill of my tea, set the cup down, and try to minimize his discovery. “It’s a stupid list. Lots of things are on it, and several are repeated.”
“I saw that.” He flashes his devilish lunatic grin, which I find both attractive and disturbing. “Like the post office and loud chewers, so that’s where you’d rank me?”
A deep sigh falls from my lips as I rifle through a basket of clean, folded clothes. “Did you do my laundry?”
“Yep, it was enlightening,” he snaps. “Don’t get me started on how you have pants with fake pockets, or a purse without compartments, or grainy bath salts. All things on your fucking lists.”
“What the hell is happening?” I straighten up too fast, but he’s there to balance me.
“You washed my clothes and made me tea and are freaking out about my need to buy an Edgar Allen Poe purse—which is undoubtedly a must-have item with or without compartments, but, yes, it still infuriates me. This is my private crazy.”
His storm-cloud eyes sear into me, thundering with declarations that are far more intimate than his mid-coital professions the other night, despite his ridiculous gripe. “The post office is like Hades, Tess.”