Page 57 of Stealing Blinds

When I cock my eyebrow in a do-tell command, Zara’s face lights up.

“They’re looking at you because of how he looked at you.” Her brightness morphs into dark ambition. “But that should have no bearing on you winning this.”

“We wagered a lot on you taking the whole damn thing,” Tessa provides. “That puppy-love expression can be used to our advantage. The guys are always beating us at cards or performing stunts.” She throws her thumb toward Zara. “As far as the stunts, this one can keep up with them, but rarely chooses to. You’ll balance us out.”

“Queen energy,” Mercy adds.

There’s far more to digest from all of that than I care to, but I think Cash’s little visit about my ankle may have been born out of his need to triumph over his sisters-in-law.

“Fine.” I clap my hands. “Queen energy it is. Cash said I was born to be one anyway. Let’s use it to dethrone him.”

Mercy covers her mouth with her fingertips, only to gasp when Tessa elbows her. And Amy giggles.

“Ignore them,” Zara says. “Go own that tramp wall.”

On my way, a gentleman in his sixties stops me. “Miss Palmer,” he drawls. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Bernard, the head concierge here. Feel free to ask me for anything you need.”

Bernard—the bulldog’s namesake.

“It’s nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Undoubtedly.” He chuckles, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard, his kind brown eyes assessing me. “I knew your father. Not well, I suppose, but I met him a few times.”

“I assumed he came here. My mother has always been swept up in the Noire magic.”

“From what I remember, he was pretty swept up in her,” he says, and that might be one of the best depictions anyone has ever granted me. “He called her Silver, right?”

“He did.” My throat squeezes around the words.

That nickname was how they settled on my name—because it was so similar—but no one’s mentioned it in a long time. I can picture my father bragging about her though.

“He was a good man. He came here on a few occasions when it was more treacherous, before Axel took over. Some associates of his were members, and he was invited as a guest. But he was wise not to become entwined then.” He swings his attention to Cash, Maddox, and Jax, who are bouncing on the trampoline to the beat of “Ghetto Supastar (That is What You Are),” which aptly depicts his next point. “It’s far different now. You’re in good hands.”

“Thank you, Bernard.”

“Of course. It’s an honor to have you here.” He kicks his chin toward the bouncing trio. “I’m looking forward to this.”

With that, he’s on his way, and I enter the final event of the evening. Aside from the three Noires, there are also six employees—all La Lune Noire performers.

The game is BOX, and the concept is simple. It’s like PIG in basketball. There’s a tall platform, towering above a trampoline. The first player determines the trick. Each of the following competitors must complete it. Failure to be able to do so results in a letter. We spend about twenty minutes warming up and getting a feel for the height and bounce. Then it’s time.

Jax goes first—one front tuck into a big bounce before sticking a landing in a square on the top of the platform. About half of us stick it as well. Maddox, Cash, and I are all in that group.

The next trick is an aerial flip into a bounce that leads to a second push from the platform into another bounce before landing in the square. Jax leads with it, but misses the square slightly. Only one of the cabaret girls and I manage that one, and she was behind on the first, so going into the next trick, I’m the only one without a letter.

This is a far cry from the NCAA Championships or the Olympics, but I can’t deny the exhilaration coursing through my veins. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so invigorated. The high is similar to a well-executed heist, but there isn’t much fanfare there. I forgot how enlivening it is to have a room full of people cheering for you.

Since I get to lead with the trick this time, I ask one of the guys helping with setup to bring me an actual box. He grabs one that’s about half the size of the taped-off square, and Cash shakes his head.

“Don’t be a show-off, Sly.”

He could be worried about my ankle, or maybe he’s realizing he’s going to lose his jackpot to his sisters-in-law. Either way, I’m not backing down.

“Don’t be a wuss, Noire.” I unleash a goading grin before I stand right in front of the box at the edge of the platform, swan-dive into a corkscrew, bounce off the trampoline, touch the platform with both toes, roll into a double flip, and bounce to fly up and land inside the box.

“Holy shit,” I hiss, elated I pulled it off, as everyone jumps to their feet, whistling and screaming.

Zara, Tessa, and Mercy are among the loudest, but so are my fellow competitors.