The Thrill is Gone

Summary: Things get worse. Trouble finds Remy after all of his running, and his time may have run out.

Author’s Note: I just finished Diamond, so I feel pretty chipper. My Odd Couple update is trickier than I thought it would be, I tried to scribble some of it late last night on paper, but I was irritated over an argument I had and couldn’t focus. Hard to write silliness when you’re ticked off. In the meantime, this story will continue. There will be angst. There will be drama. There will occasionally be blood. After that, the outcome is anyone’s guess.

Someone tried to brighten the drab hospital suite with an art print of two women in Victorian dresses playing tennis. It was a laughable, wasted effort.

Remy’s soda sat untouched on the tiny bedside table with a broken corner as he held his uncle’s hand. He was resting quietly, except for the noisy whistle of oxygen through his cannula, or the beeps and ticks of the telemetry equipment that monitored his heartbeat.

The large white clock beside the door read 4:15AM. His eyes were bloodshot and he was having a hard time keeping them open. But he needed to stay awake; sleep wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

It took the surgeon four hours to stabilize Philippe. He’d been rushed to the OR on a gurney, clothing drenched in blood and been returned to Remy snugly bandaged and dressed in a drab blue patient gown, barely visible beneath the institutional white sheets and monitor cords.

Remy couldn’t guess at how many tubes they’d connected to his uncle or what half their functions were. All he cared was that they kept him alive.

His normally ruddy skin was pale. Even in sleep, Remy could see faint frown lines; his brows were slightly drawn together, as though his dreams were troubling him.

Moments later, he heard quick, heavy footsteps just outside his door. “This is his room?” he heard Logan’s familiar baritone inquire, right before it swung open, making the mini-blinds over the observation window rattle. Logan strode inside without hesitation. His face went from worried to noticeably upset as soon as he laid eyes on Remy, mirroring the mixture of anguish and anger on his uncle’s behalf.

“Aw, god, Rem,” he began, but he hurried toward him and enveloped him in a crushing hug. “What the hell happened?”

“Dey broke into de shop,” he said, his voice muffled by Logan’s denim jacket, but even so, his words sounded shaky to Logan’s ears. “De bastards shot ‘im. He wuzn’t doin’ anyt’in’ t’hurt anybody, an’ dey shot ‘im.” Remy hadn’t let go of his uncle’s hand, but his free arm snaked around Logan’s waist greedily, fingers digging into his back. Logan closed his eyes and bowed his face into Remy’s hair, tucking his head protectively under his chin. Remy felt safer within his embrace, but things were still too raw. Dark thoughts crossed his mind that he didn’t want to see blossom fully by lingering on them too long.

Please don’t go.

He’d called Logan because his heart raged at him that it was the right thing to do, that he was the only one who could help him focus and keep him grounded. Part of him wanted to admit that Logan, in many ways, kept the phantom boogey man away before he would swallow Remy whole.

He didn’t want to need him. He didn’t want to call him in a panic in the wee hours, scared shitless. He didn’t want to burrow so deeply into his sturdy body’s heat and hold him so tightly that his arms ached.

And the reason was, simply put, he didn’t want to drive Logan away.

But he did these things and took comfort in his too tangible scent and heat and the strong grip of his hands. He absorbed his silent presence, drawn into it like oxygen.

He adopted his slow breathing, second nature by now whenever he held him. He needed him in order to breathe. Period.

“I’m sorry.” Logan’s voice was a rasp filled with interrupted sleep and concern. “I’m so sorry, Remy.” Remy nodded into his chest. “I know ya love him and that he’s an important person in yer life. He’s a good man.”

“He didn’ deserve dis, chere.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“M’blood ran cold when dey made dat call. Jus’ got off de phone wit’ Bell. Said g’night ta Rene. Told him…told him dat Papa wuz gonna see ‘im dis weekend an’ dat he didn’ hafta be scared anymore. No one wuz gonna take ‘im away from me an’ his maman. Said dat his oncle wuz gonna come over soon an’ have some cake wit’ ‘im since he didn’ get ta have any on his bir-“ His voice cut off.

“It’s okay.”

“It ain’t.”

“Okay.” Remy went back to bottling everything up, and Logan was too anxious to argue it out with him, at the expense of him pulling away.

It didn’t matter. Remy leaned back from his embrace and stared up at him hollowly. “Dis ain’t a fuckin’ coincidence.”

“Nah.”

“Had t’be de same ones who robbed him before, mec.”

“I know that, kiddo. That was my first thought. Have ya filed a report?”

“Gonna take care of dat in de mornin’,” Remy said.

“Pretty bold, hittin’ the same place twice.”

“Philippe ain’ no sucker. Changed ev’ryt’in since de last time, de locks, de passwords on de cash box, you name it. Anyt’in’ worth stealin’s locked up in a safe like Fort Knox.”

“So whaddya think? Thieves still knew how ta get in.”

“Mighta brought in someone else ta worm dey way in,” Remy reasoned. Logan moved away from him when Remy’s body language closed up, signaling he no longer needed to be held. He settled for pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. They listened to the telemetry and blood pressure monitors hiss and beep, both hoping for some change in Remy’s uncle’s condition.

“Have ya told Rene?”

“Non. Gon’ wait til tomorrow.”

“Man, this is crazy, Rem.” His lover gave him a pained look.

“T’ink I don’ know dat?”

“I know ya know that. I’m just sayin’, what are the odds? Someone had ta be watchin’ yer uncle come an’ go, probably fer a while now.”

Remy banged his fist on the bedside table; his uncle didn’t even flinch. “What de fuck! It ain’ like we gotta lotta money! If anyone wuz gon’ steal somet’in’, why not de cars demselves?”

“Too easy ta find, even if the thieves stripped ‘em fer parts.”

A light went on in Remy’s head at Logan’s words.

“Parts,” he muttered.

“Yeah, don’tcha think…” Logan’s voice trailed off. “Rem?”

“Jus’ gimme a minute.” Remy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Julien…

It made sense. Remy wished it didn’t.

Bastard.

The memories still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Julien used to visit the shop once in a while with Remy himself. He didn’t think anything of it. He professed a love of cars; Remy’s uncle joked that he would put him to work if he hung around long enough. And then he pretty much hung around all the time.

Julien knew his way around auto bodies and engines alike, and he frequently helped Remy work on independent projects like their car show entries. Philippe didn’t trust him with client repairs, much to Julien’s good natured annoyance.

He was the only other person Remy knew of who would know their way around the shop after hours. The conclusion he didn’t want to reach jumped up and bit him, hard.

His car smelled like pot after Bella gave it back to him. And by coincidence, the police showed up, responding to Oncle’s report that his shop was broken into and the money and receipts were gone.

Remy’s mind raced. Julien wouldn’t have had that difficult a time getting into the shop the first time, if he indeed did it.

Logan was worried about the look Remy wore, how he seemed to go completely blank for several seconds before a stony glare settled over his features. He seemed to forget Logan was in the room. “Remy?”

“Damn it,” he hissed as he shook off the moment. He snapped his head toward Logan and gave an exasperated sigh. “Tol’ you I needed a minute ta focus.”

“M’sorry,” Logan muttered, hurt. Remy drummed his fingers restlessly against his denim-clad knee, suddenly restless. Logan could see the wheels turning in his head, a complete one-eighty from the desperate, stricken man he’d been when he came into the room.

“Oncle ain’t woke up yet. Dat’s de only way Remy’s gon’ find out who did dis before de police do dere job.”

“What’re ya gonna do til then, darlin’?” If the endearment surprised Remy, he gave no sign.

“Jus’ wait,” he admitted. “But I gotta talk ta Bella. She said Julien’s been makin’ ‘imself scarce. I want dat fucker outta her house an’ away from Rene.”

“Kinda surprised that she hasn’t taken care of that by now,” Logan remarked carefully. “She’s gotta realize that he ain’t a good influence on yer son.”

“She’s been realizin’ dat fo’ a long time, but she ain’t doin’ anyt’in’ about it. It don’ matter fo’ shit dat he’s her brot’er.” Remy sighed. “Only way it’s gon’ make a lick of difference is if she gets a restrainin’ order.”

“No doubt.” Logan was nodding, but he looked frustrated. “Yer gonna hafta help her get him out. He won’t wanna cooperate.”

“It ain’ up ta him anymore, chere.” Remy’s jaw was set and his fist was curled up in his lap.


*

“Ya cost me money. Now I gotta put ya ta work,” Victor muttered eight hours later. His deep rasp echoed slightly in the large warehouse as he keyed his way in. Julien peered around and shivered against an imaginary chill.

It was full of chopped cars. Three of them were up on blocks and another one was suspended off the floor while two men worked on its undercarriage.

“Gotta move these parts by sundown tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“Got twelve more cars out back.”

“Why so soon?”

“Because that ain’t the only merchandise I gotta move, genius.” He took Julien back to a room with a distressed wooden door with a ruined finish and peeling veneer. The lock rattled when he punched in his key and jerked it open. The lights suspended from the warehouse rafters cast eerie shadows over the large stacks of crates in the room, making both men’s silhouettes loom long and crooked over them, like a stain. Julien didn’t have to ask what they were. “Different clientele. Different needs. Folks I got comin’ in ain’t gonna wanna cross paths with the buyer who wants those.” He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder toward the cars behind him. “I need ya here.”

“Gotta head back t’my sister’s place an’ take care of –“

“Nah. Let whatever it is take care of itself. Ya need ta stay here, asshole.” Victor’s blue eyes were cold. Julien’s bladder squeezed with the effort to maintain his composure.

“Non, ya don’t understand, Vic, I gotta get back!”

“Naw. YOU don’t understand.” Victor kicked the door shut behind him and yanked Julien the rest of the way into the armory room in one smooth motion. Julien grunted as he was flung against the wall face first. His heart pounded and he broke out in cold sweat as Victor pinned him there, beefy palm planted between his shoulder blades.

His hot breath steamed Julien’s neck. “Ya don’t wanna cross me. Do ya.”

“N-non.”

“Do ya.”

“Uh-uh.” Julien swallowed with difficulty. The room smelled musty and mildewy beneath the cold tang of metal. “Vic…I’m in trouble, okay? M’sister’s scared after what happened when ya picked me up at de station. Gotta smoo’d t’ings over, neh?”

“Ain’t my problem if yer havin’ family troubles.”

“I live wit’ her, mec!” Julien’s voice came out as a strangled gasp on the last few syllables. “I ain’ got a place t’live yet if she kicks me out!”

“What the hell am I payin’ ya for, then?”

“Gotta rap sheet,” Julien moaned. His chest was still squeezing from the crushing pressure against his back. “Ain’ no one ‘round who’ll wanna rent t’me, mec. Ain’ got any friends ta stay wit’ right now.”

“Then ya make sure yer clients are yer friends. This is nickel an’ dime shit t’me. I need ya ta do a job, not give me yer sob story, Jul.” Victor sighed gustily, in contrast to the sharp dig of his fingers in Julien’s back. His other hand tangled in his long dark hair, snatching it roughly to make his head jerk back. Julien felt vulnerable and petrified. Victor Creed was a huge man with a short temper.

You didn’t fuck with Vic. Period.

“Might have a connection. G’wan and call yer sister and let her know ya have business elsewhere for the next coupla days.”

“Couple days?”

“Make yer excuses.”

Julien felt everything caving in on him. This wasn’t just about being let in on the hustle anymore.

Victor owned him. And he stood poised to consume his soul. Julien forgot when it ceased to be his.


*

Belladonna snapped open another cardboard box and folded down the flaps, laying it aside with the other finished ones.

Filling them was cleansing, in its way. She folded each item of clothing carefully, smoothing them neatly out of habit. Julien was hopeless about doing his own laundry. He always had been.

His valuables she left out, bundled carefully into a small sack on her dresser so they wouldn’t get lost. Those she wanted to see him take out of harm’s way himself.

She felt hollow. Belladonna’s nerves had been on edge all day following a night of no sleep. Bloodshot, half-lidded eyes stared back at her from the mirror.

She was glad Rene was in school, so that she didn’t have to answer his likely questions or delay that chore any further. Her son had been through so much. It was all so unnecessary…

A tear raced down her cheek before she even felt her eyes prick.

It wasn’t right. It never should have come to this.

Her brother Julien was a drug dealer, and he’d endangered her only son. The reality of it felt like someone punched her.

Her sniffles were staccato and intermittent, getting worse every time she bent to place a folded article of clothing in the box. She blew a strand of hair from her eye and wiped her nose in annoyance but continued her work.

She taped the boxes shut and marked each with a brief description of its contents with a thick Sharpie. Belladonna stacked them in the living room in the corner, inconspicuous without being hidden. Whenever Julien showed up, he would notice them easily enough. She didn’t relish their talk. Bella knew it would kill something precious between them that had already been dying for a long time.

She stared at an old photograph of herself standing next to him while he held Rene as a toddler that hung on her refrigerator door. It only made her ache more.

She composed herself to the best of her ability when the locksmith came, but he gave her a telling look as he came inside with his tools. She had no doubt in her mind that he’d seen it all during the course of his career.

*

Remy entered the shop through the back door, feeling slightly sick as he saw the yellow Do Not Cross tape strung across the front entrance. He went through the motions of rehanging the Closed sign in the window, as well as a white sheet of paper that he’d dashed “Closed down due to family emergency, sorry for the inconvenience” across in black pen.

Once the police had come to take their report and some photos of the crime scene, Remy wandered about the shop, assessing the damage. The burglars hadn’t blatantly destroyed any property. Remy grew nauseated at the sight of blood on the floor in the shop; rusty brown spatters remained on a few nearby displays, making a cardboard stand-up of Dale Earnhardt appear grisly and chilling despite his friendly smile.

The desk and cabinets in the office showed signs of tampering, but what caught Remy’s eye was the photograph.

It was askew, as though someone had examined it and tried to put it back in a hurry. How ironic that it was one of Julien. Remy longed to dash the frame to the ground just to hear the satisfying shatter of glass, anything to do him damage.

“Know it wuz you, ya sonofabitch,” Remy muttered under his breath. He needed proof.

But in the meantime, his uncle and son needed him. Rene was scared and clingier than before, unwilling to let his father out of his sight. It took an act of congress to get him to go to school.

“Don’ go t’work, Papa,” he pleaded. His hazel eyes beseeched him, tearing at his reserve. “Want ya t’stay here!”

“Non. Gotta go an’ take care of some t’ings, petit. Papa’ll be fine.”

“Someone’s gonna come and hurt you!” he insisted. “Papa, ya’ve gotta come stay with me!” Rene’s arms held onto him with so much strength that he left his father physically sore. What made him feel like a heel was how protective his embrace was. Rene was trying to take care of him, when it was supposed to be the other way around.

“No one’s gonna hurt Papa,” he promised, kissing his forehead. “M’gonna be fine, chere. Jus’ fine. An’ I love you,” he told him. “Always gonna come back home t’you, petit.” Remy packed him a hearty lunch and lingered over arranging the contents of his backpack and other details of getting him ready. Maintaining his son’s routine seemed to calm him.

Nate and his uncle’s other mechanics came in slowly to check on him, knowing they weren’t going to open the shop. Nate’s face was wreathed in worry and sympathy. He clapped Remy’s shoulder and squeezed it in his rough palm.

“This sucks, man. I’m so sorry. What do you need? Can I do anything for you?”

“Non. T’anks. ‘Preciate it.”

“Philippe is the best. He didn’t deserve this. I hope they find that sonofabitch that did this. Your uncle’s one of the best friends I have, Rem, he’s like a father to me.”

“He’s almost all de family I have left,” Remy agreed. “No one messes wit’ Remy’s family. Dey picked de wrong man in de wrong shop t’attack, mec.”

Remy did another walkthrough, and the police stopped by to add more details to their report, interviewing Remy again. Remy confirmed that they didn’t get the money from the register, thanks in part due to the change in code. They also didn’t get the credit receipts this time, for which he was grateful.

He was unsettled and anxious by the time they left. Remy locked up the shop and exited through the back, deciding his time was better spent at the hospital.

His uncle appeared to be sleeping, but opened his eyes once Remy entered the isolated suite. His face was still wan beneath the oxygen tubes, and Remy barely heard his hoarse greeting over the hiss of air.

“Rem…c’mon over, chere.”

“Ain’ got any idea how glad Remy is ta see ya up an’ around,” he choked, hurrying forward. He bent down and kissed his forehead and was alarmed to feel how cool his skin was. “Who can I ask ta get ya anot’er blanket?”

“Nurse outside. De one in pink,” he rasped. The effort to speak was making his eyes watery, and he coughed harshly; it was a dry and ragged sound. There was a cup of water already poured from the pink plastic pitcher on the side table. His uncle’s head was already slightly elevated. Remy offered him a sip; Philippe jerked his face away from the edge of the cup after a scant taste, and Remy set it back down.

The nurse came within moments of Remy pressing the call button, and she spread one of the scratchy warmer blankets over him, tucking it in around his chest.

“Gon’ move me up ta de t’ird floor soon. Gonna have a roommate an’ different visitin’ hours.”

“Dat’s fine,” Remy agreed, holding his uncle’s hand. There was still strength in those gnarled, knobby fingers, scarred and hangnailed from daily rough work on his beloved cars. “Oncle, what d’ya remember from dat night?”

“Eh?”

“De night you got hurt. What happened?”

His uncle winced and grunted as he shifted against the pillow. “Ain’ sure yet.”

“It’s important.”

“I know it’s important,” he muttered. “Bad enough I wuz robbed. Didn’ need t’be shot.”

“How did he look? Did ya get a good look at ‘im?”

“Hunh…” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinching his eyes shut for a moment. “I t’ink I flicked on de light. Know what it’s like when it’s dark an’ ya suddenly turn on a light, and it takes a sec fer your eyes t’adjust?”

“Oui.”

“Dat’s how it wuz, Remy. I t’ink…damn. Can’t t’ink.”

“S’okay.”

“Non. It ain’t okay. Can’ remember what dey looked like.” That caught Remy’s ear.

“Dey? Dere wuz two of ‘em?”

“Wait a sec…oui. Dat’s what comes ta mind. Two of ‘em.”

“Remember anyt’in’ else?”

“Wuzn’t by de register. On de main floor.”

“Dere wuz stuff moved around and on de floor, like dey tried ta take some stuff.” Remy sighed. “De police already showed up an’ took a good look around.” He didn’t mention that there was blood everywhere. It wouldn’t help anything to upset him, or himself. Philippe picked at the nubby fiber of the blanket as he pushed his recall further for his nephew.

“Dark clothes, I t’ink. Don’ remember much of what dey wore.”

“How ‘bout dere faces?” Remy was losing hope, dread squeezing his insides.

“Faces…wait.” Remy sucked in a breath of anticipation. “Waitaminnit…” He rubbed his temple, then roughly tapped it with his fingers, as though he were trying to pry the image from his head. “Ponytail. Long an’ blond.”

“Wuz it a woman?”

“Non. Too big. Not a big man, eit’er. Saw de hair, looked odd…tucked in.”

Remy filed that information away. “What else?”

“He wuz de one holdin’ de gun.”

Remy had little to go on. The niggling thought wouldn’t let him go, even as his uncle shared fragments of the night he nearly lost his life.

“How’s Rene?” His uncle interrupted Remy’s reverie, and his eyes snapped back to the bed.

“On edge. Won’ let me leave de house wit’out a lotta drama. If someone could hurt you, den dey could hurt me, in his eyes.”

“He’s shook up. It’ll take time,” Philippe figured. “Give ‘im a hug.”

“Oui.”

“Still ain’ given ‘im my gift.”

“Dat’s all right. He got a whole mess of presents.”

“Wanted ta see his face when he opened it.” His uncle’s voice faltered, and he looked drowsy.” He hunched down slightly against the pillows, and Remy automatically adjusted the bed, lowering the back. Remy knew the visit would come to an end soon, and he didn’t want to exhaust him. “Wanted ‘im…have somet’in’ from his oncle…”

“Ain’ gonna matter ta Rene ‘bout de present. He wants his oncle back at ‘ome wit’ ‘im.”

“Keep ‘im away from dat frere of Bell’s,” he warned suddenly. Those watery brown eyes pinned him, beseeching him. Remy’s gut twisted.

“I know dat.”

“Non. Keep ‘im away. Get ‘im outta de house.”

“He ain’ gonna be dere anymore, Oncle.” Not if Remy had anything to say about it.”

Philippe caught his hand, squeezing it with surprising strength. “Julien…”

“Quoi?”

“Julien…he…he wuz…” Philippe made a low choking sound and his breath hitched in short gasps. His hand shook, even as he held Remy close, and his chest began to spasm.

“Oncle! ONCLE!”


*

Scott handed Logan a large sandwich wrapped in white butcher’s paper. “Here.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he murmured appreciatively as he hefted it and opened it up. He groaned in contentment around a mouthful of roast beef and tomatoes. “God,” he said, voice garbled, “that’s the stuff.”

They ate without much conversation due to hunger. The bathroom of the condo was shaping up nicely, and they sat in the hallway admiring their handiwork through the doorway.

Logan took the sandwich wrappers and wadded them up, chucking them into the trash. He stretched and grunted at the pain in his shoulder, but he was content that their work day was almost over.

“How’s Lee feelin’?”

“Pregnant,” Scott quipped. Logan snorted.

“Bet that’s some fun shit.”

“Heck, yeah. Late night runs for ice cream, having to drag my ass out of bed in my shorts from a warm bed, having to rub her feet, trying not to toss my own cookies when I hear her in the bathroom. And everything hurts. Her hip hurts, or her feet hurt, or her tits hurt. But that’s the side she shows me. If anyone else asks, she’s all radiant and saying “oh, at least the baby’s healthy!” he mimicked in a comical falsetto. Logan clapped his hand over his mouth, shoulders heaving. “Be glad it isn’t you.”

“Aw, man. That’s it. I’m getting my shit tied up in a double knot.”

“You don’t want kids, huh?”

“I just don’t want the headache involved in keeping one in the oven. I love kids,” Logan admitted.

“So? It’s only nine months,” Scott cajoled. “Time to quit making excuses and find someone to have babies with. Pass on that ugly mug of yours to the next generation.”

“Asshole.” Logan gulped down his Coke thirstily and noisily, smothering a belch. He punched his chest. “Oof. That burns.”

“That’ll being the women swarming in droves,” Scott sighed. Logan let his arms dangle over his spread knees, absently swishing the remaining soda in circles in the can.

“Sure it will.”

“What? No one new?”

“Nah.”

“Heard from Silver?” Scott asked hopefully.

“Nah.” Logan’s voice was more relieved than resigned. Scott chuckled.

“That answers that.”

“Nothing else to say in that vein. No regrets. I just wish we’d admitted it sooner that it wasn’t working. I want her to be happy, Summers, even if it ain’t with me.”

“So, what, are you just going to let the well run dry? Sucks to see you alone, man.”

“Bullshit. Ya just wanna hook me up again, don’t ya?”

“No! No,” Scott amended. “Of course not. Not unless you want me to-“

“Not on yer life, bub.”

“That was blunt.”

“I just don’t want any surprises. I don’t wanna end up starting the night with Linda Carter one minute, and then end up with Linda Blair halfway through the night.”

“Geez. Seen anything recent at the movies or on TV lately?”

“Asshat.”

“Eh. Whatever.”

“What’s the big deal about me finding a new woman?”

“It’s the nature of the beast. It’s our biological imperative, buddy. Tarzan find Jane. Tarzan take Jane. Tarzan make lots of little Tarzans.”

Logan took a deep breath. “What if Tarzan gets sick of Jane giving him the runaround?”

“So swing from a different rope.”

“Guess I am, then.” Scott’s eyebrows drew together.

“Come again?”

“I’m kinda seeing someone.” Logan braced himself. “And it ain’t anyone new. It’s been a little while now.”

“Bastard!” Scott crowed, socking him in one meaty shoulder. “Who is she?”

“That’s the thing-“

“Out with it!”

“His name’s Remy! Awright??”

Scott’s smile slowly dissolved. “Shit. You’re kidding. Tell me you’re not serious.”

“Scott…c’mon. Remember Walt?”

“Logan…c’mon. You can’t be heading down this road again. Walt…I didn’t think you were serious about him.”

“I lived with him.”

“Guys have roommates-“

“Don’t give me that shit. Not men my age. Walter was in love with me, or at least I thought he was. But it wasn’t the right kinda love, because he was too possessive. Not because he’s a man.” The nervous twisting in his gut gave way to frustration, then to mild annoyance.

“I guess I thought he was a phase.”

“Guess ya guessed wrong.”

“It’s just…weird, that’s all. So…were you always gonna try to find another guy, instead of a woman?”

“I can’t like both?”

“No! Wait…shit. I guess.”

“Wow.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There ain’t nothin’ t’say.”

“Remy…wait a minute. That’s the guy who showed up at the bar that night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hook up with him then?” Scott’s look of distaste belittled what Logan had shared with him.

“Uh-uh. It wasn’t like that. And whaddya take me for? I never did that shit with women either, fer cryin’ out loud. I don’t just take anyone home.” He didn’t admit that his third encounter with Remy yielded a night of passion. Scott rose from the floor and began putting away his tools. Logan felt the shift in his attitude and it rankled. “I might like both, Summers, but that doesn’t mean I’m easy.” Logan felt like he was defending his virtue, which was ridiculous. He was an adult, for fuck’s sake.

Scott shook his head. “I feel like an ass. Here I’ve been hoping you’d find someone you could really have something with-“

“Maybe I do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Guess I do. We’re just not on the same page.”

“You could have been more forthcoming.”

“You could act like it doesn’t matter.”

The silence between them was heavy as Logan, too, began putting away his tools. He radiated hurt, feeling it bathe him in flames and ugly prickles.

He had his back turned, but then Logan heard Scott fling down one of his wrenches with a loud clank on the concrete.

“Damn it…Logan, it doesn’t matter! All I care is that this shit doesn’t burn you! I hated fucking Walt!” That gave Logan pause.

“Wow.”

“There was always something I couldn’t pinpoint, but he just set off my asshole meter.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Summers.” But Logan’s shoulders relaxed.

“Do you want to get into this again?”

“There’s no ‘again.’ Rem’s different. He has a good heart. Ya met him. He won’t be shovin’ me through a wall any time soon.”

“What else does he even have to recommend him?” Logan could sense Scott shifting, opening up in small increments, more prepared to listen, and he felt relieved.

“He’s the whole package.”

“I can’t even imagine what that could be, for a guy.” Logan chuckled.

“Guess not. He’s a good cook, likes cars and keeps me warm.”

“Too much.” Scott held up his hands in surrender.

“Got it. Sorry.”

“So I can tell Lee to call off the matchmaking?”

“Roger that.”

“Well…good. That means she’ll quit nagging me, too. Lee’s got a whole slew of single friends that have yet to drop off the radar.”

“Tell ‘em I’m off the grid.”

“So, is Remy just…y’know? ‘Gay,’ gay?” Logan tsked. His smirk was mildly disgusted.

“’Gay,’ gay, he says… let’s assume he likes men now. Or at least he likes me. That’s all I care about.” Then Logan sobered. “He’s got a kid.” Scott blinked.

“You don’t do things halfway, do you? Big responsibility, dating someone with a kid. Or an ex.”

“Tell me about it.” Scott sighed, then closed the gap between them and clapped his shoulder roughly.

“Has he got any skeletons in the closet?”

That was a bigger, more important question. “That’s what I’m worried about, Scott. I think Rem’s in trouble.”

*

“Mr. LeBeau? Hi. I’m Doctor Samson.” Remy was up out of his seat like a shot at the sound of the smooth baritone hovering above him.

“How is he?”

“Mind if I sit down.”

“Non. Tell me ‘bout m’uncle.”

“He’s out of danger. Your uncle Philippe went into cardiac arrest. He’s resting now.

“Merde…thank God. Aw, thank God. Thank you.” Remy sat back down, collapsing back into the waiting room chair as though his strings were cut. He rubbed his eyes and wasn’t surprised to find slick tears welling around his fingertips, dripping onto the leg of his jeans. His sob was a deep heave, strangled and full of anguish. He felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder, felt him kneeling before him, meeting him on his own level.

“He’s all right. He’s not up for a lot of conversation or excitement right now, but you can sit with him. It will help him to see you when he wakes up, okay?” Remy nodded without looking into his face. The doctor patted his knee and rose, exiting the bland waiting room. Remy’s low sobs were underscored by the drone of the television, set on a “Without a Trace” rerun that Remy didn’t have the heart to turn off. The family a few tables away were engaged in it as a distraction, awaiting the end of an emergency craniotomy on their son after he was carried away from a three-car wreck.

Once again, Remy sat in vigil at Philippe’s bedside, craving the sound of his familiar, scratchy Creole drawl, but he contented himself with the echo of his breathing beneath the oxygen mask.

*

“Ain’t a bad neighborhood.”

“Appearances ain’t all they’re cracked up ta be, kid. Can’t be that nice of a neighborhood if they let Beudreaux live here.” Kyle played with his knife in the passenger seat, releasing the blade with one clean click. He pared a rim of dirt from beneath his thumbnail with the tip. He nicked himself, swore, and then sucked the wound, more for the taste than to salve the pain. “Pansy, sittin’ there suckin’ yer thumb!”

“Nah…”

“Thumbsucker!” he jeered, blue eyes raking over his best runner. Victor enjoyed Kyle’s bland look; his face hardly twitched.

“Beats bein’ a cocksucker.” Victor’s smirk faded.

“Heh. Yeah. Funny guy.”

Kyle smelled the change in Vic’s scent too late for it to do any good. Vic’s hand launched itself at him, clamping the scruff of his neck in an implacable grip. The blade clattered to the floor mat, and the interior of the Escalade was too dark to find it from where they parked in the shadows. Dusk had come and gone, and Julien had been gone too long.

FUCK! Pain exploded across the bridge of his nose as Vic crammed his face into the dash.

“Like that? Eh? Not bad fer a cocksucker like me, eh? Call me that again.”

“*keearrrgghhhh*…didn’t…call ya that, Vic…leggo…” Vic was amused at his struggle as he held his face against the hard, cold vinyl.

“Ya said it.”

“Didn’t…*kaff* mean that shit that way!”

“Sure ya didn’t. I ain’t got much patience fer anyone on my payroll sayin’ shit they say they don’t mean. I’m all about integrity, Gib. Manners don’t hurt, either. Ya don’t want me ta teach ya what yer mama left out, do ya?”

“She taught me manners!” he ground out on a yelp. Vic jerked him back by his thick, unruly ponytail, and Kyle’s eyes were wild, then shuttered against Vic’s gaze, which burned him.

“Didn’t get this far just on my pretty face. Or on suckin’ cock. Figuratively or literally. And that’s my fuckin’ business.” Kyle’s breaths heaved in and out of his rangy chest. “Understand?” A faint mist of blood sprayed from his nose as Kyle spoke, turning away to wipe his face on the back of his black, fingerless driving glove.

They continued to listen from across the street, roughly one block down from Bella’s modest house. Their sharp hearing picked up their words as though they were mere feet away. They saw Belladonna gesturing emphatically through the sheer curtains in the living room. Julien paced and cursed, throwing up his hands in frustration and anger. They saw him bend down briefly, then straighten up, holding a large cardboard box.

“Nice,” Vic muttered. “Don’tcha just love family?”

“Don’t miss mine,” Kyle confessed. He hadn’t since his mom turned him over to Social Services after his third jacked car. He’d had more practice since, thankfully, but old grudges died hard. His mom, on the other hand, died pretty easy, right next to his old man, thanks to a car bomb he’d rigged in the hatch of their station wagon. He couldn’t afford connections or loose ends; he reasoned she never loved him as much as his siblings, at any rate, so why quibble anymore? Now he was all about the score.

He rolled with Vic now. In for a penny, in for a pound. It had its perks.

And it was damned entertaining sometimes, like it was tonight. Julien was putting on a show, and Belladonna was screaming herself hoarse. She turned her back for a moment and called out plaintively to someone in the back of the house.

“Who the fuck’s Rene?”

“Guessin’ it’s her kid,” Vic shrugged.

“Hate the little bastards,” Kyle admitted.

“Ya look like the friggin’ Boogey Man.”

Look who’s talkin’, fucker. “Nah. I’m the monster under the bed. Boogey Man ain’t got half my cred.”

“No, you think you have cred.” But Victor chuckled under his breath, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He squinted at the dash, and he reached into the back for a moment. Victor produced a tub of Clorox wipes and shoved it at Gibney.

“Make yerself useful. Clean that up.” He nodded to the smear of his blood. Kyle sighed and did as he was told. He crumpled up the wipe and chucked it out the window. “Friggin’ litterbug.”

“He’s comin’ out,” Kyle hissed.

“Bout time.”

Julien stomped out onto the porch. He savagely threw his housekey back in through the front door behind him.

“Hope he’s got a copy.”

“She probably already changed the locks. Would’ve if she’s smart.”

“She’s got a dealer livin’ under her roof. She ain’t exactly a genius…” This was greeted by a low snort at the irony.

“Give him a minute. Then move.”

“Wait.”

An unfamiliar compact car drove up and appeared to be waiting for Julien to vacate the driveway so he could park.

“Who’s that?”

“Got me.”

Julien set down the box, nearly throwing it down onto the lawn. The car’s engine cut off and like a shot, a tall, familiar-looking young man got out and launched himself at Julien.

“Shit…”

“Nice. Gotta see this shit.”

The words both dark-haired men spat at each other in the dark were less important than the sheer venom between them, the blows thrown and the savage way they tore at each other. Victor winced at the crack of a fist against flesh from where he sat.

Belladonna came running out, crying out to them. “NON!”

“Frail’s French?”

“Nah. Creole, or some such shit…c’mon, like Julien, dumb ass, it is his sister!” Vic reminded him, slapping the back of his hand against Kyle’s chest.

Then, all three of them launched into French, which didn’t help matters any.

“Shoot,” Kyle complained. “It was gettin’ like Springer fer a sec.”

“Wait…why does that guy look familiar?”

“Dunno.”

“Somethin’…” Victor froze as Julien pushed him off, and he stumbled to his feet, more visible beneath the porch light.

Red eyes. And slightly long, chestnut hair surrounding a narrow face that smiled easily. Sure as hell wasn’t smiling now.

“Vic…Logan.” He nodded to him. “And…?”

“Remy.”

Remy. The runt’s boyfriend.


*Additional notes: I know a lot of language and themes in this chapter seem objectionable. My apologies, but in the meantime, the next two may continue on in the same vein. Be warned. I feel the dialogue fit the characters the way they have been represented in this story thus far.