The Thrill is Gone

Don’t Knock on My Door, Part Three

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

Author’s Note: I’ve been contemplating fan art to go with this, if I find nice reference pics. Considering a pic of Logan and Remy playing pool, based on the third chapter of this story (Scott’s bachelor party).

And amusingly enough, my husband was closing out of my programs after kicking me off and going to check his Facebook. He saw my document still open and said "The Thrill is Gone...what are you writing that about, real life?" Wiseguy.

*

“Lay low,” Vic murmured gently. “Find yer own way back ta meet me.” Kyle gave him a pointed look. “Don’t bother with that thing.” He meant the knife. Kyle shrugged.

“No prob.” He slipped silently from the car; the door’s click was barely audible, and he disappeared into the trees as he moved down the block. Victor lit up a cigarette and cracked the window.

He focused once again on the scene playing out before him, but this time, Victor let himself absorb what they said.

“Stay away from my son,” Remy growled, spitting on the pavement to rid himself of the warm blood seeping out onto his lower lip.

“Fuck you,” Julien grunted as he picked up the box. “T’ink ya so much better den me? Huh?”

“Don’ start dat shit. I ain’ gonna hear dat, mec. Ya fucked up.”

“Non. You de one who fucked up,” Julien informed him. His face was black with rage, his dark eyes nearly swallowed up by his heavy, scowling brows.

“Julien, please, jus’ go,” Belladonna pleaded weakly from the porch. “Go.” She waved him away, and again, the gesture was halfhearted but resigned. “Ya can’t stay here.”

Julien glared at her, but there was something beseeching and vulnerable in his posture and the set of his mouth. He seemed to deflate before he stormed off. He opened the passenger door of his car and slammed the box onto the seat, not caring about its contents. Bella hurried back inside and carried another box outside, but he stopped her.

“Fuck dat. Fuck you. Jus’ leave ‘em outside, I’ll come back an’ get ‘em!”

“Shut de fuck up! C'est votre plus jeune soeur!”* Remy roared. “Ya don’ get ta talk ta her dat way, motherfucker!”

“FUCK YOU!” he railed. Julien hocked up a glob of spit and released it in Remy’s direction. Remy followed Bella into the house and noticed the remaining boxes. He hurried to grab them, shouldering past his ex.

“Watch it!” she hissed.

“Get outta de way, Belle. Sorry,” he muttered. Remy dropped the box out front and made two more trips to get the rest, kicking and shoving them toward the steps.

“Asshole. T’ink yer gonna mess wit’ my shit?” Julien said more to himself than to Remy as he jerked open his door and lunged inside the car. His slam was loud enough to be heard down the block, no different from every word shouted among the three of them within the past fifteen minutes. “T’ink ya gotta gang up on me, huh? T’ink yer so bad, mec? Grew a pair’a balls jus’ ‘cuz Bella’s standin’ dere?” Remembered shame pricked Remy as his past trangressions with his brother in law came back into too sharp, painful focus. “Gonna pay, asshole.” He punched the key into the ignition and the engine made a loud, protesting thunk before it roared to life. Julien revved the gas three times before he put it into gear, tearing down the residential street. Remy tsked in disgust as he heard Julien’s loud music drifting back toward them, an additional demand that they fuck off.

Remy sighed and wandered back into the house. He rubbed his jaw, annoyed at the scratch of stubble along his skin. He knew he looked like hell.

“Ya look like death warmed over,” Bella mused weakly. Her voice was hoarse and her blue eyes were tired.

“Shit…t’anks a bunch.”

“Siddown.” She nodded to the couch, and Remy obeyed reluctantly, until a low sound in the back hall caught his attention.

“Papa?”

“Petit,” he murmured, his voice full of regret. He hated himself. Rene’s tender ears heard everything, and he could tell by the glimmer of tears in his eyes that it broke his heart. Remy automatically held out his arms and began to close the gap between himself and his son. Rene’s voice broke and dragged itself into a long, shrill sob.

“S-scared,” he whimpered into Remy’s shirt. His breathing kept hitching, and he kept making little hiccupping noises each time that he tried to speak. “You…*…were…fi-fightin-ing, Pa…*…Papa,” he insisted. More hot tears drenched Remy’s tee, and he felt them wet his chest. Rene’s sorrow literally seeped into him a drop at a time.

“It wuz wrong, Papa was wrong when he did dat, an’ said what he said,” Remy replied in supplication. “Sorry, petit. Papa’s so sorry. Got real angry at Oncle.”

“H-he’s…he’s not…comin’ back?”

“Petit…ssshh…”

“He’s going away, forever?” he wailed.

“Dieu,” Remy breathed. Bella drifted over protectively and sheltered her son’s back, stroking his soft hair. It was one of the only times in recent years that they had stood in a tight little knot, Remy and Belladonna standing united as parents instead of engaging in backbiting and shouting matches. Rene’s back was still heaving beneath Remy’s hands, even as Bella made low crooning sounds and blew out long, rhythmic shushes through her lips.

“Oncle Julien’s gotta leave, petit. It ain’ anyt’in’ you’ve done,” Bella began. “He got into some trouble. He needs t’take care of it. Dere’s somet’in’ wrong wit’ Oncle right now. We can’t help ‘im wit’ it anymore.”

“No! Don’-don’t w-want ‘im to gooooooo!” Remy slowly rocked him and gently covered his son’s ear with his palm, blocking out some of the sound in the room and isolating his heartbeat for him to hear alone, something that used to help soothe him through night frights when he was small. The gesture also blanketed the sound of his son’s wails so he wouldn’t make himself more upset.

“Oncle Ju-Julien’s never coming…back, a-and Oncle Philippe’s gonna die, an-and…” he stammered out. Remy paled.

“Non. Philippe’s jus’ restin’, petit. He don’ feel too good, but de doctors are helpin’ ‘im get well.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Bella said. “Rene, yer gettin’ some milk. Settle down fer Papa.”

Remy carried his son with some difficulty to the couch and let him rest on his lap, skinny arms wrapped tightly around Remy’s neck.

“You were…fighting,” Rene accused.

“Oui. Desole, petit. Grownups ain’ s’posed ta fight.”

“Like at my party.”

“Like at your party. Yer right, chere. Dat time, Papa wuz so worried ‘bout you an’ where you were, but dat don’ make it right, eit’er.”

Rene’s sobs tapered off into sniffles by the time Belladonna came out of the kitchen with two hot mugs in her hands. She set down Remy’s coffee and pushed the cup of warm milk at him to give their son. Remy coaxed him to drink some and his nose picked up a hint of cinnamon and sugar.

“Oncle got mixed up in some bad t’ings, Rene,” Remy told him. “T’ings dat ain’t good for lil’ boys ta be around.”

“Okay,” he agreed, nodding into Remy’s neck. He managed to get him to finish half the cup, and Remy didn’t think he would manage to leave the house for a while, with his son in this state.

But he was wrong. When he headed back to Rene’s room, once again his own, now, with Julien’s things missing from it, he laid down with him and coaxed him to sleep. Within ten minutes he was out like a light. Remy waited until his son’s grip on him was perfectly limp before tucking his little arms beneath the covers and wrapping them around his stuffed doll. He eased himself from the bed, trying not to let the mattress dip too far, and Remy tiptoed out, turning on his son’s night light before he cracked the door shut by mere centimeters. He wanted to be able to hear Rene, but didn’t want his son to hear his talk with his mother.

Remy sighed heavily as he sunk into the couch.

“Dat sucked,” he groaned.

“No shit,” she agreed, sipping on her own cup of coffee. She eyed him wearily, looking like she needed to go to bed herself. “How’s Philippe?”

“Had an episode. Almost lost him. His heart.”

“Oh, no,” she said, wincing. “M’sorry. He okay?”

“Barely. Gon’ head back over tonight. I’ll give ya de room number, if ya wanna call. Can’t bring Rene, though. He’s in trauma ICU, dey don’ allow kids under thirteen.”

“Shit. Okay. I might stop by t’check on ‘im when Rene’s in school.”

“Dat’s fine.”

“Need me t’bring ‘im anyt’in?”

“Non.”

Now came the hard part.

“Bella, dis had Julien’s mark on it. M’sure of it.” Her hand froze in the act of lifting her cup to her lips. She set it down with a low thunk.

“De hell you say!”

“Bella…he knows his way into de shop.”

“Dat don’ mean anyt’in’!” she hissed.

“Bella…why didn’ ya tell me Julien used my car?”

“What?” She paused in her building tirade at his words.

“Why? I know he used my car. Smelled de pot. When were ya gonna tell me, Bella?”

All of the anger in her eyes faded. “Remy…I didn’t know he wuz even takin’ it til de next mornin’. Smelled de shit myself. Knew ya’d be mad.”

“Course I’d be mad. Bella…he took it de same night dat de shop was ripped off de first time.”

Her face paled.

“Remy…dat’s a coincidence. Don’ pin dat on mon frere.”

“Gimme one reason why Remy shouldn’t. Ain’ no one else in my mind who would’ve been so bold.”

Her heart raced and he could see her mentally discarding arguments one after the other, even as her body language defied Remy.

“Ya can’t make an assumption like dat,” she finally said.

“Oncle said he remembers two men. I t’ink he was tryin’ ta tell me one of ‘em was Julien. He said his name. Didn’t say in so many words dat it wuz him, but he gave me his name.”

Her face crumpled, and he watched with regret and even a little fear as Belladonna fell apart. “Non,” she mewled. “Non…pour quoi…pour quoi…Julien…Julien…”

She knew his words rung true. And it killed her.

Remy stood quietly and crossed the room. “Belle. C’mere.” He ignored her hands as they tried to push and slap him away, and Remy pulled her into his arms as he knelt by her side. He rocked her as he had Rene; the difference was, he didn’t need any explanations or white lies this time. His embrace was an apology, free of I-told-you-sos or accusations.

Remy helped Belladonna lock up the house minutes later. He paused in the hallway as she brushed her teeth, the bathroom light the only illumination.

“Wuz dat ev’ryt’in? Ya packed up all his shit?”

“Oui. Ev’ry’tin’ I could find.”

“Mind if I take a look around?” She spit out the paste and rinsed her mouth.

“Whaddya t’ink yer gonna find, chere?”

“Gotta know if dere’s somet’in’ I’m missin’.” She sighed.

“Don’ wake up Rene.”

He checked the bedroom, searching the dresser and toy box, then Rene’s small desk. Remy carefully moved aside his son’s pile of shoes and some forgotten toys in the closet. Remy pulled a plastic set of drawers away from the wall and checked behind it, feeling around.

His hand found a small, thick envelope. He tugged it out and took it out into the hall. Belladonna watched him open it; it wasn’t sealed.

He spread out several white and yellow copies of receipts, mostly machine-printed, but some of them were handwritten for custom-order parts.

“Why’s he got receipts?” she muttered, confused as he sifted through them.

“Credit receipts. Can get the card numbers on ‘em and use ‘em on de phone, online, don’ matter.”

“Shit.”

“Dese were missin’ from de shop.” He pointed to the tiny print that read “Thank you for shopping LeBeau and Son’s for all your auto and racing needs” on the bottom of each.

*


Her goodbye was terse. She heard him lock the door on his way out and Remy was glad to get some fresh air and be alone with his thoughts. He scrubbed his face with his palm and craved a shower.

And despite the late hour, he wanted to talk to Logan. But Remy knew he had more pressing matters, namely putting in a call to the police station and letting him know what he found.

But it nagged him, the urge to unburden himself to Logan, and to divulge everything between him and Julien and to do away with all of his secrets. He didn’t want to hide anything from him anymore, not his own foolishness and complacence in allowing himself to live with a criminal, let alone become physically involved for so long.

Remy had watched from the sidelines too long while his brother in law let a long string of clients in and out of their home. He watched him use his wife, and let him come between them, and for what?

He nearly lost his son. Twice. Remy hated himself for it. Shame washed over him as he keyed his way into his car.

He paused a moment, leaning against the open door as he took out his cell. He speed-dialed Logan’s number, watching the “Dialing…” message with impatience. He wasn’t picking up.

“Chere,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece. “Missed ya. Miss you. Gonna be at the de hospital in a while. I’ll call you. Dey don’ wan’ cell phones in de rooms ‘cuz of de equipment.” His fingers tightened around the small handset. “Miss you,” he repeated, clapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket. With a sigh, he ducked into the car.

His back barely hit the cool upholstery when a heavy, calloused hand clapped itself over his mouth. Remy’s heart leapt into his throat, and his red eyes grew round with terror as they swung to the rearview mirror.

An icy blue gaze met his, and foul breath heavy with cigarette smoke bathed his ear. “Drive, asshole.”

The cool metal pressed against his temple brooked no argument. Remy fumbled with his keys and managed to shove the correct one into the ignition. The car revved slowly to life, and he automatically took the first right at the end of the block.

“Freeway,” his passenger rasped, no longer whispering. “Don’t try anything.”

“Non,” Remy promised. His voice was hoarse and tense.

Kyle leaned back, but he kept the Glock trained on him. He casually raised his arm and laid it over the top of the bench seat in back, musing.

“Ya know ya know too much, right?” Remy said nothing. “Huh? Whatsamatter, cat got yer tongue?”

Remy sickened more by the minute, and a rash of cold sweat broke out over his chest. The freeway. What if he was trying to lead him out of town to kill him?

An inkling of who this man could be suddenly penetrated his terror.

“Ya don’t hide much from the neighbors, do ya? Shit, I thought I had drama from my old lady, but you guys made me wish I had popcorn.”

“Jus’ take de car, if ya wan’ it. Please.”

“Please, nuthin’. It ain’t the car that I want, Bright Eyes. Damn, they look spooky in the dark, ya know that?” He ground the tip of his Glock against his scalp more firmly. “Keep ‘em front, wise guy.” Remy’s stomach twisted, threatening more pressure against his bowels. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

“Hurry up,” Kyle barked. “Don’t drag yer feet.”

“Where we goin’?”

“Ya ain’t gonna hafta worry about that.”

I kissed my son goodnight. The thought penetrated Remy’s frantic jumble clearly. It was all he had to hold on to.

Remy’s hope flagged and died a little more with each green light they hit.

“Turn on the radio, if yer gonna be so quiet,” his captor ordered. With a shaking hand, Remy clicked on the volume knob. It was the same old rock station that Logan favored, and the gruff, smug man in the back seat was satisfied with it.

“Def Leppard. That’s some good shit,” he muttered. “Used ta fuck in my basement ta this in high school.” If Remy weren’t so petrified, he would have laughed.

He needed to get out of the car. If he headed out onto the freeway, he’d never be seen again. But if he stopped, what was to keep him from getting shot, anyway?

Remy took a hope-to-heaven chance and jerked the gearshift into park at the next light.

“What the fuck…?!” Kyle was fast, launching himself at the back of Remy’s neck, but Remy was faster. He’d already undone the seatbelt as they drove, and it snapped back into the holster as he shouldered his way out of the car, right into traffic.

He’d bought himself precious minutes. Remy threw himself into a breathless, dead run, ignoring the blare of car horns behind him. A station wagon skidded to a halt at the crosswalk as he interrupted its right turn on red.

Julien’s man would have to make an illegal U-turn to catch up with him once he made his way into the driver’s seat. But the streets in this neighborhood were poorly lit, and it was six blocks to the nearest open store. He heard the screech of tires…

His own car bore down on him. Remy reached into his pocket and ducked into a narrow alley.

He fumbled with the buttons, trying to dial nine-one-one. He hid behind a noxious dumpster, trying not to wretch at the stench of beer bottles and banana peels.

He heard his car door slam and contemplated the alley. He didn’t know where the end of it led, or if he’d make it onto the next open street in time.

“Know yer back here, dumb ass,” a rough voice called out. “Ya gotta make this hard, huh?”

His heart pounded in his chest. If he dialed nine-one-one, he had a chance…

“Come out, come out, wherever ya are…”

His voice sounded too close. The end of the alley was sounding better and better.

Remy made up his mind and ran. A stitch gathered in his side and burned. Kyle was hot on his heels. His feet splashed through a fetid puddle, wetting his legs in icy water. He didn’t know how sharp a shot the rangy blond was in pursuit, but he didn’t want to find out.

He gripped his phone so hard that his sweaty thumb hit the menu button. All Remy heard were his own harsh breaths and the pounding of two sets of feet, the ones behind him closing in on him.

“H’lo? This is Logan?”

Remy was so surprised that he misstepped, and his ankle twisted painfully before he went down. He bit his tongue, tasting blood, and he scrambled to get up.

“Chere,” he grunted out between gasps. “Chere…s’me…”

“ Rem? Where are ya?”

He never answered him. Remy felt something hard and cold slam into his skull. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and everything went black.

“Remy? Rem! REM! You there?”

Kyle chuckled at the echo of a confused, frantic voice as he clapped Remy’s phone shut, tucking it into his own pocket. He considered throwing it away, but his contact list might prove useful.

He would eventually regret it.