The Thrill is Gone

Summary: Logan and Remy respectively get back to business as usual. We hear a brief voice from Remy’s past.

When Remy headed back to the shop, the afternoon rush had just shown up, and someone had swiped his parking spot. He cursed as he careened into one of the remaining five spaces in the back.

“S’why it say ‘Employees Only,’” he grumbled. The paper was still tucked under his arm, even though he had already read what he wanted of it. He was still humming B.B. under his breath as he strode back into the garage. He flicked on the radio above his rolling tool cabinet and started back to work on the car, deciding he might as well order the new air filter while he was at it, mentally adding one more list to Nate’s order form.

The man in the diner said his name was Logan. There was something steady about that name. It was easy to trust someone with a name like that, or to want to, at any rate… he shook away the thought as quickly as it came. What was wrong with him?

Nate poked his head in through the doorframe. “Got a message, Rem.”

“Yeah?”

“Woman’s voice. Said she needs to talk to you when you get a moment. Preferably today.”

“She give her name?”

“Sounded like you. Country-fried accent,” Nate joked. Remy casually flipped him the bird, widening his grin before he walked out.

“Message is on your timecard,” Nate tossed over his shoulder. Remy sighed and went back to work on the engine, not in any hurry to return the call.

He knew it was Bella. No other woman had his work number, when he never gave it out.

The rest of his day was relatively productive. He fielded two customers inside the shop to spell Nate for his break and had him submit his orders for the custom parts. When he got home, the couch called his name, but he knew he wouldn’t get back up from it, knowing his frequent habit of falling asleep in front of CSI or ESPN. He showered, bowing his face into the bracing spray and clouding the mirror with the aromatic steam of his Old Spice body wash. His knotted muscles eased slightly, and his groans echoed off the shower walls. He still didn’t want to call Bella and disturb his peace, but it had to be done.

He was clad in a grey cotton tank and Harley-Davidson boxer shorts minutes later, hair still damp and slick as he perused the freezer. He pulled out some ribs and set them in the sink to thaw before he started making his patented marinade and barbecue sauce. He slid his B.B. King disc into his small stereo hanging from beneath the cabinet and hummed along in a baritone no one would pay to hear. His evening was beginning to take shape.

As though on cue, his phone jangled from the cradle.

“Merde.” The linoleum felt cool beneath his bare feet as he leaned his butt against the edge of the dinette and drawled, “Dis Remy?”

“Dis Remy? Really?” Her voice held no more love for him than it had weeks ago. “T’ought it be the deadbeat that ain’t been home t’see his fils,” she grumbled sourly.

“Den stop holdin’ him hostage, chere,” he shot back, already hating the angry flush rising up his neck. “Last Remy knew, his maman was s’posed t’bring him t’Salem, since y’promised. An’ promised again, when y’made excuses ‘bout ‘dis weekend wit’ Tony, and dat weekend wit’ Tony, and how Rene be in bed already, even when y’tol’ me t’call him at de time ya specified, Bella.” He strolled out of the kitchen, no longer focused on dinner. Talking with Belladonna always made his stomach roil.

“Rene, honey pie, y’wan’ talk wit’ Papa?” he heard her murmur in the background, ignoring his complaints and shoving his son between them, as she had time and time again. “Here,” she announced, and he heard the welcome, curious chirp of his son’s voice that warmed him despite the aggravation the boy’s mother always heaped on his head.

“When y’comin’ home, Papa?”

“When y’wan’ Papa t’come home?” he offered, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. Rene was the apple of his eye, and the only decent thing his mother ever offered to the world.

“Wanna see ya today, Papa!”

“Late fuh that, mon fils.” He peered out the window and saw the sky already turning a rich navy and revealing a handful of stars at a time. “Wanna see ya this weekend.”

“Papa wants t’come over, Maman,” he insisted, and Remy could swear he could see his son’s little face screwing up thoughtfully before putting the question to Bella. His chest swelled with pride as he mused at his son’s mannerisms that reminded him so much of Jean-Luc that it hurt.

He relinquished the phone to Bella again and scampered off, presumably to bed. “Just cashed de cheque,” she informed him. “Late wit’ it, non?”

“De hell you say,” Remy growled. “Put it in de mail on Wednesday, just like every Wednesday. Ya wan’ blame Remy fuh not comin’ t’see Rene on the weekend when y’can’t seem ta remember when y’gon’ be gone, y’can kiss Remy’s ass. Don’ tell Remy he didn’ send de cheque.” There was an exasperated pause at the other end of the line. Remy could hear her gnawing her bottom lip.

“Just be sure ya don’ forget.”

“Ain’t gonna forget, Bella. Seem t’have forgotten Remy’s payin’ ya t’keep our son as well as y’can, but dat means I’m also payin’ ya t’keep him away from me, when ya don’ let me see him. That ain’t fair, an’ it ain’t right.”

“Lot of things ain’t fair, Remy.”

“Rene’s gonna know his pere,” Remy stated flatly.

“Bonne nuit,” she drawled, and she hung up. Remy flung the phone handset onto the couch and gave the coffee table a savage kick.

~0~

Logan sweated beneath his thick, fleece-lined denim jacket, making a face at the steamy, chemical smell of the dry cleaning shop on Fifth Street. Idly he watched the racks of clothes spin, plastic sheathes rustling beneath the drone of patrons chatting by the counter and the hiss of irons in the back.

He hated bachelor parties, but at least he’d cut a dash.

He handed the girl at the counter his tag, returning her faint smile before she dashed off to retrieve his shirts and slacks. He’d hated Silver’s insistence that he stand for hours in the men’s section of department stores that didn’t have so much as a pair of sweat socks or character tees in sight. He endured the press of shirts still on their hangers that she’d hold up to him in front of the mirrored pillars, tsking over which color best suited his skin tone. He hated the treks to the changing room even more, chafing at her cries to march out in his stocking feet, trussed up like a turkey, so she could see how they looked on him. Logan preferred his way better: Hold it up. See if it fits. Take it home.

To her credit, at least she gave him a semblance of a choice. Walter rode roughshod over everything from his wardrobe to the groceries that stocked his shelves. Animal magnetism drew him to the charismatic physicist, even though it taken weeks for either of them to make the first move. He’d been relieved, for a while, to remove himself from his temperamental partner’s controlling ways and erratic mood swings. Logan credited himself with being gruff, and a man of few words, but he was also calm, consistent, and valued loyalty.

The final straw had been an argument that found him shouting himself hoarse until Walt slammed him back against the kitchen wall, hard enough to knock out a chunk of plaster and make Logan see stars. He staggered to his feet, brushing his hands from him and ignoring the larger, blond man’s tears and pleas that he would never do it again as he stalked back to their bedroom. His bags were packed within minutes; he signed off the lease and had his name removed from their mailbox.

By contrast, Silver Fox was outgoing, bubbly, and lavished him with attention that occasionally became stifling, but she, too, was consistent, a welcome contrast to Walter Langkowski. She was a giving bed partner, despite an annoying habit of hogging the covers and cramming her backside into his lower back when they slept. Silver, like Scott’s fiancée, Aleytys, was a complete “girl,” through and through. Soft curves, rippling black hair that skimmed her back, and she was delicate, feeding his urge to protect her.

He couldn’t, or wouldn’t offer her forever. Two years found them equally frustrated, unengaged, and speaking in monosyllables over breakfast. She ended the charade by calling him from work and letting him know that she was moving out. She took their dog, Cupcake, and unfortunately left him with the closet full of clothes he never wanted in the first place, hardly a fair trade.

In an odd way, he was thankful. He dreaded shopping, and he wasn’t looking forward to Scott’s party above and beyond having a good, stiff drink.

The wire hangers dug into the thick pads of his fingers as he swept out of the store and headed to the liquor store to purchase his favorite brand of cigars.

Summers told him the other day he wouldn’t have to bring his own beer, which was a plus. He changed twenty dollars to singles at the bank for the sake of courtesy; knowing Scott’s knucklehead brother, Alex, he could count on at least two, maybe three exotic dancers knocking at their door. It didn’t phase him, but it also didn’t really matter to him.

An hour later, Logan was clad in a black guayabera shirt, long-sleeved and embroidered in black thread with knife-sharp pintucking. The shirt was one of the rare purchases that Silver talked him into that he liked, so he kept it in pristine condition, entrusting its care to the dry cleaners instead of ironing it himself. Plain, crisp charcoal slacks and a pair of black leather shoes were topped with a brown bomber jacket he’d forgotten he even had; he tucked one of his Cubans into the lining’s pocket along with his wallet. Logan raked his fingers through his hair, giving himself a final appraisal and kicking himself one last time for promising to attend. Scott Summers was only younger than Logan by about ten years, but he ran with a young crowd and was attempting to keep up with his even younger bride.

His knuckles sounded hollow on the heavy oak door, and he saw a lanky, blond form wavering its way over through the smoked glass panes before Alex’s voice approached him.

“Hey, stranger, get in here! ‘Bout time!” His palm smarted with his clap of a handshake, and Logan grinned as he was practically yanked inside. “What took you so long?”

“Had ta do my nails,” he grinned.

“Have a drink, take a load off.” He raised his voice over the clamor from the living room as they made their way through the foyer.

“Logan’s here,” Alex bellowed over the din. The forty-two inch plasma screen set was pumping the roars from the crowd at the Jets game through huge speakers. Scott looked up from uncapping a bottle of beer and grinned. He came out from behind the corner and gave him the same treatment Alex had, his handshake firm and accompanied by a gruff slap on the back. He even handed him the fresh beer.

“Nice set-up,” Logan approved, nodding to the crowd. A few familiar faces nodded at him as he took up the last place on the wraparound sofa and set his bottle in the cup rest. “How’re things at the school?”

“Awesome. But I’m going on sabbatical next month. Got a dig in Peru.” Alex was one of the youngest professors at NYU, and geology was his first love. To Logan, rocks were rocks. But Alex managed to be the life of the party due to his taste for adventure, including things like photographing sharks in cages, bungee jumping, rock climbing (of course), and skiing K12 slopes. More to the point, his girlfriend, Lorna, kept up with him no matter what his obsession of the week. She was nice enough, Logan mused, but shock mingled with stifled laughter the first time he’d seen her chartreuse green hair. But Lorna was a pistol.

“Bring yer bug repellent and sunscreen, bub.” Alex chuckled.

“Wanna come with?”

“Nah. Yer brother and I are about ta list that property on Graymalkin Lane. Then I’m workin’ on a remodel and installing a spa tub in a condo. I’m booked.”

“Your loss,” Alex shrugged.

“I’m gonna get my hands just as dirty,” Logan shrugged back, tipping back his beer.

To the Summers’ brothers’ credit, the food was pretty good. Logan tore into a decent barbecued pork rib and added his voice to the chorus of men bellowing at the screen over a fumbled pass. He’d no sooner chucked his paper plate and rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink when the doorbell rang; his sharp hearing picked up the sounds of feminine giggles from the other side.

The entertainment had arrived.

Logan heard him beckoning to his new guests, “Come in, ladies!” that was followed by high heels clicking over the hard wood floor in the foyer. Two women peered inside the house, clad in knee-length trenchcoats and flowery perfume that stung Logan’s nostrils. Annoyance and resignation rippled up his spine.

They were certainly beautiful. The taller, dark-haired one winked at him as they moved back toward the guest bedroom to get ready. He gave her a lazy smile and finished his beer, reaching for another one as Scott sidled up. Their chaperone for the night stood in the corner, fiddling with a portable strobe light and unbuckling a case.

“Remember about what I said before about posting bail?”

“Psshht!” Logan hissed between his teeth. Scott laughed. Their boom box was immediately connected to the speakers in the living room. There was a faint rustling in the hall as the women returned to the front of the house. Logan gave them a long once-over of male appreciation.

They were purposely a study in contrasts, one naughty, one nice. The dark-haired one was attired in black leather with the prerequisite metallic accessories and props, including a black leather riding crop. Fishnets made her legs look miles long, and she smiled through sultry red lips. Her partner was more petite and had shoulder-length auburn hair, choosing a white two-piece teddy with lace trim and gartered white hose. She was more voluptuous, but, Logan considered, the leggy one had a fantastic ass. High, full, round and spankable.

“How are you folks doing tonight?” boomed their chaperone. “My name’s Guido, and I’ll be running the night’s festivities. We’re all adults here, but I’m gonna run down the rules. These lovely ladies can touch you, but don’t take any liberties. I’ll make change for large bills. We’re here for an hour. Body shots can be purchased for three dollars.”

“That’s inflation,” Alex muttered, “and highway robbery.”

“Say hello to Sara and Callisto,” he announced, introducing them before he clicked on the music. Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrrty” filled the room, barely audible over whistles and catcalls.

“Who’s the lucky groom?” Callisto purred. Alex yanked his brother forward as their friend, Bobby, pulled up a kitchen chair and slid it into the center of the room. Scott was casually shoved into it as Callisto stepped forward, crop in hand and a mischievous gleam in her dark eyes.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked him in a husky tone.

“New Year’s Day,” he admitted slyly.

“Uh-uh, handsome. It just came today.” She pivoted and dipped, bending over with her legs spread wide, leaving him face-to face with her toned ass. She wiggled it before his eyes and peeked back at him through her legs before rising up slowly, giving everyone in the room an ample view of her cleavage. In another sinuous moment she glided down to his lap, her long black hair slicking over his shoulder in a glossy spill. The lap dance had begun. Scott flushed red as a beet; her hair tickled his lips and obscured his smile.

Logan skipped the body shots. He skipped the oil. He skipped the lap dances, but that didn’t stop the flirtations or the teasing. More of that cloying perfume tickled his nose. Creamy flesh gleamed beneath the lights, tempting him, but he kept his seat, only rising to refresh his beer.

He didn’t see anything he wanted to order on the menu.


~0~

Harry’s was packed to the rafters. The interior was dark and stuffy, more than Alex’s living room, and Logan nearly hated to part from the brisk night air as he exited the second of two cabs that brought them downtown. He only felt a faint buzz despite relieving Scott of a six-pack and a half, but his first priority was to shrug off his jacket and pee.

On his way back from the men’s, he scanned the pool room for an empty table. Finding them all occupied, he headed for the bar, deciding to move on to something stronger. He slapped down a five-spot and the bartender slapped down a shot of tequila. He didn’t care about mixing tonight. Scott’s raucous laughter followed him to the bar, along with “war stories” from the party guests that lacked discretion and all semblance of sympathy.

“You’re not escaping that easily,” Scott informed him easily.

“I ain’t runnin’. Still gotta kick yer ass at pool, once we get a table,” Logan replied.

“Eh.”

“Sissy.” Logan scanned the tables again, and this time found one empty. “Grab a cue when ya grow a big enough pair, Summers!” He downed the shot and bit heartily into the wedge of lemon before chucking it into the cocktail napkin.

“You’re on. Still thirsty.” Logan sneered and waved him away, his back already turned.

He reached the table and fed quarters into the slot just as a familiar voice halted him.

“I wuz just ‘bout t’play.”

“Been waitin’ fer a table,” Logan murmured dryly as he reached for a cue.

“Play ya?”

“Why not?” Then he turned to face his new opponent and felt a slow smile creep over his lips. “Hey.” The tall Cajun looked up from retrieving the balls and dropping them into the rack. Red-on-black eyes twinkled with recognition, crinkling at the corners.

“Logan, right, homme?”

“Remy?” The young man nodded and grinned.

“Didn’t know dis one of yer haunts, mec.”

“They might as well carve my name in one of the stools,” Logan admitted. He beckoned to him to take the first break. The balls clacked apart sharply as he scattered them across the green felt. Two striped balls rolled into the left corner pocket.

“Not to shabby.”

“De table likes Remy,” he offered. He focused more on Logan than he did his next shot. “Come here wit’ anyone?”

“Yep. Stag party.” He motioned to the bar, pointing out the man with brown hair wearing a dark rugby sweater. “That’s the lucky man over there.”

“Dead man walking,” Remy huffed. Logan cocked a shaggy brow at him. “Tell him Remy wishes ‘im well.” He chalked his cue and blew off the excess blue dust.

“Sure. He’ll believe that when ya put it that way, bub.”

“Marriage ain’ Remy’s cup o’ tea.”

“Eh. Got it.” Remy scratched in the center pocket. Logan lined up a sweet shot and let it fly with a resounding crack. “I ain’t gonna argue with it, either.”

“Ever tied de knot?”

“Nope. Never occurred ta me ta take that plunge.”

“Never asked, or nevah thought ‘bout it?”

“Never planned on it. Sharin’ a key an’ sharin’ a last name ain’t always the same thing. My last girl wasn’t that patient.” Remy took a thoughtful sip of his beer. Logan went out on a limb. “Last relationship before that was a different ball of wax. I had ta leave.” Remy made a funny sound in his throat, frowning slightly at the Logan’s grave look.

“Dey hurt ya?”

“Yeah.” He corrected himself. “They tried.” The yellow ball rolled neatly into the pocket. “Ya don’t hafta knock me in the head to get the message that somethin’ ain’t working. That’s about what it took fer me ta pack my stuff.”

“Shit,” Remy muttered under his breath. “M’sorry t’head dat, homme.”

“I’m here ta talk about it. That’s all that matters. I moved on.” Logan eyed the remaining balls and judged the angle. None of them looked good. “Ya finished workin’ on that car ya mentioned?”

“Not yet.” Even so, Remy puffed up with pride. “Almost a shame t’see it finished once we done.”

“That ain’t how I feel about finishing a house. The demo always goes fine. It’s finding all the stuff that’s wrong with the house that’s a bitch. Termites, plumbing, faulty wiring, bad roof…anything that can go wrong, will go wrong when yer in the middle of a job.”

“Ya enjoy it?”

“I live it, breathe it, and eat it.” Remy chuckled.

“Den Remy call you when he buy a house that needs fixin’.”

“I’m yer man.” The words slipped through his lips before he could stop them. Remy gave him a quizzical look that was full of interest. He was dressed casually, but the grubby coveralls were long gone this time. His jaw was smoothly shaved, but like Logan, his follicles threatened to give way to five o’clock shadow any minute. His golden skin was otherwise smooth. His frame was long and lean, yet tautly muscled. He wore a charcoal gray sweater with a horizontal black stripe that complemented his dark, snug jeans. Clean black sneakers shod his feet, and his auburn hair was longer than Logan first estimated it in the diner, waving back from a slightly high forehead. His cheekbones were high and sharp, and he quirked arched, tapered brows. Then there were those eyes. Those intense, captivating eyes…it was also taking every ounce of control Logan had not to look at his mouth.

His fingers were slim with work-roughened knuckles, but his nails were short, clean and free of engine grease. He was damned handsome, easily drawing the glances of several women when he strolled through the door.

He looked like a man who trailed broken hearts in his wake. Logan’s mouth went dry. He craved another shot.

Remy read his mind. “Let Remy buy ya a round.”

“Sauza,” Logan replied, not bothering to decline.

“Sure, mec.” Remy took his last shot, and scratched the eight-ball. Logan grinned. “Rack ‘em up!” Logan did as he bade him, looking up from the worn vinyl triangle briefly to watch him walk away. He felt a tingling flush and then shook himself.

Alex approached nearly an hour later, tapping him right after finishing the game. Remy had beaten him six out of ten rounds and was just chalking up again when he saw the lanky blond, looking flushed like he had a few.

“We’re gearing up to hit the next bar.”

“I’m pretty happy here.”

“We were all gonna call a cab; might save you the trouble.”

“My fingers ain’t broken. I can call my own cab,” Logan explained with a shrug. His eyes didn’t brook any argument. Alex had the strangest feeling he’d interrupted something private, even though the bar was crowded. Logan’s acquaintance moved forward to shake his hand.

“Name’s Remy.”

“Alex.” His eyes unsettled him, and Alex prepared to go.

“I’ll let Scott know you’re gonna hang here.”

“Suits me. Get him home safe,” Logan growled. “He ain’t gonna be in any shape ta pick up a hammer if ya get him anymore shitfaced than he is!”

“You guys haven’t seen shitfaced,” Alex promised. Remy chuckled goodnaturedly.

“Tell ‘im congrats,” Remy called after him.

“Yeah. Later!” Alex rushed off, weaving through the crowd. Logan sighed.

“He wuz right. Did’n hafta stay if it wuz easier t’go wit’ ‘im.”

“Ya know my fingers ain’t broken after playing enough rounds with me,” Logan pointed out. His chiseled lips curled as he cocked one brow.

“Might hafta prove it t’dis Cajun, den. Unless y’been hustlin’ Remy all did time?”

“Rack ‘em up.”

Logan was as good as his word. He beat Remy the next four out of six games before Harry announced last call. The music from the second floor barely made it down to the main lounge. Some of the patrons enjoyed the jukebox opposite the bar. Logan moved away briefly, excusing himself to peer at its selections. His eyes landed on a song he hadn’t heard in ages but suddenly craved.

BB and Lucille wailed that the thrill was gone, this rendition of it made smokier by Tracy Chapman’s throaty alto. Several sets of eyes looked up in surprise at his choice, but heads bobbed and foots tapped in the easy rhythm. Remy once again looked thoughtful.

“Always loved dis one.” He took another sip of his last beer. “Remy’s ex hate dis kinda music.” It took him back, way back. He wore the original song out whenever he played his old 35’s.

“Blues?”

“Oui. Ain’ de only t’ing we didn’ see eye t’eye on.”

“I like the classics. This is definitely one of ‘em.”

“Bella thought she married somebody else.” He leaned his backside against the edge of the table as Logan aimed, enjoying the grip of his large, strong hands on the cue, the solid arc of his body over the game. “Sure as hell wasn’t Remy.”

The music overhead came to an abrupt stop. The final notes of the song on the jukebox faded away, and to Logan’s disappointment, Harry called closing time. He collected his jacket and reached for his cell. “Need a ride?”

“Non. Live down de street. M’own two feet’ll get me dere.”

Logan grunted. “Fine with me. Stay safe. G’night, Remy.”

“G’night, mon ami.” This time Remy treated himself to the sight of Logan’s retreating back, wondering if, or even when he’d see him again. His time with the gruff loner passed quickly and pleasurably. He carried thoughts of him home.


~0~

“Gon’ be a while before I lock up,” Philippe informed Remy the following evening. Remy was just wiping his hands on a grubby towel and shucking his coveralls. Remy had rode in with his uncle to work that morning to save gas, earning himself a lecture. Remy was always leaner in the pocket after sending Bella her checks, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear any more complaints.

“Ain’ got anywhere I gotta be, Oncle.”

“Print me a slip,” he barked on his way back to the office. “Need the totals from the credit cards and the cash box.” Remy pushed the settle button on the credit card scanner and watched it print up a neat slip. He turned his head toward the front of the shop as he heard the ding of the door’s bell. “We closin’ up!” he called out.

“Hey! Sorry. Just wanted ta pick up some car mats I saw in here the last time I came in. Ya didn’t have the ‘Closed’ sign on the door,” reasoned a deep, rumbly voice. His tone was slightly distracted. Remy closed the register drawer again and came out from behind the counter.

“Why don’ ya come on back tomorrow…oh. Hey.” Logan tore his gaze from a display of gearshift covers and peered up at him. He watched Remy’s face light up briefly before he repeated himself. “We gon’ close in a minute.”

“Can’t ring me up if I can find what I was plannin’ t’buy, like, now?”

“Fine. Ain’ totaled up de drawer yet. Shake a leg!” Logan chuckled and Remy followed him toward the back. He picked up the gray mats and handed him to Remy easily. “Looks like ya made it in ta work after last night.”

“Hangover let up after ten.”

“Hangovers ain’t much of a problem fer me.”

“Even after de tequila ya wuz throwin’ back like it wuz water? Merde!” he swore in a huff. He rang up the mats with deft fingers; the mechanical noises drifted back to Philippe, who looked mildly indignant as he emerged from the back.

“T’ought it wuz time t’close up,” he reminded his nephew.

“One last t’ing,” he apologized. Logan looked from the auto body mechanic to his uncle, noticing a faint family resemblance in the way they stood and smiled. Philippe had darker hair and olive skin, and he was a bit more portly. He smiled with teeth that were just as straight, though, and his hands rested on his hips. “Ya said it gon’ be a while before yer ready t’go.”

“I know dat, Remy. Still need a total on de drawer so I can lock up de safe.” Logan was backing away from the counter, sales receipt in hand.

“Can’t wait t’be off m’feet,” Remy groaned, rubbing his nape. “Long day,” he explained to Logan. Logan’s eyes were soft and knowing.

“I ain’t gonna argue.” His own muscles burned. He’d scarcely had time to freshen up after leaving the site and tossing Summers the keys.

“M’gonna head to de bank an’ make de deposit on de way,” Philippe reminded him. Remy’s face was resigned. Philippe grinned. “Maybe dat’ll teach Remy t’fill up de tank.”

“Ya didn’t drive here?” Logan inquired.

“Non.”

“Then c’mon. Ya don’t need him fer anything else?” Logan pressed, facing Philippe.

“Uh-uh. Take ‘im!” He made “good riddance” motions with his hands, waving them both out of the shop. Logan waved to him on their way out, but he was already back in his office. Remy sighed and shrugged into his jacket once he removed it from the peg.

“I live across town from here,” Remy warned.

“I know that. By Harry’s.” They climbed into Logan’s truck. He was as good as his word. “LuLu” was a classic. The upholstery was slightly cracked, but otherwise it was in good condition. Logan maneuvered his way through rush hour traffic.

“Been up since five this morning,” Logan explained. “Worked through lunch, but we got everything done that needed to be done.”

“I’m ready t’eat, too,” Remy agreed. “Got leftover barbecue t’warm up.” Logan looked envious.

“Sounds good. Sounds real good.”

“Remy got plenty. C’mon an’ eat.”

“Don’t wanna impose an’ invite myself.”

“Remy’s givin’ ya an invite,” he shrugged, and their eyes met over the console. “So come an’ eat.” Logan chuckled low in his throat before he turned his attention back to the road.