The Thrill is Gone

Summary: Trouble follows Remy.



The pillow beside him was cold by the time Logan opened his eyes. He squinted and groaned as he rocked himself upright and waited for his vision to clear.



7:00AM. Shit.



The bed still held Remy’s scent, but a quick scan of the room told Logan all he needed to know. The bureau drawer was slightly ajar; a sock hung halfway over the edge. His work boots were missing, as were the coveralls Logan had noticed folded neatly on top of the hamper the night before. The Cajun went to work. Not so much as a by-your-leave, or, Logan griped, a kiss. One for the road? No, Remy?



Priorities and a mile-high to-do list made him dismiss his errant lover’s…dismissal. Logan had to beat feet.



He strode naked into the bathroom, whistling. Despite waking alone, Logan felt fantastic; he was relaxed and loose and rested better than he had in months. His dreams were blessedly placid, nearly blank. Yet somehow, he felt Remy, even in sleep, above and beyond burying his nose in the kid’s soft hair that smelled like sunlight.



There was already a thick, clean towel folded on top of the commode, and a fresh bar of soap rested in the shower. Logan could still smell the vaguest hint of the Cajun’s aftershave and toothpaste, as well as his pheromones, thankfully. The apartment wasn’t remarkable in its layout or furnishings, but Logan felt…comfortable. Easy in his skin, if he had to describe it, in Remy’s quiet little abode.



The steam tickled his nostrils as he ran himself a hot shower. The spray felt luxurious as it pounded against his back, rushing in warm runnels over his scalp and through his thick waves.



“Eeerrrrgggh,” Logan groaned through his teeth. What had he been thinking?



He called him and showed up in the middle of the night. What kind of rookie move was that? Hello, desperate, he chided himself. I know it’s late. But I wanted ta see ya. Damn.



Logan’s self-recriminations broke through his morning after “afterglow” and made him move more quickly through his routine. He walked out of the shower with the towel slung around his hips and was still wet as he rummaged for his clothes, only donning the boxers, wifebeater and slacks. He had to change at home and meet Scooter; breakfast could wait.



He dimly became aware of the scent of coffee that he hadn’t noticed before. Logan ambled into the kitchen with his shoes, dropping into one of the dinette chairs to put them on.



A note. The yellow Post-It caught his eye. He peeled it from the microwave door, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as he read Remy’s scrawl.



Be home late. Working on a car. Have some coffee before you go.



Didn’t want to get out of bed…



-R.



Logan generously sugared a mug of the sharp French roast and turned off the pot. He turned the note over and snagged a pen from the counter, using the other side of the paper scrap.



Thanks for the coffee, and the cocoa. Here’s my cell, if you want.



Next time, wake me up?



-L.



He made the bed and collected his belongings, locking up Remy’s apartment on his way out. As he unlocked his car, he belatedly – smugly – realized he never bought milk.





~0~



Bella sat huddled on the couch as Rene sang along to the theme song of the Power Rangers from where he sat on the carpet. The remnants of his breakfast cereal lay sogging and murky on the coffee table, its bowl leaving a sticky gray ring.



Damn Julien.



Every time the phone rang, she jumped out of her skin. Remy complained that she was screening her calls just to dick him around when she knew he wanted to see his son.



Pick up de damn phone, Belle. Wanna talk t’Rene. Pack his bags fo’ de weekend, an’ don’ tell Remy no. Normally Remy’s voice didn’t irritate her as much; she even looked forward to his weekends, sometimes, just to have some time to herself to think. It just wasn’t a good time…



The house was slightly disorganized. Julien’s things were stacked in the corner of the kitchen, including a dirty old blue duffle and two of his jackets, another pack of his shaving supplies, a blanket and pillow, and a crate of “paperwork” he’d been vague about.



It had started again. The guest room of her house always had the door shut, now. Julien’s visitors went in and out, never pausing to make polite chitchat in the front room. Julien was furtive about his phone calls, always answering his cell on the first ring and scolding his callers about leaving him voice mail on Belle’s number.



He left money around, rolled up in a clip on his dresser in large bills. Belle still couldn’t park her own car in the garage; she fumed when one of the neighborhood kids keyed the paint.



He made peace offerings of groceries, but Julien ruined the gesture by loading her refrigerator with beer, and her cupboards with tequila.



“Don’ bring dese in here wit’ Rene!”



“He ain’ gonna drink ‘em, petit,” he drawled, even though Rene eyed them occasionally whenever Bella went to get him some juice.



She lay awake at night and fumed. Back to square one.



She watched Rene crowing over his show, still seeing the baby in the boy whenever she heard his laugh or when he cuddled up to her at bedtime.



It was time to call Remy back.





~0~



Giddy. Remy felt giddy.



His uncle kept sparing him glances throughout the afternoon. Remy sang loudly to the radio as he worked on stripping the seats of a 1969 Mustang. He kidded with everyone in the shop and was full of back-sass to the simplest of questions.



His day went by fast. He headed out for his usual beef dip and almost wished he could call Logan to come out with him, but he was working through, and just wanted some fresh air.



He’d just swept back into the shop with his uncle’s Dr. Pepper when Philippe came out to meet him with a “While You Were Out” voice mail slip gripped in his oil-stained fingers. His expression was grim.



“Call Bella,” he suggested. “She didn’ sound like she be in much of a mood t’mess around.” Remy’s happy bubble burst.



“Shit,” he muttered as he set the styrofoam containers down on his uncle’s desk and reached for the phone. Bella’s phone rang four times before the machine picked it up.



“Might help if ya picked it up every now an’ again, chere,” he groused under his breath before the machine told him to wait for the beep. “Dis Remy. Call me back. Got de message from Oncle a minute ago. ‘Bout half past noon now…”



“Wait!” Bella snapped suddenly, cutting off the message tape and sounding out of breath. “M’here. Don’ hang up.”



“Whatcha up to, dat you be runnin’ fo’ de phone?”



“Wuz in de kitchen fixin’ Rene some juice. Been waitin’ t’talk wit’ Remy. Need ya t’come get Rene tonight.”



“Pour quoi?” This was sudden, and Remy felt his hackles go up.



“Because he wants t’see his papa, why y’tink? Why you ask me why, Remy?”



“Sound awfully antsy ‘bout sumthin’, Belle.”



“Nothin’,” she insisted. “Jus’ need a break tonight, dat’s all.”



“Remy wants t’see Rene,” he announced easily. “Even if y’only let him when it’s convenient fo’ Bella, neva fo’ Remy, but yeah, petit, Remy wants t’see him. Wanna keep him til Sunday night.”



“Fine,” she dismissed, nervously plowing her fingers through her hair. Then it occurred to her.



“Got a betta idea. Gonna drop ‘im off wit’ you. Be home by seven.”



“Non. Let Remy jus’ pick ‘im up, petit…”



“Ya wan’ see him or not, Remy?” Her voice was impatient, and her heart thudded triple time in her chest. Irritation leached through the phone, making Remy’s lips flatten into a thin line.



“Ya wan’ Remy ta cooperate, Bella, den cut ‘im some slack. Seven’s fine. Gonna feed ‘im befo’ ya drop ‘im off?”



“Oui.” She was impatient now. Suddenly she heard Julien’s engine in the driveway. “G’wan. Gon’ call Remy when it’s time t’go, make sure y’home.”



“Fine.” He hung up without further salutation, shaking his head.



So he wouldn’t plan on another night of entertaining adult company. At least not so soon.





~0~



“Aleytys wanted me to ask you how it went with Colleen,” Scott mumbled around a mouthful of burrito. Logan winced and choked down the bite he was already working on.



“It went all right, I guess. She gave me her number. That was about it.”



“So no…y’know?”



“Eh. Nope.”



“Damn. Thought you two would’ve hit it off.”



“It ain’t her. Just didn’t have that ‘spark.’ She’s nice. I just ain’t in the mood fer ‘nice’ yet.”



“That tells me a lot,” Scott snorted as he dragged a chunk of beef through his picante sauce and popped it into his mouth. “So in other words, don’t fix you up with anyone unless they’re looking for a one-nighter or no strings?”



“Bingo,” Logan chimed in, even though it sounded more crass than he’d intended.



Don’t set me up with anyone unless they have a southern drawl, know Cajun French and have great hands.



“You know Aleytys will just want to keep trying.”



“Might wanna tell her ta give it a rest.” Then he changed tacks. “Tell her thanks, anyway, Summers, and that I enjoyed the reception.” That seemed to pacify Scott.



“Heard from Silver?”



“Uh-uh. Not recently.”



They enjoyed the rest of their meals in relative silence and cleaned up the wrappers. They worked through the rest of the day, as Logan had promised in his note. They knocked out the wall and demo’ed the bathroom, taking up the old tile and leaving the shower stall and floor scraped bare. Making something with his hands sometimes ranked just below taking something apart. Logan’s shoulders stung from swinging the sledgehammer, but it was a good pain.



Scott wiped sweat from his brow, leaving behind streaky residue of plaster dust as he leaned on the handle of the shop broom. He eyed Logan speculatively.



“What, Summers?”



“Whatever happened to your old roommate, Walt?” Logan’s expression closed up and he ducked back into his toolbox to put away his wrenches.



“Saw him around town, once. That was about it.”



“That must’ve been fun. You broke the lease when you moved out, didn’t you?”



“Yeah. Gave up the deposit, but what else are ya s’posed t’do?”



Logan had never gone into much detail about his relationship with Walt to Scott. To his way of thinking, Logan was just “going through a phase.” To Logan’s way of thinking, Scott had his head in the sand. Hence, his definition of Walter as “Logan’s roommate.” Geez…



Scott contemplated the wood shavings a moment while he caught his breath, surveying their hard work. “Hey, I meant to ask you, who was the guy you were talking to at my stag party?”



“Eh? What guy?”



“The one you were playing pool with. Didn’t get much of an introduction from you.” Logan’s skin suddenly felt too tight as he struggled for some feasible to tell him.



“Met him at lunch one day.” He considered his words carefully. “He works on vintage cars.” Scott grinned in approval, and Logan mentally sighed in relief. “Just saw him hanging out at the pool tables. Played some nine ball. He’s a real hoot.”



It was too soon to talk about him. If there was one thing Logan hated, it was watching his friends “jump the gun.”



They’d done it with Carol. They’d done it with Silver. They’d DEFINITELY done it with Jean. Then later, with Jean-Paul…Logan scrabbled his fingers through the hair at his nape, clutching it at the memory.



Once Logan had dated anyone at least a month, that was it. Logan, to anyone else standing there looking, had to have found “The One.” He blamed himself for being such a stalwart bachelor for so long, unencumbered by car pools, minivans and Pampers on sale at Costco as the main reason everyone who cared about him urged him into coupledom. Whether he was looking for the right man or the right woman, love was a bitch.



Logan didn’t want to jinx it, no matter what “it” was.





~0~



“Papa, wanna have fried chicken,” Rene complained, tripping into the living room while Remy juggled three plastic sacks of groceries.



“Yer mama said y’already ate, petit.”



“Nuh-uh,” he argued, staring up at him with innocent, puppy dog eyes. Remy chuckled under his breath; he smelled the distinct aroma of Chef Boyardee on his son’s breath earlier when he bent to kiss him hello. “Chicken’s my favorite,” he claimed.



“Dieu! Got a hollow leg, non?” He eyed his son speculatively, tsking to himself that he’d missed too much of watching him grow up. Rene’s pants were mere centimeters from being highwater already, and his shoes were scuffed around the toes, likely to be outgrown in another month. His piquant face held the best of himself and Bella, even when he was fidgeting and hopping around to distract his father from protesting his request.



“I. Want. Chick. En,” he chanted rhythmically as he hopped in a circle around his dad, until Remy clapped a hand over his shoulder to make him stop.



“Mind de neighbors downstairs, homme,” he warned gently. “Papa’s gon’ make de chicken. Settle down an’ help ‘im put de food away.”



“Yay!”



Several minutes later, Remy’s hands were sticky with clumps of flour, corn meal and beaten egg as he carefully laid some drumsticks into the sizzling oil. Naturally, the phone picked that moment to jangle, when he couldn’t pick it up.



“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” he cursed, forgetting himself.



“Huh, Papa?”



“Nut’in, baby.” He hurriedly snatched a dishtowel off the refrigerator handle, scrubbing off as much chicken muck as he could within three rings. He grabbed the handset on the fourth and barked a breathless “Dis Remy?”



“Then I didn’t dial a wrong number,” Logan mused on a deep rumble. “Hey.”



“Hey, chere,” he replied, and his voice took on a soft timbre that recalled warm sheets and dusk.



“I caught ya in the middle of somethin’, didn’t I?”



“Chicken. Makin’ some fo’ Rene.”



“Ahh,” Logan murmured self-deprecatingly. Of course. He’d conveniently forgotten Remy was a dad. “I won’t keep ya, if it’s a bad time.”



“It ain’t. Ain’t sat down t’eat it yet. Won’t get ol’ Remy on de phone when dere’s good food on de table, ‘specially not Remy’s fried chicken.”



“S’nice ya get ta see yer boy.”



“Wuzn’t expectin’ it tonight,” he replied, and Logan caught the note of uncertainty in his voice. “His mama called and asked if Remy could come’n get ‘im.”



“That ain’t so bad. Bet he was thrilled for ya ta pick him up.”



“Uh-uh,” he argued, and again there was a slight edge to his voice. “Remy didn’ pick ‘im up. Bella brought him over. Dat was also outta de blue fo’ Rene’s maman.”



Bella had stood nervously in his doorway when he answered it, and Rene launched himself at his father’s waist, as usual, while Bella muttered her usual injunctions about bed time and trips to the bathroom. He sensed the changes in her immediately. Bella was tightly wound, and there were new smudges beneath her eyes that she used to get when Rene was a baby, still young enough not to sleep through the night. He read tension in her, from her stance to her emotions themselves. Remy tried to put his finger on when she’d last seemed so…paranoid, he guessed, but he came up blank.



“Saved ya a drive.”



“Remy don’ mind drivin’, chere,” he reminded him. Logan rolled his eyes at himself, but enjoyed the smirk in Remy’s voice.



“Course ya don’t. Anyway, wanted ta thank ya for…coffee. That was nice.”



“Welcome,” he offered. Logan heard different activities in the background, including the crackle of oil and running water. For one frustrating second, Logan hoped he hadn’t painted himself into a corner, or wandered into postcoital, small talk hell.



“The cocoa was nice, too.”



“Any time,” Remy rumbled back, and this time Logan felt a warmth in his gut. “Don’ make it too often when’m alone. Tastes betta when dere’s someone t’share it with.”



“Which car didja work on today?”



“Straight Flush.”



“Sounds cool.”



“Hush yer mouth, chere! She’s a work of art,” he drawled, making a slight face when a droplet of oil splashed his forearm while he turned the pieces with a fork.



“I don’t doubt it fer a second, kid. Rene seen it yet?”



“Non. Gon’ take him to de car show when it’s finished. Waitin’ on a special order set of rims and the seats. Had ‘em done in red an’ white leather.”



“Bet it’s sweet,” Logan marveled, picturing it. “Didja think that one up?”



“Oui. De cards be Remy’s second love, an’ his weakness.”



“Every man’s gotta have a weakness.” Logan peeled off his sweaty socks and took a three-point shot, chucking them into the hamper from his perch on the bed. He leaned back into the pillows with a long sigh of relief. Damn, that felt good.



“Jus’ get home?” Remy inquired.



“Yup.”



“Sound tired, chere.”



“Ripped the shit out of a bathroom. Looks like a train wreck.”



“Damn.” Remy pictured him dirty, gleaming with sweat, hair disheveled from plowing it from his brow with his fingers.



“Gonna remodel the whole thing. Gonna be sick of lookin’ at Scooter’s face by the time we’re through.”



“Scooter!” Remy whooped.



“Scott. Ya know, it was his wedding. And that was him at the bar, that night.” Remy sobered.



“Yeah. Rememberin’ dat pretty well. Seemed all right.”



“He is.” Logan wasn’t about to gush about Scooter. “Listen, I’ll let ya go. Enjoy yer time with yer boy.”



“Hold on, chere.” Logan liked the sound of that nickname, and he was glad he’d called to get his “fix.” Even if it had to be brief. “What about dis weekend?”



“Dunno. What’ve ya got in mind?” Logan scratched an itch on his chest and automatically glanced at his Far Side calendar hanging on the closet door. Two scribble-free white spaces occupied Saturday and Sunday.



Talk about possibilities.



“You seein’ de car at de show. Come see it wit’ me an’ Rene.”



“He won’t mind?” By way of reply, Remy held the phone against his chest, muffling it while he yelled into the living room.



“Rene, ya wan’ Papa t’take you to de car show, an’ bring M’sieu Logan?”



“Uh-huh! Let’s show ‘im Coyote Ugly, Papa!” he cheered back. His hazel eyes peered around the doorframe, back at his father as he peeked in on him. Remy grinned back and resumed talking into the handset.



“Dere you go. You goin’ wit’ us,” he informed him smugly. And that was that.



When they rang off, Logan continued to lie on his back, trying to suppress the smile that kept creeping back onto his face but failing miserably. Remy hummed a cheerful tune as he dished up the chicken and warned Rene that it was hot.



Both of them felt…giddy.





~0~



“Brush yer teeth, chere.”



“Want Spongebob,” Rene complained when Remy tried to hand him the spare blue toothbrush in the cup.



“Go get ‘im, den,” Remy suggested wearily. He was worn out. Rene was just getting his second wind, but he knew that a few minutes of the second DVD they rented would have him out like a light. Rene came back and proceeded to make a foaming mess of the toothpaste, resembling a rabid puppy as he chattered at his father.



“Papa, is Oncle coming wit’ us to the show?” Rene asked, dripping bluish spittle from his mouth as he turned on the cold spigot.



“Eh? Philippe?”



“Nuh-uh. Uncle Julien.” Remy stiffened and an ugly chill ran down his neck, raising gooseflesh.



“Pour quoi, mon fils?”



“Cuz he lives at our house, wit’ me an’ Maman,” he replied plainly, as though Remy should have known.



Shit. Shit, shit, shit.



“Um, Rene…when’d ya uncle Julien come t’stay wit’ you and Maman?”



“Been a while,” he offered matter-of-factly. “Oncle doesn’t like it when I play ‘round in his room. S’posed ta be my room, but I sleep in Mama’s, now.”



Remy cleared a lump in his throat loudly and mastered the urge to hit something. “Rene…Papa’s glad yer bein’ a good boy for Mama, y’hear?”



“I know, Papa!” Remy encouraged Rene to rinse away the foamy blobs of paste from the rim of the sink and to put his brush in the cup. “Papa?”



“Yeah, baby?”



“Do we hafta take Oncle?”



Hell, no. “Uh-uh. It’s you an’ Papa. S’gonna be our day, petit.”



“I’m gon’ draw a picture of Straight Flush!” Rene skipped off to his father’s bedroom in search of a spare pen and scrap paper. Remy deflated once he was gone, gradually leaning the heels of his hands against the vanity’s cool surface and hanging his head. He closed his eyes for a long moment, expelling a breath that felt like it was his last.