Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Artemis
Aweek after my visit to the Fontenot Distillery, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondering why I was bothering with mascara.
"It's just a tarot gig." I told my reflection, leaning closer to swipe the wand across my lashes.
The woman in the mirror looked skeptical.
"Madame Beaumont wants a reading for her daughter's bachelorette party.
That's it. I'm not trying to impress anyone.
" I set down the mascara and studied my handiwork, unconvinced by my own words.
My reflection didn't believe me. Neither did I, if I was being honest.
I studied myself in the foggy glass—wild dark auburn hair that refused to be tamed no matter how much I brushed it, currently piled on top of my head in a messy bun with strands already escaping to frame my face.
"You're stalling." I told my reflection, pointing the mascara wand at her accusingly. She had the audacity to look amused, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge.
I finished my makeup—just mascara and a bit of lip stain, nothing fancy—and assessed my outfit.
A sundress the color of old bourbon, thin straps leaving my freckled shoulders bare, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing.
It hit mid-thigh and swirled when I walked.
Comfortable. Easy. Not like I was trying too hard.
Definitely not like I was hoping to run into a certain dark-eyed Alpha who smelled like moonshine and looked at me like I was something precious and terrifying.
"Stop it." I muttered, grabbing my bag of tarot supplies and slinging it over my shoulder, shaking my head at my own foolishness. "You're being ridiculous." I headed for the door, my sandals slapping against the wooden floor.
Gumbo was sunning himself on the dock when I came outside, his massive body stretched out on the warm wood like the world's most dangerous cat. He cracked one eye open as I approached, tracking my movement with lazy interest.
"I'll be back in a few hours." I crouched down to scratch the ridge above his eye, right where he liked it. His jaw relaxed slightly, which was as close to purring as an alligator could get. "Try not to eat anyone while I'm gone." I stood up, brushing off my knees, giving him one last look.
He blinked at me slowly, offering no promises.
The drive to The Rusty Hook took about twenty minutes, winding through back roads that turned from dirt to gravel to something almost resembling pavement as I got closer to town.
The bar sat on the edge of the water, a ramshackle building that had been rebuilt so many times after floods and hurricanes that probably nothing remained of the original structure.
Christmas lights hung year-round from the porch railings, and a hand-painted sign proclaimed LIVE MUSIC FRIDAYS in letters that had faded to a soft pink.
It was Friday. I hadn't known that when I'd agreed to this gig.
Or at least, that's what I told myself. The parking lot was already filling up when I arrived, trucks and beat-up sedans crowding the oyster-shell surface.
I found a spot near the back and sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts.
The sun was just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the air coming through my open window smelled like salt water and fried food and something else—music, maybe, drifting out from inside.
Underneath all of it, barely detectable, the faint scent of river water and honey and warm cinnamon.
Alpha.
My heart did something complicated in my chest. I ignored it.
Inside, The Rusty Hook was exactly what you'd expect—dim lighting, scarred wooden tables, a bar that ran the length of one wall with bottles glinting behind it like treasure.
Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the thick air without actually cooling it.
The walls were covered in old photographs, fishing nets, mounted fish that had seen better days, and neon beer signs that buzzed faintly.
A small stage had been set up in the corner, currently empty but waiting. Microphone stands, a couple of amps, a stool with a guitar case leaning against it.
"Artemis! Over here, chere!" The voice cut through the bar noise, and I turned to find Madame Beaumont waving frantically from a long table near the back, her silver bracelets catching the light as she gestured with both hands.
She was surrounded by a gaggle of women in matching pink sashes that read brIDE TRIBE.
The bride herself—a sweet-faced Beta named Colette—was already three drinks in, based on the flush in her cheeks and the way she was giggling at absolutely nothing.
"Madame Beaumont." I made my way over, weaving between tables, my bag of tarot supplies clutched against my chest. "Thank you for having me." I stopped at the edge of the table, nodding politely to the assembled women.
"Oh honey, thank you." Madame Beaumont was a large woman with a larger personality, her silver hair piled high and her jewelry jangling with every movement.
She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed, her rings pressing into my fingers hard enough to leave marks.
"Colette's been dying for a reading. Says she wants to know if Pierre is really the one.
" She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper that half the table could probably still hear.
"Between you and me, she already knows. She just wants you to tell her what she wants to hear.
" She winked conspiratorially, her painted lips curving into a knowing smile.
"I'll do my best." I smiled, extracting my hands gently from her grip, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. "Where should I set up?" I glanced around the crowded bar, looking for a suitable spot.
"Right there, chere." She pointed to a smaller table in the corner, slightly separated from the chaos of the bachelorette party, her rings flashing under the Christmas lights. "And help yourself to food and drinks—we've got a tab running." She patted my arm before turning back to her champagne.
I settled into my spot, laying out my cards, my candles, the small cloth I used to create the right atmosphere. The cards were warm from being pressed against my body, and I shuffled them idly while I waited for my first client, letting the familiar motion calm my nerves.
The bar filled up around me as the sun finished setting. Bodies pressed together, voices rising to be heard over the growing din, the smell of beer and perfume and sweat mingling in the humid air. The Christmas lights twinkled. The ceiling fans turned.
Then someone stepped onto the stage.
I looked up. There he was.
He was beautiful in a way that felt almost offensive.
Honey-blond curls fell across his forehead, artfully tousled, catching the stage lights like he'd been lit by an expert.
His skin was sun-kissed bronze, smooth and warm, stretched over cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
Amber-brown eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light, framed by lashes that were frankly unfair.
A full mouth curved into an easy smile, dimples creasing his cheeks as he surveyed the crowd like they were all there just for him.
He wore a soft white t-shirt that clung to lean muscles, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in tattoos—Cajun symbols and musical notes that wound up his left arm and disappeared under his sleeve. Linen pants hung low on narrow hips. His feet were bare on the stage floor.
He looked like trouble wrapped in honey. Like the kind of mistake you made with your eyes wide open and no regrets.
"Evening, everyone. My name is Remy Thibodaux.
" His voice was warm molasses, thick with Cajun accent, pouring through the microphone like something you could drink.
He settled onto the stool and pulled the guitar from its case, cradling it against his body with obvious love.
"Y'all ready to have some fun tonight?" He flashed that devastating smile at the crowd, fingers already finding the strings.
The crowd cheered. The bachelorette party screamed.
Colette was already on her feet, swaying to music that hadn't even started yet.
I stayed in my corner, watching. He opened with something upbeat—zydeco-influenced, fast fingers on guitar strings, that beautiful voice wrapping around lyrics in French and English.
The crowd responded immediately, people pushing back tables to make a dance floor, bodies moving in the particular way of people who'd grown up with this music in their blood.
He was good. Really good. He knew it too—the way he grinned at the crowd, winked at pretty girls, turned every song into a conversation between him and his audience. Performance as seduction. Charm weaponized.
I wasn't impressed.
I'd grown up around performers. Marguerite had run in interesting circles before she'd settled in the bayou, and I'd met more than my share of people who could make you feel like the only person in the room while their eyes were already tracking their next conquest.
Remy Thibodaux was playing a role. I could see it in the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. In the slight tension in his shoulders that had nothing to do with the guitar. In the way his gaze kept sliding past people instead of really seeing them.
I went back to my cards, doing readings for a string of bachelorette party attendees who wanted to know about love and marriage and whether their boyfriends were cheating.
The usual. I gave them truth wrapped in enough kindness to make it palatable, and they tipped well and stumbled back to their drinks, satisfied.
Then he played a different kind of song. I noticed the shift before I consciously recognized it. The energy in the room changed—settled, quieted. People stopped dancing. Conversations trailed off. I looked up.