Chapter 2 #2
Remy's eyes were closed. His fingers moved across the strings almost absently, picking out a melody that was achingly simple and devastatingly sad. When he started to sing, his voice was different. Rougher. Like he'd stripped away something essential and was showing the wound underneath.
The song was in French—old Cajun French, the kind that was dying out—and I didn't understand all the words. I understood enough. It was about loss. About guilt. About carrying something so heavy you couldn't remember what it felt like to stand up straight.
It was about a boy named Luc.
I watched him sing, and something in my chest cracked open.
This was real. This, right here—the pain in his voice, the way his jaw tightened on certain words, the slight tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with technique.
This was who he was underneath all that charm and swagger.
Someone broken. Someone grieving. Someone desperately pretending to be okay.
The song ended. The silence stretched for one heartbeat, two, three. Then the crowd erupted into applause, and Remy opened his eyes, and the mask slammed back into place so fast I almost wondered if I'd imagined it.
"Alright, alright!" He laughed into the microphone, easy and warm, like he hadn't just bled all over the stage.
His fingers were already finding a new chord, his body already shifting into performance mode.
"That was a sad one—let me make it up to you, yeah?
" He winked at a woman in the front row, launching into something fast and fun.
The crowd roared back to life, and everything went back to normal.
Except I couldn't stop watching him. Except I couldn't unsee what I'd seen.
He finished his set about an hour later, drenched in sweat and grinning, the crowd chanting for an encore he graciously provided.
Then he set down his guitar, grabbed a beer from the bar, and started making his way through the room—accepting compliments, flirting with women, being exactly the person everyone expected him to be.
I knew he'd end up at my table. I could feel him working his way toward me, could sense his attention even when he was looking somewhere else.
The inevitability of it sat in my chest like a weight.
Then there he was, sliding into the chair across from me uninvited, that devastating smile firmly in place.
"Well, hello there." His voice was silk and sin, his eyes roaming over me with obvious appreciation as he leaned back in the chair like he owned it.
Up close, he smelled even better—river water and honey and warm cinnamon, with something like whiskey underneath.
Alpha, but not overwhelming. More like an invitation than a demand.
"You must be the fortune teller everyone's talking about.
" He gestured at my cards with his beer bottle, that smile never wavering.
"Am I?" I didn't look up from the cards I was shuffling, keeping my voice deliberately bored, my fingers moving in their familiar rhythm. "That's quite an assumption." I let the cards flow through my hands, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my full attention.
"Chere, you've got tarot cards and candles.
" He laughed, delighted, the sound rich and warm as he leaned back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man who'd never been turned down in his life.
"I don't think it's much of a stretch." He spread his hands, gesturing at my setup with an amused grin.
"Maybe I just like the aesthetic." I finally met his eyes, letting him see exactly how unimpressed I was, one eyebrow arched in challenge.
"Maybe I'm not actually psychic. Maybe I just tell pretty lies to people who want to hear them.
" I set down a card with deliberate precision, watching his reaction.
Something flickered in his expression—interest, maybe, or surprise. His smile didn't waver, but his eyes sharpened, really seeing me for the first time.
"Now that is a very interesting thing to admit." He said slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, close enough that I could smell the beer on his breath mixing with that honey-cinnamon scent. His amber eyes locked onto mine with new intensity.
"Is it?" I raised an eyebrow, setting down another card with a soft snap against the cloth.
"You'd know all about telling people what they want to hear, wouldn't you?
" I held his gaze, letting the accusation hang in the air between us.
The smile finally faltered. Just for a second, just a crack in the facade—but I saw it.
His fingers tightened around his beer bottle, knuckles going white.
"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice was still light, still playful, but there was an edge underneath now. A wariness that made his shoulders tense, his body going still.
"It means I've been watching you all night.
" I set down my cards and folded my hands on the table, giving him my full attention for the first time.
"The charm, the smiles, the way you make everyone feel special.
It's a good act. Convincing." I paused, letting the words land.
"It's still an act." I tilted my head, studying the way his jaw tightened.
He stared at me, the smile frozen on his face like he'd forgotten how to take it off. His amber eyes had gone wide, startled, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
"Does that smile work on other women?" I tilted my head, studying him the way I'd study a particularly interesting card spread, cataloging every micro-expression that flickered across his handsome face. "It's cute that you think I'm other women." I let a small smirk curl my lips, sharp and knowing.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged. Around us, the bar continued its cheerful chaos—music from the jukebox now, laughter, the clink of glasses. In our little corner, everything had gone very still.
Then Remy did something I didn't expect.
He laughed. Not the practiced, charming laugh he'd been using all night.
This was something rougher, more surprised, like I'd startled it out of him against his will.
His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were bright with something that might have been delight.
"Damn, chere." He shook his head, running a hand through his sweat-damp curls, making them stick up in all directions.
His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something real in them.
Something vulnerable. "You don't pull punches, do you?
" He was still grinning, but it was different now—less performance, more genuine surprise.
"Life's too short." I picked up my cards again, shuffling without looking at them, letting the familiar motion ground me. "I find honest cruelty more interesting than pretty lies." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, watching him process my words.
"Honest cruelty." He repeated the words like he was tasting them, rolling them around on his tongue, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered them. "That what you're offering?" He leaned forward, genuinely curious now, the mask slipping further.
"I'm not offering anything." I began laying out a spread, not for him, just to give my hands something to do while I felt the weight of his attention on me. "You came to me, remember?" I placed each card with deliberate care, not looking up.
"I did." He watched my hands move, tracking the cards with unexpected intensity, his gaze following each one as it landed on the cloth. "You know, I saw you earlier. When I was playing. You were watching." His voice had softened, lost some of its practiced smoothness.
"Lots of people were watching." I turned over the first card. The Fool. How appropriate. "You're very watchable." I tapped the card with one finger, still not meeting his eyes.
"Yeah, but they were watching the show." He leaned forward again, close enough that his scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his amber eyes.
"You were watching me. The real me. During that song.
.." He trailed off, something uncertain creeping into his expression, his throat working as he swallowed.
"The song about Luc." I said it quietly, without looking up from the cards, giving him the mercy of not watching his face when I said it.
His whole body went still. The easy posture vanished, replaced by something rigid and guarded.
"How do you know that name?" His voice came out rough, stripped of all its honey warmth, his hands flat on the table like he was bracing himself.
"You said it." I turned over another card. The Moon. Illusion, fear, the subconscious. "During the song. You sang it in French, but I caught the name." I kept my tone gentle, neutral, giving him space.
"Most people don't." His voice had gone rough, the charm stripped away entirely, leaving something raw and wounded underneath. He swallowed hard. "Most people don't speak the old Cajun." His accent had thickened, the words coming slower.
"I'm not most people." I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. They were wet, I realized. Just barely, just a shine at the edges that he was trying desperately to control. "We've established that." I held his gaze steadily, letting him see that I wasn't going to look away.
He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his hands curling into fists on the table.
"Luc was my brother." The words came out barely above a whisper, rough with old grief that had never fully healed.
"He died when I was seventeen." The words came out flat, rehearsed, like he'd said them so many times they'd lost all meaning.
His hands were shaking slightly where they rested on the table, a fine tremor he couldn't quite control.
"I was supposed to be watching him." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, jaw clenched tight.