Chapter 13
After assembling the baby drum kit and completing all the modifications he wanted to make, Remy stood back, hands on his hips, and admired his creation.
He’d modernized it as much as he could get away with.
Anything else, and his chops and speed could change the history of drumming, advancing the art form decades beyond where it was when he left the twenty-first century.
If he screwed up, he could return to find that his creative simplicity had landed him on the bottom rung of accomplished drummers, rather than being up there with some of the best in the business.
Skye stood next to him, absentmindedly fingering her locket while cocking her head this way and that. “It looks complicated.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, following her gaze across the drum kit. “It took a bit of work, but I think it turned out all right.” He gestured with his chin. “This is just a practice kit, though. You should see my kit at home.”
She smiled at him. “I’d like to. Is it so different?”
What was she alluding to? Remy could usually read women like open books—he understood their come-ons, their subtle signals, their preening gestures. What he didn’t know was whether any of that applied to women in the 1920s. Was she flirting?
The answer hit him low and hard. Yes.
The recognition hit like a hard thud through his veins, from the base of his neck to his fingertips.
He ached to trace the curve of Skye’s cheek and kiss her, the desire striking like a jolt he didn’t dare indulge.
Instead, he hammered the bass drum, the jarring boom a futile attempt to drown out the pull between them.
It didn’t.
“It’s like the difference between your new vehicle and a horse and buggy,” he said, his voice roughened despite himself.
“I can tell the difference cars and buggies, but what’s the difference in the drum kits?”
“Mine is a five-piece drum set with a bass drum, snare, and three tom drums.” She turned to him, and he set his drumsticks aside, his hands settling at her waist before he could stop them.
She blinked, eyes widening in surprise. “Why do you need three tom-toms?”
For the first time he could remember, talking felt like the wrong instinct entirely. He didn’t want to talk at all. But Skye was waiting for an answer. “It gives drummers”—he stopped to clear his throat—“various pitches to create more interesting fills and a fuller sound.”
She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, slow enough to make it impossible to ignore. “What’s a fill?”
“It’s a passage that breaks up the main beat of a song to transition to the next section.” And it was time for him to transition from drums to kissing, or he would regret the missed opportunity.
Her lips were an intoxicating pool, pulling him in.
His fingertips mapped fiery trails from the curl of her ear, down the column of her neck, across her shoulder blade, and back to cup her nape possessively.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, the words landing somewhere between promise and challenge.
“Why haven’t you already?” she rasped, her gaze holding his without flinching.
He didn’t hesitate. He seized Skye, his mouth crashing against hers in a bruising, breathless strike.
It wasn’t the slow, deep kiss he craved.
It was hard and swift—a promise made without words.
She pulled back just inches, her lashes lowering like a deliberate curtain. “What kind of kiss was that?”
“We’ve got company,” he rasped, still close enough that pulling away felt like effort.
She broke away to find Clay and Marcelle in the doorway, grinning. “Should we come back?” Clay asked. “Marcelle and I can rehearse in the living room.”
Remy released her and took a deliberate step back—giving her the choice without saying a word. He was certain of his own desires and reasonably confident of hers. But the key question remained—would she prioritize her own wants?
Skye began, “As tempting as it is to let Remy continue drumming lessons—”
Clay interjected, scratching the side of his neck. “Are drumming lessons slang for a make-out session?”
“There’s a sexual revolution going on, Clay,” Skye said. “Women are challenging the conspiracy of silence around female sexuality. Women enjoy sex for its own sake.”
Wisely, Remy sat behind his kit, picked up his sticks, and did a quick drum roll and cymbal crash, Ba dum tsss, and waited to see what Marcelle and Clay would do.
“Well,” Clay said, “I agree, and I believe Skye and Marcelle are Thoroughly Modern Millies, so you girls decide what happens next.”
Ba dum tsss. It looked like a standoff to Remy.
“How about we spend a couple of hours rehearsing songs for tonight?” Marcelle said. “Then we’ll have time for an early dinner, a nap, or… whatever.”
Remy vaulted off his drum throne. “Give me a second,” he said.
“I need a word with Clay.” He seized Clay’s shoulder, yanking him into an adjoining home office.
“I may not know you well, but you’ve got trouble written across your face in big block letters.
What the hell happened? Do you need more condoms? ”
“Get real,” Clay huffed. “You’re the one with sex written all over your face and a dame who’s open to it.”
“What the fuck? I doan have sex when I’m traveling. It’s too dangerous.”
“Right. There’s no way you’ll turn down that sexy woman in there.”
Remy impaled the wall with his gaze, desperate for X-ray vision to penetrate the music room.
Clay was right. He wouldn’t turn Skye down—and he hoped she wouldn’t turn him down, either.
Circumstances change, and some rules were meant to be broken.
If McBain hadn’t said that once upon a time, he should have.
“We’re not talking about me. You’re the one with the problem. What is it?”
Clay looked out into the hallway to be sure no one was there. “Archibald was here. I told him I knew that he and Violet were my parents.”
“Fuck, Clay! Why’d you do that? It could change your goddamn history.”
Clay slumped onto the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands. Remy stayed where he was, unsure whether to close the distance or give him space.
“I had to confront him, Remy. It’s been building up inside me for weeks. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again? I had the chance and went for it. And it was probably a catastrophic fuckup.”
Remy rested his hip on the side of an Art Deco desk, feeling deeply sympathetic and having a shared understanding of what Clay was experiencing.
Not that he had a parent who’d confessed to being a space alien, but he’d lost his father to testicular cancer when he was still a kid and grieved for him daily.
He wouldn’t begrudge Clay a chance to have a conversation with a lying son of a bitch who no longer deserved Clay’s respect.
If Archibald took responsibility and apologized, he might repair the emotional damage he caused.
“What’d Archibald say?” Remy asked, keeping his voice low.
Clay dragged a hand down his face. “He tried to deny it, and that hurt.” He dropped his hand, jaw set. “I kept at him, though. Finally, he had to admit the truth.”
“Where’s he now?”
“He went to find Violet.” Clay shifted in his chair. “That’s why he’s in town.”
Remy’s gaze sharpened. “How’d he know she’d be here?”
Clay shook his head. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.”
“Did you tell him you saw her at the department store?”
“I saw her twice.”
Remy’s head snapped up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Clay looked at him then, steady but tired. “This is the first chance we’ve had to talk privately since we got back.”
Remy exhaled and took a step closer. “Then talk.”
“When we pulled away from the curb in front of the department store,” Clay said, “Violet was getting into her car. We made eye contact—and she smiled at me.”
Remy’s shoulders went rigid. “Was she getting into a blue two-seater sports car?”
“Yeah.” Clay narrowed his eyes. “You saw her—but you didn’t tell me.”
“I thought I recognized her.” Remy scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“Then why the hell are you pissed at me?”
Remy dropped his hand, the edge going out of his voice. “Sorry.” He looked away. “Violet sets me off.”
“If Archibald tells her I know she’s my birth mother, that could change what happens in 1901. And if I tell her I know where she’s from…”
It was easy to see anguish written all over Clay’s square-jawed face. Remy had to give him a focus for his distress—a hook to hang his anxiety on before it consumed and immobilized him. That wouldn’t be healthy for either of them.
“Do you remember what Elliott said to do if we saw Erik or, in this case, Violet?”
“Yeah. When it comes time to leave, don’t, but Violet won’t accept that.”
“Then tell her you want to spend time with her. Doan get into that otherword bullshit which you doan really believe.”
“I can only keep this secret for a limited time. I can’t guarantee I won’t blurt it out in a moment of frustration. But there’s another problem we need to deal with. Marcelle knows about lateral travel and wants to use the brooch tomorrow to find Bastien.”
Remy blew out a hard breath. “I’ll do it. We’re here because of my relationship with Bastien and Marcelle. You stay with Skye, and I’ll take Marcelle. We’ll probably find Bastien on the North Side of Chicago.”
“What if you go to another city?”
Remy flicked his finger against the back of Clay’s head, just like Clay had done to him.
“Ouch,” Clay said, rubbing the back of his head.
“They have telephones here. I’ll call and let you know where we are. I doan want to leave Skye right now, but finding Bastien is our priority. It makes sense for me to go. You can search for the Robertsons.”
“Archibald said he’d help with that.”
“Let’s tell Archibald our plans. If he wants to volunteer to help, that’d be great.” Remy fastened Clay with a stare. “Something else is on your mind. What is it?”
Clay shrugged.
“Don’t shrug. Talk.”
Clay stood and paced. “What if… what if I do or say something to Violet, and she finds Alana and saves her life? Then, she and Rory will live happily with Violet.”
Remy scrubbed his face. “Are you fucking for real? You think that’s a bad thing? You’ll have a half sister, and Rory will have his mother.”
“And they’ll have Robert and live in Buffalo in the early twentieth century. That means I’ll have a big house and no one to live there with me.”
Remy almost flicked his finger on the back of Clay’s head again. “That’s the most fucking selfish thing I’ve ever heard.”
Clay returned to his chair, and his posture went limp again. “I lost my parents and Archibald, and then I found Robert and Rory and have a family again. I know I’m being selfish, but I don’t want to lose them.”
Remy thought about Clay’s predicament and remembered how the adventure in Buffalo ended. “Remember how the Illuminati forced Violet to leave Buffalo? That’ll still happen, and she’ll bring Alana and Rory with her.”
Clay immediately perked up. “You’re right! Thanks for talking me off that ledge.”
“Anytime, bro.” Remy almost patted himself on the back. He’d never been one to give advice, but all those years of listening to David, Braham, Elliott, and Charlotte rubbed off on him. “Let’s get back in there and knock out the new songs. Skye and I have plans for later this afternoon.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
Remy didn’t answer right away. He let his gaze drift to the far wall as if the words needed space. “I’ve never met anyone like her. Her passion for jazz equals mine. She’s brilliant, funny, sexy as hell, and doesn’t care if I have a penny in my pocket.”
“Do you think Rachel at the vintage shop reacted to you because you’re loaded?”
Remy snorted softly. “I had a wallet full of C-notes and wore spit-shine Italian loafers. What do you think?”
“Hard to say.” Clay’s tone was dry. “You’re a complete package.”
“I doan always have the confidence—or the indifference—you think I have.”
“Is that why you’re always glued to your world, remote and drumsticks in hand? Because you think others believe you lack confidence? If that’s what you think, that’s bullshit. From what little I know, Elliott treats you like a son. He wouldn’t do that if he believed you didn’t have what it takes.”
“Whatever,” Remy said, already halfway out the door as Clay’s words echoed. As far as Remy knew, no one except Elliott, Meredith, and Charlotte had ever looked under his hood—or even wanted to.