Chapter 18 Chicago, 1928—Remy
Remy lounged on the sofa in the living room, a glass of whisky in hand, waiting for the others.
His thoughts kept circling back to the shared kisses on the boardwalk.
He couldn’t recall who had suggested they go home—him or Skye?
When they arrived, she wanted to rest before they left for the Sunset Café, retreating to her room without inviting him in.
He felt a pang of disappointment, yet an hour or two in bed wasn’t what he craved.
He wanted days of uninterrupted lovemaking.
For him, it wasn’t merely about sex—it was about exploring, loving, and worshiping her, attending to her every need, not his own.
Archibald strode into the room, interrupting Remy’s thoughts. “Mind if I join ye for a cocktail?”
“Help yourself.” Remy pointed to a crystal decanter he’d filled with whisky he brought from home. He had enough for another day or two, but after that, they’d have to check out the contents of Skye’s basement.
Archibald poured a drink and joined Remy on the sofa. “Violet left.”
“What does that mean? She left the house, the city, the country, the century?”
“I’m pretty sure she left the century this time.”
“So she took her body this time.”
Archibald eyed him suspiciously. “Ye really dislike her, don’t ye?”
“She hurt my friends, and I doan take kindly to that. I’m not sorry she left. The woman is missing a few important traits in her makeup. She has no compassion or sensitivity. She’s a cold-hearted bitch, and I’m glad she’s gone. Although I still have questions for her.”
“I doubt ye’ll ever get the answers ye want. And I know Violet can be a bitch, but there was no reason for her to act like that in the limo. I don’t know what she was trying to prove.”
“She knows who we are—our past and our present. She believes we’re inferior beings, but she needs us for her strategic vision. We are her long-term conceptual blueprint, guiding the future. Whatever the hell that is.”
Remy had a direct line of sight to the staircase.
Skye stepped out of one of his erotic dreams, wearing a jade-colored peacock dress, covered with an iridescent array of sequins and bead strands for the sleeves.
A long pearl tassel necklace and a bead-studded tinted feather headband completed her mermaid-style ensemble.
To add to her luxurious self-indulgence, she’d thrown a mink evening cape over her arm.
She was ready to play her part. And he realized he’d royally screwed up.
Why’d he want every man in the audience to have fantasies about her?
Was he nuts? He wanted her to himself. Screw Capone.
Screw the audience. She was his. And his alone.
“Jesus Christ, Skye!” He crossed the room in two quick strides, took her black-gloved hand, twirled her around, and kissed her cheek. “You look amazing. Was this mermaid dress just a little old thing hanging in your closet?”
She put her hands up, fingers splayed, jazz style. “This little ol’ thing? I bought it a while ago, but I haven’t had a reason to wear it. I thought tonight would be the perfect occasion.”
Archibald’s eyes widened as he smiled at her. “It certainly is. Ye’ll look like a goddess up there on yer perch.”
“Let’s place the piano in the center of the stage, and for at least one song, sit on the bench with Archibald for a duet,” Remy said.
“Are ye thinking of the Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga duet when they shared the bench at the end of their ‘Shallow’ performance?” Archibald asked.
Skye wrinkled her nose. “Who are they? I haven’t heard those names before.”
Remy tapped Skye’s nose with his index finger.
“They’re one of the hottest duets I’ve ever heard, but let’s talk about tonight.
Let’s start with you next to the piano. After a couple of songs, you can sit on the bench for a tête-à-tête with Archibald.
Then we’ll help you to your perch. If you pull off this choreography, Skye, the audience woan let you leave the stage. ”
“If you think it’ll work, I’ll do my part.” Skye cast a glance around the room. “Where’s Violet?”
“She left again,” Archibald said, letting out a frustrated sigh.
“I thought her assignment was to distract Capone,” Skye said.
“Then it will have to be your stage presence that saves us.” Remy tamped down his anger before it got out of control. “When the audience sees you, they woan care who else is on stage. All eyes will be on you.”
“There’ll be plenty of women with their eyes on the drummer.”
“What about me?” Archibald said. “Am I just chopped liver?”
Skye patted his cheek. “You’re too handsome and distinguished to be chopped liver.”
Remy collected the mink cape from her and draped it over her shoulders. “I doan plan to leave your side tonight. And if a man gets frisky, I’ll kill him.”
“How can I project an image of allure when you are looming behind me, poised to punch anyone who even glances at me?”
“They can look from a fucking distance.”
Skye picked up her car key from the foyer table and handed it to Remy. “Archibald, do you mind sitting in the rumble seat?”
“I do not,” he said. “Don’t forget yer songbook.”
“I have it.” Remy returned to the sofa to collect the book and drumsticks. “Is there anything else we need?”
Skye tapped her chin with the tip of her finger. “Hmm. How about Clay and Marcelle?”
“Maybe they’ll be here tomorrow night.” After talking to Clay again, Remy knew his friend and Marcelle wouldn’t be back tomorrow.
And if the show blew up in Remy and Skye’s faces tonight, which he didn’t think would happen—they wouldn’t be here either.
As for the Robertsons, if they didn’t get a lead on the couple at the “Feast of the Haggis,” they might have to leave town without them.