Chapter 36 Chicago, 1928—Remy
Archibald was waiting for them at the Sunset Café, and when Remy saw him, his muscles unknotted.
He’d been dreading bringing Clay in on piano, a risky gambit that could unravel everything.
Capone, a man who built his empire on control, didn’t tolerate deviations from the script, especially not after last night’s triumph.
Skye and Archibald had captivated the crowd, leaving Capone so enamored he’d guaranteed a show featuring the “best duets in town,” a promise heavy with unspoken threats.
The show was pure fire, and they played an hour longer than scheduled, milking the applause, riding the wave through three demanding encores.
Then, Skye’s hand flew to her throat, a silent signal for a voice pushed past its limit.
Remy didn’t need words. He dropped his sticks, the sharp clack of wood on wood.
The show was over. Skye dipped into a curt bow and vanished into the wings.
Remy reached her, looking dazed. “Are you okay? Do you need something for your throat?” He pulled her out of the way of the stagehands moving props onto the stage for the next show.
“Whisky,” she said, her eyes fixed on him. “Got any of the good stuff left?” He handed her his flask. She took a sip, then another. “Perfect.” She wiped her mouth with a sweep of her hand. “How’d you know I couldn’t sing another song tonight?”
“I heard the strain in your voice.”
Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped, and her breath hitched. “Oh, no. Was it that noticeable? I don’t want Capone to be mad. He wanted to impress the people at his table.”
“I’m sure you impressed them. Who were they?”
“Some hotshot lawyers.”
“I noticed the strain because I know how you sound when you’re fresh, when you’ve hit your mark, and when you’re tired. Those men haven’t heard you sing before. They only heard a magnificent voice.”
A long sigh escaped her lips, a whispered surrender. “Okay, then I won’t worry.” She tipped the flask for one last burn of whisky and returned it. “Thanks.”
“I’m at your service anytime, night or day.”
She fluttered her eyelashes, an open invitation. “It’s the night part I’m interested in.”
His body answered with a jolt, an immediate, undeniable pull. “Hold that thought,” he grounded out. “We’ll be back at your place in no time.”
They pushed into the chaotic energy of the dressing room, where the rest of the band was already passing around Marcelle’s flask like a victory chalice.
“Great show,” Clay boomed. “Glad I got to sit in the audience. Everyone loved it, and those duets are hotter than hell.”
“Skye, your voice is incredible. I don’t know why you aren’t on the radio.
You’re better than the singers I’ve heard on records.
You should have one of your own. No, you should have dozens.
If you’d like me to work out a deal for you, I’d be glad to help.
I’ve done dozens of contracts for entertainers in New York,” Kaitlyn said.
“I had an appointment scheduled with Frederick Hager, musical director for OKeh Records, but he had to postpone until next week. Can we talk about it later? I’m exhausted.”
“Sure. No problem,” Kaitlyn said. “Bastien and I are going out for dinner. Anyone else want to go?”
“Clay and I’ll come with you. I’m starving,” Marcelle said.
Bastien thumped Remy lightly on the shoulder. “See you back at the house.”
Remy leaned closer to Bastien and whispered, “I doan want to worry you, but be careful out there.”
“It’s a little late in the movie for that advice,” Bastien said. “But anything specific you can give me will help.”
“Capone is obsessed with Marcelle. His spies will follow you and give him the names of everyone she talks to.”
“You want me to keep an eye on Clay’s girl instead of my own?”
“She’s your fucking sister. You can handle both.”
Bastien gave Remy a smug look. “Asshole.”
“Back atcha.”
They exchanged amused glances, and a shared chuckle escaped them.
Once everyone left the room, Remy closed the door, locked it, and removed his jacket. “You sure you doan want to go out?”
Skye stepped behind the dressing screen to change. “I’m positive. I want to go home and have dinner with a very handsome drummer.” She leaned from behind the screen, casually flipping her hair. “Just us.”
Primal instinct ripped through him. Later, home, and dinner were abstract concepts. All that mattered at this moment was Skye.
He crushed her to him, his hands cradling her head, fingers tangling in her hair as heat arced through his system.
He devoured her mouth, a desperate claim that burned away everything but the immediate need for her.
His palms slid down to her hips, grinding her against him, pulling her into the hard reality of his desire.
The kiss was a return to the first moment they’d lost their minds.
The condom in Remy’s pocket was a whisper of caution he couldn’t hear over the roar in his blood.
Tonight, instinct muscled the wheel from his grip.
His foot floored the gas, an irreversible plunge into the shelter of her waiting arms.
“My knees are trembling,” she said. “I can’t stand and do this. Let’s go home and pick it up from here.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Her lips curved into a smile. “Are you?”
Her smile was a physical blow, leaving him breathless, and his brain scattered. “I doan want to get you pregnant,” he whispered while nibbling on her earlobe.
“Is that why you haven’t put pressure on me to sleep with you?”
He stood in shocked silence, a daze washing over him. “Skye, I’d never put pressure on you under any circumstances. But I haven’t asked you to go to bed with me because I’m leaving Chicago in a few days. I doan want to make love and then leave you.”
“Then stay with me.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“I could have fun with you and say goodbye.” Her words said she could, but her eyes said she couldn’t. “It wouldn’t be easy, but you should know I’m not a virgin. Does that bother you?” she asked, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if bracing for his reaction.
“I’m not either. Does that bother you?”
A smile played on her lips. “I never thought you were. I see the way women look at you. You could have any of them you want. But you respectfully turn them down.”
“I try to always treat women with respect. If I doan, kick me in the ass. If you tell me to stop, I will and woan ask why.”
“I’ve never heard a man talk like that before.”
“Where I come from, women are on pedestals where they deserve to be. They’re loving, intelligent, loyal, and badasses. They doan put up with shit from anyone.”
She brushed her lips against his and said in a sultry voice, “I want to meet those women.”
He’d planted the seed of curiosity in Skye’s mind, even if she couldn’t yet fathom the world where the women on pedestals lived.
And with that, his mouth claimed hers with a newfound intensity.
A groan escaped him as he pulled her close, consuming her mouth in a desperate kiss.
His hands met at her spine, molding her body against him.
His world spun in a dizzying rush. He couldn’t find the focus to slow the momentum, to stop the headlong plunge.
One burning image consumed his thoughts.
How would her naked body feel against his?
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he mumbled.
“Or I’m going to take you against the wall, and I doan want our first time to be like that.
” He dropped his hands and stepped away, almost colliding with the door as it exploded inward, shredding the frame—again.
Adrenaline torched Remy’s veins, honing his senses to a razor edge.
He slammed an arm across the gap, caging Skye behind the screen, while his hand drove for his Sig—and clutched air.
Damn. He’d removed it before going on stage and left it with Bastien.
“What’s Capone’s problem now?” Remy demanded.
A man with a red drinker’s nose and spidery capillaries on his cheeks said, “The Big Fellow wants to see both of you.”
“It’s just me, and what the fuck does he want? I saw him two hours ago.”
Red Nose waved a semiautomatic pistol in his buddy’s direction. “Look behind the screen.”
Remy shifted to block the man, but Skye stepped out. “I’m tired and hungry, and I’m going home. If Mr. Capone wants to see me, we can meet tomorrow before the show.”
“He wants to see you now. You don’t want to upset the Big Fellow, do you?”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Give me a minute. Mr. Capone always wants me to look fresh and desirable when I’m with him.”
What the hell was Skye doing? Offering a fleeting moment for a countermove? Perhaps. But as the twin muzzles of the pistols stared them down, the attempt could be lethal.
Skye posed in front of the mirror and reapplied her lipstick, acting as if this intrusion didn’t bother her at all. “Where is Mr. Capone? Still at his table? Why doesn’t he come back here?”
“He left. He’s in his office and wants to see you there.” Red Nose waved his pistol at them again. “Let’s go. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Skye picked up her purse and grabbed her coat. “Why didn’t he talk to us before he left the restaurant?” Her pique was on full display, but Capone’s men couldn’t care less.
“He had calls to make.”
The man jabbed his pistol, the muzzle aimed at Remy, his muscles coiled, ready to rip the weapon free. But the risk of a bullet finding Skye forced him to wait for another opportunity.
Remy reached for his jacket, but the gunman’s hand snaked out like a viper, yanking the garment away. Fat fingers systematically patted down the cloth, searching for the bulge of a weapon. Finding none, he flung the jacket back.
“Hike your pant legs,” Red Nose snarled. “Want to be damn sure you ain’t wearing a leg holster.”