The Cards We Are Dealt
{0.5}
"What's your name, chere?" he asked, thick Cajun accent doing nothing to slow her naturally erratic heartrate down. She blinked, somewhat taken aback. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, sugar?"
"Lorraine," she finally said, holding a fist to her heart and staring at him like he was particularlly frightening. Her stance made him want to laugh. Her face made him stare.
"French name," he murmured. She nodded, sitting down so that she wasn't awkwardly looking down at him. He was probably taller than her when standing, and she didn't enjoy looking down at people. It made her feel odd.
"My mother was from Normandy," Lorraine admitted, hugging her arms across her torso. "What's your name?"
"Remy LeBeau, chere, pleasure to meet you," he purred, reaching through the bars with his free hand and grabbing her own, bringing it to his lips. She lit up, bright pink. He smirked. "What you blushin' for, chere?"
Lorraine found it difficult to speak at that moment in time. Remy found this incredibly amusing, and despite the pain in his arm, he chuckled. Her face upgraded from bright pink to a deep rose color. It made him smile. He looked at her. Pretty dark blond hair, grassy green eyes, skin so pale it looked ivory. She was tiny, possibly too much for her own good, and the sweater she wore made her look small and fragile, like a procelin doll. Lorraine shifted her position, and he noticed that she was jittery, possibly even fidgety. She drummed her fingers against the floor, clutched her upper arm with the other one. Her foot tapped in time with her fingers, and he wondered if she'd previously been a piano player. He looked her in the eyes. Crimson on forest green.
"What you here for, chere?"
"I don't know," she admitted, the tempo in her fingers and foot getting faster. "I really don't. I've been here for months," she explained. That much, he thought, was obvious. She was borderline stick thin. She had some curves left, from what he could see, but he could easily identify her collar bones. Her neck was long, her cheekbones obvious. Somehow, he could picture her with a rounder face, maybe a little more meat on her bones. He could have sworn that he'd seen her somewhere, maybe in New Orleans, maybe somewhere. He just couldn't place her, but he knew he'd seen her somewhere. He could picture her too easily healthier to not have. He could also easily see that she would look amazing in green or dark, mysterious maroon. He tried to keep his imagination low. That last thing he needed in a prison with a cage next to a pretty girl was a problem that needed taking care of. She looked at him, questioning with her eyes. "Do you know why we're here?"
Remy sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, massaging his temples. "I haven't the faintest idea, chere. I just know I want to get the hell out of here."
"You think you want out now, just wait till you've been here a month," she told him. He grinned lazily, closing his eyes.
"Yeah, I imagine that'll suck."
