Scott sank into the chair across from his friend. "What? Are... Are you sure? Who..."
"Emma. Emma told me and Jean said it was true."
"Jean..." Scott's eyes became distant and thinking. "She's... still here?"
Remy nodded numbly. "Yes, Jean." Remy bore into Scott, deciding whether or not to continue with the bad news but decided against it. Instead he grabbed Scott's forgotten bourbon and swallowed the small drink in three large gulps. "Why're you here?" He said slowly as if speaking was an immense effort.
Scott blinked, suddenly forgetting why the hell he was here. Oh yes, Kurt. "A friend got me in contact with a man living here that would like to sell his land and find lodgings in California. I'm just here to work out some details, really. Won't be for long." Remy nodded but Scott doubted the miserable man had heard a word of his explanation. "What about you, Remy?"
He shrugged lithe shoulders. "Got married," he sat back in his seat. "To *the* Belladonna Merchal."
Scott's brows crinkled. "The actress?"
Remy nodded. "Dat's her, all 115 pounds, blonde-haired blue-eyed bitch a man could ask for." He swallowed his whiskey. "I left her and came here like a damned fool. And dis is me now."
Scott shook his head. "I'm sorry, Remy. Hey, let's get you to bed. Come on," he stood from his seat and crossed to Remy, dragging the drunken man to his feet. "Up you go, there."
Remy leaned heavily on Scott as the pair made their way up the house stairs.
"Gentlemen, where do you think you're going?" Came Emma's voice from behind them.
Scott turned with Remy's arm slung around his shoulder. "To my room," he said with a boyish-sweet grin.
Emma's eyes widened. "I don't even believe it. But it is; I never forget a face." She said, approaching them. "Well if it ain't Scott the Dandy Summers, best damn player I ever had. How are ya', kid?" She hugged him tight.
"Right now, not the best I've ever been. I need to get a friend of mine here upstairs; he needs some rest."
Emma eyed him carefully, obviously not recognizing the young Don Juan that succeeded in making her best working girl fall in love. She nodded her consent and Scott continued heaving Remy up the stairs and into his old room, obviously currently occupied by another- a woman, if the red rose décor and fine satin dresses were any consolation.
"Gotta appreciate a woman dat never forgets a face," Remy remarked dryly as he fell back onto the large bed.
Scott chuckled lightly. "Yeah, Emma's... something else." He pulled Remy's boots off. Scott settled into a chair at the small oak desk by the window and, tipping his hat over his eyes, attempted sleep.
Remy too closed his eyes and clutched a pillow tight to his chest, trying in vain to alleviate the excruciating hurt swelling inside of him.
**
He couldn't sleep. Releasing the pillow, Remy glanced at his companion by the window. Scott had managed to doze under the streaming evening sunlight's heavy persuasion.
Deciding his futile attempt at sleep was getting him nothing but a dwelling conscience, Remy silently stood from the bed and slipped out of the small, comfortable room. Once downstairs, he scanned the gambling room with keen, narrowed eyes. Slipping his hand in his trouser pocket to finger the cash it held, Remy made his way to a table and plopped into a seat.
"Room for one more?" He asked innocently.
A burly man tinted orange from bad sun and dirty brown curly hair grinned toothily, flashing a series of small, slightly rotting teeth. "Always room for one more, boy."
**
Scott's eyes flew open under his hat. He remained perfectly still, assessing what it was that had woken him. His pulse quickened surely and sweat formed on his palms. His ears remained strained.
As there was no sun creeping under his hat, Scott inferred that it was now pitch dark both outside and inside his small room, except probably for the occasional boom of moonlight that streaked through the windowpane.
He heard the door open, feet shuffling, then click shut quickly. The bed mattress shifted as someone climbed upon it. No, two people. He heard a dark baritone grumble in his throat followed by the distinct sound of mouth on flesh, then a cheery, feminine giggle.
Scott would not hear this. He brought his arm up and lifted his hat. The couple did not notice him, simply continued groping each other in the dark. The man was hovering above her, his large hands slowly inching her many skirts up while she peppered kisses on his face and neck.
Knowing he held no chance of escaping through the door unnoticed, Scott, mortally humiliated, cleared his throat to make his presence known.
The woman, whom Scott could not make out but a sheer silhouette, screeched in horror and clutched at the crumpled sheets around her. The man stood and immediately turned an oil lamp.
Light was shed onto the entire situation.
Scott's breath rushed from him in one giant sweep, his body empty with nothing but an unmitigated disbelief.
"No," he choked when his eyes fell on a mass of crimson curls.
The customer elicited a string of curse words before promptly storming out of the room.
She was propped against the headboard, her mouth a round quivering 'o' and the magnolia-white of her skin blotched red where he gripped her too tightly. She lowered her big blue eyes, her rust-colored eyelashes shadowing them from his shameful glare.
He shook his head violently and moved to leave, but she scampered off the bed and blocked him. "No, don't go," she said, extending her arms.
He regained composure and slowly walked to his chair and settled back into it. "How's your father?" He asked dumbly.
"Dead," she said quickly. "After the tuberculosis beat him, Pete and Mattie were taken to their Aunt Margaret's, thank God for that." Jean lifted her head to the sky and silently thanked just Him that her siblings were not here to witness her disgusting downfall and being well supported at her aunt's.
Scott nodded slowly, his mind spinning and a thread of despair coiling in his body. "I see."
A sickened silence permeated and the past lovers met each other's eyes fleetingly, both feeling as if they had failed the other.
"When did Rogue die?" Scott asked, trying to think about something, anything else.
She was startled for a moment, then confused, and finally smiled nervously. "Rogue..." she stated simply and wandered to her wardrobe. She selected a silk nightgown the hue of an ocean and laid it out onto her bed. "You've been speaking with Remy, I see." She stopped. "Isn't that the strangest thing? That you both came back on the exact same day? Must be fate." She smiled.
"So I've heard," Scott said, watching her fumble with the laces at her back. Much to his dismay, Jean did not ask for his assistance in untying the small bows. He turned his head modestly when the garment fell from her body entirely. "Jesus, Jean." He half-chastised, half-pleaded.
She noticed his embarrassed and even disdained reaction at her blatantly nude body. She hurriedly snatched the gown back up around her breasts. "Sorry," she mumbled, her honey-sweet voice now a complete opposite from her brassy, painted eyelids and shades and shades of red piled onto her naturally fresh, plump lips. "Close your eyes then." He did so, making his legs promise to run right out of the two-story high window if he so much as cracked an eyelid. "Don't peek," she teased. He could hear the smile in her voice.
"Anyways, Rogue isn't dead. She simply... chooses not to see Remy."
"Why!? And why would she make such an awful lie about being deceased? Does she know how crushed he is?" Scott suddenly wondered where the hell Remy was.
"Woah, easy partner." Scott jumped at the sound of her voice so close to him. His eyes opened to see her fully clad body standing over him. "One at a time." She said.
"Okay, why doesn't Rogue want to see Remy?"
"A girl has a right to see and not see whomever she wants." Jean shrugged a shoulder and made her way to her vanity, sitting and dabbing perfume on her neck and wrists from a small glass bottle.
"Why would she tell such a horrible lie? Is she still working?"
Jean sighed. "Lord, Scott. If you must know, no, Rogue is no longer working." She caught Scott's eyes in the mirror where he stood four paces behind her.
He shook his head, his fingers toying with the rim of his almond-colored hat. "By God but Remy's going to take this mighty hard."
Jean spun on her stool. "Remy will never know." She stated coolly.
"Remy will never know what?" Came the sultry Cajun voice from the half-opened door.
"Remy!" Scott and Jean cried.
He grinned devilishly from where he leaned against the doorframe. "One and only. Isn't it de strangest t'ing, Scott? Dat Jeannie here lives in your old room, now?" His words were slow and slurred and he staggered weakly to the bed.
Scott rubbed his palms against his pant, embarrassed, suddenly realizing that Remy must have known Jean had become what she had in his absence but had not informed him. "Yeah, Remy. Strange." He looked to Jean but she wouldn't meet his eyes. The sight of her soft, downy limbs intertwined with the greasy, hulking man from before sent repugnance rising in his throat.
Remy fell back onto the bed. "Made a killing out dere. At least some t'ings never change: gamblers will always be stupid or cocky, bot' of which are heavy weaknesses." He stared at the ceiling as if he were talking to it and not his audience.
Jean sat, stiff and impatient on her vanity stool. Had he heard?
Remy captured her eyes with his ruby-specked ones. "Don't make me ask again, Jeannie."
She chuckled nervously. "What are you talking about, crazy Cajun?"
He rolled to his side and propped an elbow for support. "What will I never know?"
Jean turned to Scott to beg that he remain silent, but this time *he* did not meet *her* eyes. "Rogue is not dead, Remy."
Remy blinked. Downstairs, the sound of boisterous natives and tourists alike could be heard, laughing and enjoying and indulging. In Jean's private quarters, only the scattered breathing of three old friends could be heard. He opened his mouth to speak but his mouth ran bare for words. His eyes darted but finally resting, accusingly, on Jean.
"Is dat true? Did you lie to me?"
She opened her round mouth in defense but Scott caught her off.
"It wasn't her fault. Rogue told her to lie."
His eyebrows crinkled. "What?" He shook his head. "No. She wouldn't do dat." He hopped from the bed and stood, prompting his two companions to do likewise. "What de hell is going on here?" His eyes pinpointed Jean again.
She sighed audibly. "No, Rogue is alive. After she quit working, she told us girls to tell any man that asked about her that she was dead. But especially you, Remy."
The air left his body as if he'd been slammed in the gut. He stumbled back, confused. "Why? Why would she lie to me?"
Both men looked to Jean. She stood across from them, shaking her head and biting her lip. "I can't-"
"Damn it, Jean! Tell me! Why? Why would she lie? Lie to me?" He wrenched her shoulders and dug his slender fingers into her yielding shoulders, unaware he'd even been shaking her until Scott pried him away.
"Remy! Leave her be! Let her alone!" Scott steadied him, straightening his shirt and brushing him off. "Calm down, Remy. Calm down."
Jean clutched her nightgown between thin, trembling fingers. When it was silent again, she spoke. "After you left, she would hardly eat or talk. She lost customers by the day. But then..." She swallowed the knot in her throat.
"What?" He tensed, shrugging from Scott's grip, as if the real-estate agent had anything to worry about; Remy had seen and done many things in his young life, but he would never beat a woman.
Jean sank back down at her vanity. "Well, then *he* came in, sweet-talking a mile a minute, but especially Rogue." She became wistful. "He wouldn't except anyone's business but hers. He was really sweet on her, wouldn't leave her alone." Jean paused for a silent beat. "I think she was lonely. No one had talked to her like that since..." Jean looked at Remy. "Well, since you had come. Everyone could tell her really *cared* about her."
Remy shook his head. "I cared about her. I *still* care about her!"
"She married him." Jean stated simply.
Remy froze, the three inconceivable words ringing through his ears like an indecipherable foreign tongue. "Married?" He croaked.
She nodded slowly. Scott shook his head sadly and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Remy."
He shrugged Scott's hand away with one violent roll of his lithe shoulders. "Don't be. I don't need pity." He bore into Jean's wide blue eyes with his own demonic ones. "I need an address. Now petite, if you'd be so kind..."
A/N
Two things, wonderful people:
1.) This story *might* not have a sugarcoated, sweet, happy-ever-after ending. Maybe. Dunno yet......hehe. Ahem. Yeah.
2.) Said ending will most likely be in the next chapter, if not then definitely the next one. No, it doesn't have a *real* plot. Yes, writing it is fun as hell. But as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters.
REVIEW folks, and tell me what I'm doing wrong, right, or not doing at all!
"Emma. Emma told me and Jean said it was true."
"Jean..." Scott's eyes became distant and thinking. "She's... still here?"
Remy nodded numbly. "Yes, Jean." Remy bore into Scott, deciding whether or not to continue with the bad news but decided against it. Instead he grabbed Scott's forgotten bourbon and swallowed the small drink in three large gulps. "Why're you here?" He said slowly as if speaking was an immense effort.
Scott blinked, suddenly forgetting why the hell he was here. Oh yes, Kurt. "A friend got me in contact with a man living here that would like to sell his land and find lodgings in California. I'm just here to work out some details, really. Won't be for long." Remy nodded but Scott doubted the miserable man had heard a word of his explanation. "What about you, Remy?"
He shrugged lithe shoulders. "Got married," he sat back in his seat. "To *the* Belladonna Merchal."
Scott's brows crinkled. "The actress?"
Remy nodded. "Dat's her, all 115 pounds, blonde-haired blue-eyed bitch a man could ask for." He swallowed his whiskey. "I left her and came here like a damned fool. And dis is me now."
Scott shook his head. "I'm sorry, Remy. Hey, let's get you to bed. Come on," he stood from his seat and crossed to Remy, dragging the drunken man to his feet. "Up you go, there."
Remy leaned heavily on Scott as the pair made their way up the house stairs.
"Gentlemen, where do you think you're going?" Came Emma's voice from behind them.
Scott turned with Remy's arm slung around his shoulder. "To my room," he said with a boyish-sweet grin.
Emma's eyes widened. "I don't even believe it. But it is; I never forget a face." She said, approaching them. "Well if it ain't Scott the Dandy Summers, best damn player I ever had. How are ya', kid?" She hugged him tight.
"Right now, not the best I've ever been. I need to get a friend of mine here upstairs; he needs some rest."
Emma eyed him carefully, obviously not recognizing the young Don Juan that succeeded in making her best working girl fall in love. She nodded her consent and Scott continued heaving Remy up the stairs and into his old room, obviously currently occupied by another- a woman, if the red rose décor and fine satin dresses were any consolation.
"Gotta appreciate a woman dat never forgets a face," Remy remarked dryly as he fell back onto the large bed.
Scott chuckled lightly. "Yeah, Emma's... something else." He pulled Remy's boots off. Scott settled into a chair at the small oak desk by the window and, tipping his hat over his eyes, attempted sleep.
Remy too closed his eyes and clutched a pillow tight to his chest, trying in vain to alleviate the excruciating hurt swelling inside of him.
**
He couldn't sleep. Releasing the pillow, Remy glanced at his companion by the window. Scott had managed to doze under the streaming evening sunlight's heavy persuasion.
Deciding his futile attempt at sleep was getting him nothing but a dwelling conscience, Remy silently stood from the bed and slipped out of the small, comfortable room. Once downstairs, he scanned the gambling room with keen, narrowed eyes. Slipping his hand in his trouser pocket to finger the cash it held, Remy made his way to a table and plopped into a seat.
"Room for one more?" He asked innocently.
A burly man tinted orange from bad sun and dirty brown curly hair grinned toothily, flashing a series of small, slightly rotting teeth. "Always room for one more, boy."
**
Scott's eyes flew open under his hat. He remained perfectly still, assessing what it was that had woken him. His pulse quickened surely and sweat formed on his palms. His ears remained strained.
As there was no sun creeping under his hat, Scott inferred that it was now pitch dark both outside and inside his small room, except probably for the occasional boom of moonlight that streaked through the windowpane.
He heard the door open, feet shuffling, then click shut quickly. The bed mattress shifted as someone climbed upon it. No, two people. He heard a dark baritone grumble in his throat followed by the distinct sound of mouth on flesh, then a cheery, feminine giggle.
Scott would not hear this. He brought his arm up and lifted his hat. The couple did not notice him, simply continued groping each other in the dark. The man was hovering above her, his large hands slowly inching her many skirts up while she peppered kisses on his face and neck.
Knowing he held no chance of escaping through the door unnoticed, Scott, mortally humiliated, cleared his throat to make his presence known.
The woman, whom Scott could not make out but a sheer silhouette, screeched in horror and clutched at the crumpled sheets around her. The man stood and immediately turned an oil lamp.
Light was shed onto the entire situation.
Scott's breath rushed from him in one giant sweep, his body empty with nothing but an unmitigated disbelief.
"No," he choked when his eyes fell on a mass of crimson curls.
The customer elicited a string of curse words before promptly storming out of the room.
She was propped against the headboard, her mouth a round quivering 'o' and the magnolia-white of her skin blotched red where he gripped her too tightly. She lowered her big blue eyes, her rust-colored eyelashes shadowing them from his shameful glare.
He shook his head violently and moved to leave, but she scampered off the bed and blocked him. "No, don't go," she said, extending her arms.
He regained composure and slowly walked to his chair and settled back into it. "How's your father?" He asked dumbly.
"Dead," she said quickly. "After the tuberculosis beat him, Pete and Mattie were taken to their Aunt Margaret's, thank God for that." Jean lifted her head to the sky and silently thanked just Him that her siblings were not here to witness her disgusting downfall and being well supported at her aunt's.
Scott nodded slowly, his mind spinning and a thread of despair coiling in his body. "I see."
A sickened silence permeated and the past lovers met each other's eyes fleetingly, both feeling as if they had failed the other.
"When did Rogue die?" Scott asked, trying to think about something, anything else.
She was startled for a moment, then confused, and finally smiled nervously. "Rogue..." she stated simply and wandered to her wardrobe. She selected a silk nightgown the hue of an ocean and laid it out onto her bed. "You've been speaking with Remy, I see." She stopped. "Isn't that the strangest thing? That you both came back on the exact same day? Must be fate." She smiled.
"So I've heard," Scott said, watching her fumble with the laces at her back. Much to his dismay, Jean did not ask for his assistance in untying the small bows. He turned his head modestly when the garment fell from her body entirely. "Jesus, Jean." He half-chastised, half-pleaded.
She noticed his embarrassed and even disdained reaction at her blatantly nude body. She hurriedly snatched the gown back up around her breasts. "Sorry," she mumbled, her honey-sweet voice now a complete opposite from her brassy, painted eyelids and shades and shades of red piled onto her naturally fresh, plump lips. "Close your eyes then." He did so, making his legs promise to run right out of the two-story high window if he so much as cracked an eyelid. "Don't peek," she teased. He could hear the smile in her voice.
"Anyways, Rogue isn't dead. She simply... chooses not to see Remy."
"Why!? And why would she make such an awful lie about being deceased? Does she know how crushed he is?" Scott suddenly wondered where the hell Remy was.
"Woah, easy partner." Scott jumped at the sound of her voice so close to him. His eyes opened to see her fully clad body standing over him. "One at a time." She said.
"Okay, why doesn't Rogue want to see Remy?"
"A girl has a right to see and not see whomever she wants." Jean shrugged a shoulder and made her way to her vanity, sitting and dabbing perfume on her neck and wrists from a small glass bottle.
"Why would she tell such a horrible lie? Is she still working?"
Jean sighed. "Lord, Scott. If you must know, no, Rogue is no longer working." She caught Scott's eyes in the mirror where he stood four paces behind her.
He shook his head, his fingers toying with the rim of his almond-colored hat. "By God but Remy's going to take this mighty hard."
Jean spun on her stool. "Remy will never know." She stated coolly.
"Remy will never know what?" Came the sultry Cajun voice from the half-opened door.
"Remy!" Scott and Jean cried.
He grinned devilishly from where he leaned against the doorframe. "One and only. Isn't it de strangest t'ing, Scott? Dat Jeannie here lives in your old room, now?" His words were slow and slurred and he staggered weakly to the bed.
Scott rubbed his palms against his pant, embarrassed, suddenly realizing that Remy must have known Jean had become what she had in his absence but had not informed him. "Yeah, Remy. Strange." He looked to Jean but she wouldn't meet his eyes. The sight of her soft, downy limbs intertwined with the greasy, hulking man from before sent repugnance rising in his throat.
Remy fell back onto the bed. "Made a killing out dere. At least some t'ings never change: gamblers will always be stupid or cocky, bot' of which are heavy weaknesses." He stared at the ceiling as if he were talking to it and not his audience.
Jean sat, stiff and impatient on her vanity stool. Had he heard?
Remy captured her eyes with his ruby-specked ones. "Don't make me ask again, Jeannie."
She chuckled nervously. "What are you talking about, crazy Cajun?"
He rolled to his side and propped an elbow for support. "What will I never know?"
Jean turned to Scott to beg that he remain silent, but this time *he* did not meet *her* eyes. "Rogue is not dead, Remy."
Remy blinked. Downstairs, the sound of boisterous natives and tourists alike could be heard, laughing and enjoying and indulging. In Jean's private quarters, only the scattered breathing of three old friends could be heard. He opened his mouth to speak but his mouth ran bare for words. His eyes darted but finally resting, accusingly, on Jean.
"Is dat true? Did you lie to me?"
She opened her round mouth in defense but Scott caught her off.
"It wasn't her fault. Rogue told her to lie."
His eyebrows crinkled. "What?" He shook his head. "No. She wouldn't do dat." He hopped from the bed and stood, prompting his two companions to do likewise. "What de hell is going on here?" His eyes pinpointed Jean again.
She sighed audibly. "No, Rogue is alive. After she quit working, she told us girls to tell any man that asked about her that she was dead. But especially you, Remy."
The air left his body as if he'd been slammed in the gut. He stumbled back, confused. "Why? Why would she lie to me?"
Both men looked to Jean. She stood across from them, shaking her head and biting her lip. "I can't-"
"Damn it, Jean! Tell me! Why? Why would she lie? Lie to me?" He wrenched her shoulders and dug his slender fingers into her yielding shoulders, unaware he'd even been shaking her until Scott pried him away.
"Remy! Leave her be! Let her alone!" Scott steadied him, straightening his shirt and brushing him off. "Calm down, Remy. Calm down."
Jean clutched her nightgown between thin, trembling fingers. When it was silent again, she spoke. "After you left, she would hardly eat or talk. She lost customers by the day. But then..." She swallowed the knot in her throat.
"What?" He tensed, shrugging from Scott's grip, as if the real-estate agent had anything to worry about; Remy had seen and done many things in his young life, but he would never beat a woman.
Jean sank back down at her vanity. "Well, then *he* came in, sweet-talking a mile a minute, but especially Rogue." She became wistful. "He wouldn't except anyone's business but hers. He was really sweet on her, wouldn't leave her alone." Jean paused for a silent beat. "I think she was lonely. No one had talked to her like that since..." Jean looked at Remy. "Well, since you had come. Everyone could tell her really *cared* about her."
Remy shook his head. "I cared about her. I *still* care about her!"
"She married him." Jean stated simply.
Remy froze, the three inconceivable words ringing through his ears like an indecipherable foreign tongue. "Married?" He croaked.
She nodded slowly. Scott shook his head sadly and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Remy."
He shrugged Scott's hand away with one violent roll of his lithe shoulders. "Don't be. I don't need pity." He bore into Jean's wide blue eyes with his own demonic ones. "I need an address. Now petite, if you'd be so kind..."
A/N
Two things, wonderful people:
1.) This story *might* not have a sugarcoated, sweet, happy-ever-after ending. Maybe. Dunno yet......hehe. Ahem. Yeah.
2.) Said ending will most likely be in the next chapter, if not then definitely the next one. No, it doesn't have a *real* plot. Yes, writing it is fun as hell. But as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters.
REVIEW folks, and tell me what I'm doing wrong, right, or not doing at all!
