NYC - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Broadway
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 4

Cher's heels clicked consistently on the pavement as she dodged potholes and weaved trashcans. The alley was dark and, not surprisingly, unnerving to the young Mississippi native.

Yep, the door was right where Remy said it would be. The place was dirty, dark, and smoky, but Remy said there was a man here that would help her if she needed it.

The Russian just shy of seven feet tall led her down a corridor and into a small, dark room except for the blaring light hanging above the table in the center. A poker game was taking place between four visored men. All looked up at Cher's entrance, blinking, unmoving, waiting. She announced that she was there to see a man named Logan and the men dispersed, all but one.

"I'm Logan," he said after the others had all gone. He set the deck of cards down on the table and began rolling the sleeves that revealed forearms nearly the size of Cher's legs down.

She swallowed nervously. "Mah name's Cheryl Knight. Remy told me Ah should come to yah if there's-"

"That's right," he intervened. "Nice to finally meet you, Cher. What can I do for ya'?"

She wrung her hands, embarrassed. "Ah need...to know where Remy is raght now. It's very important."

Logan rested his elbows on the table. "I'd like to help you, darlin', but if Remy doesn't want to be found right now, I think it's best we respect his decision."

"But he needs to heuh this. It's urgent!"

"Listen, I would, but I just can't. Look kid, it's not like he's doing this for his health, he's doin' it 'cause if anyone sees him with you, or his sister, or anyone else he cares about- even though I think I just listed everybody- whoever's after him will know right where to hit him where it hurts." Logan exhaled a ring of cigar smoke. "They'll come after the ones he loves, that's the way it always is darlin'. He's doin' it to keep you and Red safe." Cheryl took a few cautious steps toward the table he sat at. "Ah know, but you don't understand. This is important." Her voice was pleading. "It's life or death." She clasped her hands in the classic begging position. "Please, mistah. Ah know he told yah where he is. Please, please tell me."

Logan pursed his lips in disgust. How pitiful...he was actually going to tell her.

Bells clinging against the glass door announced Scott's entrance into the crisp, clean Barber Shop, complete with swirling striped poles of red and blue. He took a seat near two elderly gentlemen engaged in a game of checkers. The barber looked up from his current customer and waved the detective a hello. "Hey Slim! Hold on a sec, I'm almost finished up with this one."

"Alright, Bobby." Scott liked Bobby Drake. About two years ago, the kid's father passed on- a good guy, owned the place since Scott was about knee high to a duck. Bobby inherited the place after that and had been running it since. He's a good kid- smart, hardworking, a real people person. His first order of business after moving in was learning every customers name and then quickly establishing nicknames.

Detective Summers was less than surprised when he was immediately branded 'Slim.' It was a name that haunted him since his long, scrawny days at junior high. Well, maybe haunt was a little strong... no haunt was about right.

A little bit later, Scott was settled comfortably in a chair, flannel sheet clasped behind his neck.

"What am I doing here, Summers?"

"A full out shampoo, cut, and shave."

"What, you got a date or something? Who would date your ugly mug?" Bobby grinned and turned to the instruments laid out on his workplace.

"No, no. The mood just strikes me, I guess."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say, eh fellas?" Bobby tossed over his shoulder. The two men playing checkers gave a collective grunt. "So, tell me, Scottie, I gotta know. Blonde or brunette?"

A smile curled at the corners of his mouth at the thought of the actual response to that question. "Don't worry about it, Bobby. Don't worry about anything." He replied with a face as still as possible so Bobby could continue lathering his cheeks and chin.

"I never worry, Slim. Never."

It was true, though. The sandy-blonde headed boy-just-recently-made-man worried very little if at all, as shown by the seemingly permanent twinkle in his bright blue eyes.

Bobby continued the cut and shave quick and efficiently. All the while, Scott sat silent, lying to himself. He swore to his conscience that what he was doing was not to impress anyone, especially not Jean White. He didn't give a damn about the redheaded doll; she was nothing but painful trouble. Now, if only he could come to believe it, his problems would be solved.

Jean gazed at herself in the mirror, eyeing the newly bought, wide-brimmed hat perched upon her tomato red locks with a decisive eye. "Too big," she mumbled to herself, returning to her closet. "She rummaged through the array of hat boxes strewn about, finally picking up a white one with a matching silk ribbon tied across the center.

She again approached the mirror, shifting her head from left to right.

"I like it" Came a gruff voice from behind her.

She gasped and spun around, clutching her chest in fright.

"Logan!" She cried. He sat leaning against the headboard, grinning at her reaction.

She threw the hat at him, which he easily deflected with a chuckle.

"What! I can't help it you're not observant enough to hear someone sneak into the place."

She opened her round mouth to protest, but nodded in agreement instead. "Is there a reason you're here, or shall I just shut my mouth and count my blessings?" She positioned herself at the foot of her bed, absently gathering fragments of tissue paper and price tags.

"Actually, I came to ask the age old question." Logan moved to where she sat on the bed and slid off of it, landing in a kneeling position at her feet, arms resting on either side of her. "Jean...what's your brother done this time?"

The redhead groaned and fell back onto the bed. "Arrrgh! I don't know, he won't tell me, either." She covered her face with her hands. "On top of that he's pretty sure we'll have to move again, soon."

Logan stood up. "Really? Where?"

"A place we have in New Orleans. It's nice and all, but I'm quite fond of this place myself."

"Fond of the place, or the people?"

Jean removed her hands from her face to look up at him. "My, my Mister Logan. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were implying something."

He turned from where he stood looking over her window balcony to stare her in the eyes. He was almost impressed when she met his gaze with her own fathomless blues, unflinching. God, the woman had more nerve than half the men he did business with. To not shrink under this man's gaze was truly an accomplishment in itself. Perhaps that's why Logan was forced to agree when Remy mentioned the looks directed toward Jean from him. No, absolutely not. This broad's life would be nothing but ruined if he were to bring her into his world.

"Remy said he saw that Detective Summers in here the other night." He scanned the room unconsciously, as if he expected to find Scott under the bed, and therefore have to kill him.

"Yep," she said simply.

Logan cringed; she wasn't going to meet him half way on this one. "Jean, you don't know him like I know him. Give him one chance and I'll bet he'd have your brother thrown into the slammer before you could blink those pretty li'l eyes. He's no good."

Jean smiled sweetly. "I had no idea you two were so close. What do you know about him?"

"What do YOU know about him?"

Her eyes flashed a dangerous shade of sapphire. "I know more about him in the few days we've known each other than I know about you in all the time I've known you. Remy and I don't even know your last name!"

"There's a reason for that, sweetheart!" He almost yelled.

"Really? What?!"

He clenched frustrated fists. "To keep genuinely good people like you and your brother safe...you wouldn't understand!"

"Fine!" She screamed.

"Alright!" He hollered, stomping to her door and swinging it open. He had every intention of storming out and not turning around for anything, even if she begged. That is, until she uttered one word.

"Wait."

The Canadian was rendered powerless. Disgraceful, he thought. He'd said it before and he'd preach it 'til he was six feet under: women are workers of Satan. He spun on his heel to face her. She was standing now, leaning against her bedpost, big eyes welling up with tears. Damn it, his heart dropped.

"I don't want us to part upset at each other." She choked out, determined not to weep pitifully in front of the toughest man she knew.

He shut the door with a soft click, smoothed his black-with-white-stripes suit with a dignified sweep of the hand, and slowly walked to where she stood.

"I know you're going to do what you want to do, and that's continue to see this detective, as much as I disapprove. Just be safe, Jeannie. That's all I'm saying."

"I will. Thank you."

He raised a thick, black eyebrow. "For what?"

"For being you, for looking out for me and Remy and Cher. What would we do without you, Mister Logan?" She grinned and threw her arms around his broad neck.

He returned the hug, forcing himself to ignore her irresistible womanly scent of roses coupled with freshly fallen snow, chastising himself for reveling in the feel of her slim body under his palms.

Jean stepped away and smiled up at him.

"Take care of yourself."

He assured her he would and left the apartment.

Jean flagged a cab and slid into the backseat, smiling politely at the driver. He was a colossal black man that towered over the steering wheel, his body cramped and just hardly fitting in the car's seat.

"Where to, ma'am?" He called over his shoulder, pulling off the curb.

"Sixth street, please."

He glided into the flow of traffic, weaving through other cars as if it were an obstacle course or a game. Jean's stomach clenched in momentary fear at his near head on collision with another car, only to quickly dodge it and resume his position on the right side of the road, five cars now behind them. He slowed at a traffic jam up the road.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, what the hell is going on here?" His voice sounded as if it were on the brink of control. Jean hoped it held out.

The tension permeated through the air for a few long seconds. Jean jumped when he suddenly slammed on the horn with his fist. "C'mon! Let's move it, people!" He screamed. "Oh, what! Who do you think you are? Yeah, okay, sure buddy. OH! OH! That's not right...my FOOT'S about to have a meeting with YOUR ass!!" He clenched the steering wheel, his blood obviously boiling. "Oh really!? I will PUNCH you in the FACE!"

Jean's mouth went dry, for a man two cars ahead of them got out of his car, slammed his door shut, and stomped right toward Jean's cab, fully intent on having words with her cab driver.

He turned to face Jean. "Sorry, this'll only take a second." He reached under his seat and pulled out the biggest gun Jean had ever seen. He noticed she had caught sight of the word 'Bishop' engraved on his pride and joy. "It was an old war name." He explained proudly, tenderly caressing the barrel. She nodded dumbly.

He cocked the gun, the action gaining a satisfying cha-chick from the weapon. 'Bishop' slammed his own door behind him, quickly waved his gun in front of his harasser and screaming a string of obscenities even Jean had never heard growing up with some of the worst thugs in the city, and made his way back toward the taxi after the other man cowered in fear, running for the safety of his car.

'Bishop' chucked the gun into the passenger seat, slumped into his own, and muttered a few curse words under his breath that Jean thought could quite possibly make a wolverine blush before regaining full composure and smiling back at Jean from the rearview mirror. "Sorry, miss. No charge for that, of course." And at that, he put the car back in motion and brought Jean, surprisingly enough, safely in front of Scott's office building.

Jean thanked him and hastily shoved crumpled bills in his hands, stumbling away from the car as quickly as possible, her adrenaline still pumping from the near-death experience. She had come across bad cab drivers before. After all, it was New York. But never had she run into one like that.

Jean watched Scott for a moment through the crack in the door to his office she made for her head to poke in. He was shifting through a mass of papers and photographs that were scattered across his desktop and didn't even notice her presence until she cleared her throat.

Detective Summers' head shot up at the sound and it's unmistakable owner. "Jean!" He was utterly startled. This was one person he wasn't expecting to see for a while considering last nights crash and burn.

"Hi Scott. I came by to apologize for what happened yesterday." She draped her mink shoulder wrap and hat over the arm of the client chair and strode passed him to peer out the window. "I don't know what came over me."

She was lying. Of course she knew what came over her: the fear that Remy would find out something, she didn't know what, but something was going on between her and this detective. But now that he knew, and they were moving anyway, she wanted to spend every waking moment with this man for some sudden reason.

"It's okay," he said, slightly uncomfortable and even more unsure of where they stood as far as a relationship went, now. After all, they did kiss, didn't they?

She broke the awkward silence by walking back to where he sat and perching herself on the edge of his desk, facing him. She reached behind her and swiped his hat sitting behind her, placing it on her head. "How does it look?" She asked, holding her arms out for him to see.

He chuckled and lifted the tip to see her eyes through the over-sized thing. "It's a little big for you, I think."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense, it's just right." They shared a smile and she tugged at a dwindling string from her skirt. His eyes wandered to her slightly parted thighs for a fleeting moment before coming back up to make contact with hers. She blushed furiously and crossed her legs. Jean leaned back on her hands, "So, detective, where shall we go?"

His features took on a curious look. "For what?"

"For the drink you're going to buy me of course!" She said matter-of-factly.

"Oh yeah! That drink. Ummm, what say you to a little place I know down on Alexander Street?"

She grinned. "I say I don't know the place you speak of."

"More the reason for me to take you then, eh?"

She hopped off his desk. "I'll get my coat."

The club had a mellow, toned down feel to it, complete with dimmed lights and jazz droning in the background. The two found a small table in a corner lit by a tiny candle flickering weakly in the center.

"Oh Scott! The place is beautiful, I love it!" Jean exclaimed, accepting the chair he pulled out for her. "What did you say the name of it was, again?"

" Elements. It's a quaint little place, but the food is great and the entertainment's even better."

"Entertainment?"

He unfolded a menu. "Yeah, they usually have a singer or a band...something of that sort. But tonight, an old friend of mine happens to be taking center stage: Ororo Munroe. She's a wonderful performer; I can't wait 'til you see her."

Their approaching waiter briefly interrupted the conversation. She was a young Asian girl, twenty-three at most, with a black crop top hairstyle, giving her the appearance of an evil pixi from hell.

"Hello, I'm Julie, I'll be your server for the night. Can I get you two something to drink?" She was perky and enthusiastic, probably a small town girl trying to make it in the big time and working as a waitress to pay the rent. Scott had seen a hundred of them, at least, and always made sure to tip them a little extra.

"I'll have a scotch and soda, please." Scott said.

She scribbled the order down on her notepad. "And for your wife?"

Scott and Jean blushed. "I'll have a dry martini." She said through a smile.

Julie placed the pencil behind her ear and the pad in the pocket of her black uniform bottom. "Alright, I'll be right back with that." She spun on her heel and left the table, a bounce in her step. Scott half scoffed, half pitied her. So naïve, so full of life and opportunities. Ah, to be young.

"So, Detective Summers, what do you recommend?" Jean asked over her menu.

"Let's see, I always get the steak and shrimp myself, but there's a special tonight."

"Really?"

"Yep, pretty ladies such as yourself get anything they want free, courtesy of yours truly."

"Is that just a fancy way of saying you're paying?" He nodded. "Aw, thank you kind sir."

Julie took their order and the club started to pick up around eight. A crowd shuffled in through the entrance, all to see the infamous Ororo Munroe perform.

Scott stole a glance at Jean. She was staring intently at the stage, waiting for the lights to let up and the show to begin. He tried to avoid it, but it was useless: his heart skipped a beat. God, there was no two ways around it; she was beautiful. Her crimson strands pulled back in a classic up-do, her milky skin casting off a faint glow in the candlelight, and that damned ruby-red pout that weakened him.

She caught his eye from the corner of hers and turned to face him, smiling uncertainly at the undivided attention. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

The two looked back to the stage. Jean wondered how her heart could thump so violently and he couldn't hear it. This man was such a good guy and she was truly being selfish for leading him on like this, he being totally oblivious to the truth. When she told Remy she would tell Scott he was no longer needed, she had meant it. But as soon as she saw him that morning, she decided one more day couldn't hurt. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with him before she would be forced to move again. No, 'forced' was too strong. She had every bit of free will as the next person, and Remy always made that clear to her. 'You don't have to come wit' Remy, Red.' He always said it, and it only served in making her feel guilty for even second guessing her brother and his 'career choices.' She could just imagine Scott's face when he discovered her and Cher gone, never to be seen by him again.

Stop it, Jean, you're sick, she told herself. Just enjoy the precious little time you have left with him.

The lights went up on the stage to reveal a sleek, black grand piano with blood red roses scattered across it and an accompanist sitting on the bench, clad in a full black tuxedo and gloves. A spotlight suddenly beamed down on the center of the piano top and a tall, black woman, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, was propped on one elbow in the direct center of it. Her crystal blue eyes stared straight ahead and her platinum hair fell across her shoulders like layers of pure snow. The royal blue sequence of her sparkling dress complemented her mocha brown skin splendidly.

The crowd fell silent as she cradled the microphone; all except Jean. The redhead leaned into Scott, he meeting her half way, and placed her mouth to his ear, whispering, "A friend, huh?"

He could hear the smile in her voice and he chuckled too, before whispering back, "Yes. A good friend." He felt a smug satisfaction at her jealousy, even if it she was kidding.

Ororo's rich voice enveloped the room like fine silk. She had the audience in the palm of her hand by the time she finished her song and she was well aware. She responded to their uproarious cheering with a wave of the hand and flashing a dazzling smile.

Later that night, Scott and Jean were giggling like teenagers in front of Jean's penthouse door. She leaned against the wall and tipped her head back. "God, I had a wonderful night. Thank you."

"Anytime," he said. "In fact, how does tomorrow sound?" A hopeful smile played at his lips.

"It sounds...perfect." Pause. "You want to come in for some coffee or something?"

He accepted and pretty soon they were inside her apartment splitting a bottle of champagne. They sat cuddled together on her couch near the fireplace where Scott had built a roaring fire.

"What are you thinking about?" Jean asked Scott from where her head rested on his shoulder. He tried to suppress a laugh but to no avail. "Don't laugh!" She exclaimed in mock hurt as she sat up and set her champagne glass down on the coffee table. He followed suit.

"No, no, I'm not laughing at you!"

"Oh really? Then pray tell, why were you laughing?"

"I was laughing because... I'm happy." He finished, knowing full well how corny it sounded the minute it left his mouth, but not caring. In fact, if anything, the detective was confused. Wasn't this the same woman that pushed him out of her apartment the night before after he mustered up the courage to kiss her? And now, he sat on her couch, his arm strapped across her small frame and sipping champagne. Scott decided to brush it off and count his blessings; he wasn't complaining.

"Happy? Alert the media! What has made Mister Serious so happy that he, gasp, laughs!?"

He didn't answer. Instead he took her hands in his own, and as opposed to jerking them away (the reaction he expected), she gently stroked his fingers in return. Wordlessly, they leaned into each other and their lips met. Fire shot through her body. There was no way she was turning back, now. She wanted him, all of him, surrounding her, breathing her, completing her. God, it ached. She deepened the kiss by climbing into his lap and pressing harder against his mouth with her own.

Scott could barely contain his emotion. Thoughts charged through his head like a freight train. Her kiss was like a symphony waltzing in his mouth, he never wanted to stop. She tasted like ripe raspberries and white rain. He wrapped his arms behind her back as she lost her hands in his brunette waves. She broke away from the kiss, out of breath and gasping. Scott took the opportunity to plant tantalizing kisses along the crook of her neck and collarbone. Once her attention was regained by that, she took his earlobe between her lips and nibbled provocatively. "Hows about we take this to my room?"

Scott shuddered with desire and hoisted the two of them off the couch, her legs gripping his hips and ankles locking behind his back. He laid her onto the queen-sized bed and supported his weight over her, bringing his ravenous mouth down on her cherry pout to claim another heart-stopping kiss.

The Nightcrawler was a small, electric club where only the few elite and lucky made their way past the entrance. Cheryl sat at the bar and whipped out a slim cigarette, crossing her legs and peering around the room. A jazz quartet was setting the place ablaze with wicked notes and gin glasses clinked in toast one after the other. Suddenly, the bartender flashed a match before her and she held her smoke to it until it illuminated, nodding politely to him. She observed him through the small black veil hanging from the tip of her hat over her vibrant green eyes. He was not just handsome, but beautiful...like an angel. He had sharp, tan features like a Greek god and long blonde waves. Cher smiled to herself. Here she was being offered a light by a man that was definitely model material, and she couldn't even bring herself to look at him twice so in love and worried for Remy she was.

"Excuse me, sir." She said, her accent thick as honey. "Ah was wondering if you might know where to find this man." She held out a worn, black-and-white photograph of her and Remy. He was behind her on a swing they had found hidden deep in a Mississippi forest, hanging sorrowfully from an old branch.

The bartender looked as if he were about to nod but stopped himself. "Um, no, can't say I have."

Cher looked at him quizzically. "No? Oh, c'mon sugah, he's expecting me. Ah know he's somewhere around heuh, so won't you be so kind as to tell me where?" Her eyes got a mesmerizing shade of green and she bore them into his own sea blue ones. Captivated, he said, "Oh, alright. I guess; follow me." He turned to lead but ran into something, or rather, someone.

"No need, Warren."

"Remy! There yah are, oh thank the Lawd! Ah have GOT to tell yah something!"

Remy wordlessly took his fiancée by the hand and led her up a flight of winding stairs hidden behind the bar. The staircase opened up into a large private room, classically furnished and complete with cathedral ceilings.

Cher wasn't interested in the room, though. She had to tell Remy he was a primary suspect for not one but seven murders! But the stern, displeasing look on his face told her he was less than ecstatic to see her there.

"Cher, what are you doin' here? Didn't Remy tell you he would be back? You shouldn't be here, someone could have seen you come in!"

Cheryl took a step toward him. "But Remy, ah have something very important you need to heuh! Would you just listen, yah stubborn swamprat!" She blew a disobedient strand of hair from her eyes with a frustrated humph.

Remy weighed the decision for a second, then crossed his arms over his tight white tee shirt as if to say, 'I'm listening.'

"Okay, Ah was at the office earlier and just happened to overhear..." Remy gave her a knowing look, "Alraght, Ah was eavesdropping when I heard this man, Lensherr Ah think his name was, asking Scott..." Remy's ears perked at the name as a thought dawned on him.

"Scott! Cher, Jeannie did get around to telling him to stop the manhunt for this Cajun, didn't she?"

Cher blinked her bright eyes, her mind overflowing with too many things at once. "What? No...not yet, not that Ah know of. Then again, Ah was out all day tryin' to find yoah butt!"

"So you don't know...?"

"No, Remy. Sugah, listen, you're missing mah point..." She opened her mouth to recount her story...again, when Remy suddenly interrupted her with,

"How did you find me?"

Cher nearly screamed at his lack of cooperation but answered the question anyway. "Logan, Ah asked Logan and he told me."

Remy nodded, "Good. If it were anyone else, Remy would be worried. Logan's the only one I told."

Cheryl grasped his shoulders and yanked his attention from wherever it was occupied. "Listen to me!! You are already being hunted down, and not JUST by Summahs!" She took a deep breath and lowered her voice considerably, taking a cautious glance around the spacious room. "The POLICE are after you, Remy. For a couple of things! They think yah killed this guy, uh, what was his name... he worked with that Lensherr guy. You know the company, they're business partners..." She snapped her fingers to recall the name.

"Xavier," he offered.

"Yes! That's the one. They think you killed that man, Remy! And, get this, they think you killed all those women that have been dying, lately. Oh, Gawd! Mah mind is drawing a blank tonight. What do they call it in the papers? Oh! The Manhattan Massacre! They think you did that, too! Why, Remy? Why do they think yah did all these things?"

By now, Remy was cradling her near hysterical body, whispering soothing things in her hair as she clutched at his tee shirt and buried her face in his chest. "Shh. It's okay, my Rogue. Not'ing's going to happen to Remy, I promise. Not'ing's going to take me away from you, Cher, not'ing." He inhaled deeply, catching his last moment before having to confess the awful truth he kept harbored for so long. He pulled Cher away from him and stared into her wondrous eyes as green as the lush grass growing beside the bayous of Louisiana. She stared back innocently, so unaware and trusting. Remy's gut did a sickening flop.

"Cher..." He began.

"Yes, Remy."

"Cher, I...I'm going to tell you somet'ing. It's de reason we might be movin' back to the south." Cher swallowed and nodded. Remy braced himself. Would she still love him after he told her this? She just had to, because if she didn't, Remy didn't think he'd be able to take it. "Remy did kill someone. I killed Xavier, but let me explain."

Cheryl's jaw plunged, aghast. Needless to say, she had no words for the moment, so Remy took it upon himself to continue before she found words...words that could break his heart.

He turned and clasped his hands behind his back, not able to look at her while he said this. As he wandered around the room in this position, he revealed to Cher the entire truth. "Xavier and Lensherr are dangerous men. I want you to know dat before I say anyt'ing more. Dey're regular customers of mine, usually buying de drugs, but every once in a while dey take a taste of de jewels and weapons, too. Anyways, dey requested a huge order of cocaine a couple weeks ago, a shipment so big Remy couldn't get it himself- we call dese kinds of orders Patients, because if dey're too big for Remy to get, de purchaser is going to have to be patient until it comes through. I had to have it hauled in from Boston wit' de next shipment, but even when de trucks finally made it here, dey're wasn't as much as I t'ought dere would be. Remy was still a few pounds short."

He paused to light a cigarette, squinting in concentration as the flame greeted the tip. "So, I went to Xavier's apartment to tell him it was going to be another couple of days until he got his damned drugs because he'd have to wait for de next shipment to come in. What he and Lensherr wanted wit' dat many drugs, Remy has no idea. Probably intended on selling dem on de street demselves, make a little extra cash, I suppose. So anyway, I went to his place to bear de bad news, and next t'ing I know he's charging at me wit' a gun...right dere...in his apartment doorway! Remy had to t'ink fast, so I pulled out my own gun and told him if he made any moves, I'd have to use it. De damned fool didn't believe me. He rose his pistol like he was going to shoot Remy right point black!" Second of heavy silence. "What could Remy do, Cher? I had to stop him, he was going to kill Remy! I shot him, and when he still raised his gun at me, I shot him again. Remy had no idea Eric Lensherr was in de apartment. I just learned dat de ot'er day from de newspapers." He turned back to swallow Cher's reaction. She stood numbly, tears welling up in her sea-green pools. "I swear, Cher, Remy had no ot'er choice! He was a mad man; he wanted to kill me! What else could I do?"

Cher finally found her speech. "Yah could have told the police the truth. Why didn't yah, sugah?" Her voice was stunned and almost unbelieving, but not angry or hateful, for both Remy was thankful.

"You know de police, Cher. Dey wouldn't believe a word a Cajun t'ief said, especially if it was up against a man like Lensherr. Dat man's got every Manhattan law enforcer connected to strings he pulls like puppets whenever convenient for him." Remy said disgustedly.

She pursed her lips. "Yeah, I suppose you're raght. He DID seem awfully friendly wit' Detective Summahs." She thought. "Hey, so what's this all about the Manhattan Massacre? Why do they think you did that?"

Remy's heart skipped a beat; so many reasons he loved her more and more every day he knew her. It wasn't 'you didn't kill all those women did you, Remy?' No, it was 'why do the police think you killed all those women, Remy?' even after he told her about killing Xavier in cold blood. Her faith was just one reason of many. He'd lost count so long ago.

"Remy don't know anyt'ing about dat one, Cher. I'm not worried about it eit'er way, dough. Once we move to New Orleans, which is looking close to inevitable right about now, Remy'll be free from any charges. And if he gets caught, which he won't, dey would hang me for de Xavier murder alone knowing Lensherr's connections. But don't worry, Cher, dat's not going to happen."

Remy pulled her close to him, sliding a hand over her cheek and brushing away a scared tear that streamed down her face. Remy was not weak, not by any means, but her eyes were like a knife twisting pleasurably through his heart, making him weak and more than willing to beg. He loved it.

Cher willingly obliged to his embrace, resting her hands on his toned biceps. "So, whos place is this, Remy?" She asked coyly.

"Mine, Rogue. 'Bought it when I moved up here, along wit' de ot'er place I bought for de bot' of us. A t'ief should always have a backup...for everyt'ing." He captured her mouth with a lasting kiss. She gasped against his mouth when his hands disappeared under the back of her shirt.

She broke the kiss with a grin. "Really? What about women, swamprat? Yah got a backup for them, too?"

His voice became serious and quiet. "No Cher. No backup for dat, or dis one at least." He kissed her again, this time with twice as much vigor. Remy swallowed her sweet taste of honeysuckle and vanilla. Another reason he loved her so much: the unbridled passion. Remy had been around, but after his first time with Cheryl, he knew this was the one he could spend the rest of his life with.

He gathered her in his arms and tumbled her onto the black sheets on the bed. She giggled and returned his playful kisses, then pushed him on his back and straddled his stomach. "Nuh-uh, playboy. What if they heuh us?"

He shrugged, "So what? Let 'em." He grinned deviously and pulled her down on top of him to resume what they were doing.

"Remy!" She said between their kisses. "Are yah sure about this?"

He flipped her on her back and held himself over her with one knee on either side of her hips. "Sure I'm sure!" He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on each individual fingertip. She sighed in pleasure.

"Remy, you are terrible! Then again, you are wonderful!" She arched her hips and Remy responded enthusiastically by kissing the creamy skin of her neck and letting one hand grip her hip while the other busied itself by fumbling with the zipper of her black pencil skirt. Cher let her eyelids droop and tipped her head back, gulping the sensations that flooded her young body, love and lust being two prominent ones.

The night belonged to lovers, and they amiably seized it.

Jean White opened her bleary eyes and wiped the sleep from them. She yawned, but stopped herself. She suddenly recalled why she was unclothed and why there was an arm draped across her waist from behind. Despite herself, she smiled at the recollection of the night before. It had been the best time she had in a long time. He had made her feel so magnificent, paying homage to every square inch of her body.

Jean rolled over silently, facing him, hoping to God he didn't wake up. She loved the things he did, she loved being with him, and perhaps, just plain loved him.

No, she thought. You can't. You'll just hurt him, and yourself. Get over it. You'll forget him once you're in New Orleans anyway.

She rolled her eyes to no one in particular. Lying to Scott was cold-hearted; lying to herself was just pitiful.

Her blood ran hot when he stirred next to her, his arm gently rubbing her side as he woke. His eyes blinked open and focused on her. Then he smiled.

"Morning." She whispered.

"Morning," he yawned. "What time is it?"

She shrugged. "I don't care."

Scott laughed and wrapped her in his arms and the white sheets. "Me neither."

She covered his smile with a full kiss and hopped out of bed. He watched in mild amusement, propped on an elbow, as she buttoned his white, collared shirt onto her body. He followed suit and kicked the down comforter that had entwined with his legs off of him to stand up. He tugged on his underwear and trousers, and stumbled to the white grand sitting in her living room.

"Wow! Do you mind?" He asked, jerking his head toward the bench.

She walked in from the kitchen, cradling a cup of steaming coffee. "Nah, go ahead. I lost interest long ago or else I'd bust out an 'Entertainer' for you."

He grinned wolfishly and plopped down on the seat, lovingly fingering the ivory keys. "It's beautiful." He exclaimed.

"Yeah, Remy got it for me one year for my birthday. I just came home and bam, there it was, sitting there with yellow roses strewn across the top here, kind of like the one we saw last night." She commented, absently placing a hand on the open piano top. "Of course, this was down."

"About last night," Scott began, deciding boldly to press his luck, "I had a really nice time."

"Me, too," she said simply.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her down beside him on the bench, placing his mouth close to her ear. "Am I ever going to see you again after I leave today?" He was finished second-guessing. He had to find out before he lost her to all this treading on eggshells. Sure, she was being a tad difficult, but Scott had a feeling she was worth the trouble. And, not that he was proud of admitting it about someone he hadn't even met yet, but he was almost positive all her emotional worry was in some way fault of her brother's.

Jean let out a startled breath. She obviously wasn't expecting the question, but she slowly nodded after a second of silence. "Yes, you will."

She kissed him. She didn't know what compelled her, because she had meant every syllable of what she said, so it wasn't as if she were kissing him one last time. She just experienced an overpowering desire to feel him close to her again, like last night.

He returned the kiss, his fingers groping the buttons of his shirt on her body. "No way, mister. You're going to be late for work."

He kissed her neck. "So. Besides, this is my shirt, sweetheart." He tugged at the article of clothing and she sighed, happily defeated.

Cheryl's elevator made a satisfying DING after she reached the top floor of the apartment building. She mumbled something of a thanks to the elevator operator and stepped off, quickly walking to Jean's penthouse, one of the only two rooms occupying that particular flat.

She approached Jean's door and knocked.

"Hi, Cher." She bit her lip nervously.

"Hi, hun. I got to tell yah... What's wrong? You look like a shameful li'l puppy dawg."

Jean met the southern woman's eyes. "Scott just left." She said quietly. "He...spent the night."

Cher's eyes became the size of saucers. "What! Our Scott! Detective Summahs Scott!" Cher took a moment to sink it in. "Does Remy know you two are...?"

Jean nodded. "Mm-hmm. He's not thrilled, but since were moving soon anyway, I'm not too worried about it. I was SUPPOSED to fire him yesterday..."

"So Ah've heard."

"...But I just couldn't."

Cheryl sighed, but she understood. When you're in love, you're in love. "Well sugah, raght now that's the least of our problems. Get this: Remy has murdered someone."

That got Jean's attention. Cher recounted the entire ordeal to Jean, leaving no detail out. Jean listened intently, not speaking a word until Cher had finished.

"Okay, have you gone to work yet?"

"Yeah. Ah dropped my stuff off and left a note for Scott because he wasn't there. Ah was wonderin' why! Now I know."

"Alright. Go back and act like nothing's happened. No need to raise suspicion, now. I'll be in a little later to inquire for Remy."

"Ah thought you were going to tell Detective Summahs you didn't need his help, anymore."

"We might as well play it out like we still don't know where Remy is since Scott's looking for him anyway. Otherwise we'll become a suspect because we know where he is."

Cher nodded slowly in agreement. "Gawd, yah do this a lot, don't yah?"

"More times than I'd like to count, but from one woman to another: I've never felt worse about leaving a man than I do for Scott. It's...different with him."

"Aww! You poor thang!"

Jean giggled. "Yeah, poor me."

Scott Summers was happier than he could ever remember being. Last night was one of the happiest nights he could ever remember having.

In a phrase, his head was up in the clouds. "No Scott," he muttered to himself, looking down at the pile of papers crowding his desk. "Stay focused." He searched his desk for the file on Remy he was supposed to get back to Betsy a couple days ago. He discovered Cher's note saying she'd be back soon. The file was nowhere to be found. He sighed in frustration; he didn't have time for this, he had to be daydreaming about a certain redhead.

After a couple of restless minutes searching for the file, he decided he gave it to Cher for safekeeping. He groaned and stumbled over to his secretary's desk.

He was more than a little shocked to find every drawer completely bare. 'What the hell?' He thought. The center drawer was usually set aside for personal belongings and Scott didn't exactly want to go rummaging through it, but the file had to be found. Besides, he was a tad curious as to why his secretary's usually packed-full drawers had not one scrap of paper in them.

He debated it for a moment, staring at the slim drawer with a tiny brass handle on it.

Curiosity killed the cat.

He slumped down in Cher's chair and slid the drawer open at an agonizing pace. Again, nothing...except for a photograph worn at the edges of Cher and someone else on a swing. Scott glanced briefly at it and began to shut the drawer when he noticed she was with a man- a tall, lanky man, auburn hair and medium build. He flipped it over and read the words scrawled across the stark white of the blank side: Remy and Cher, Mississippi.

Scott's mouth went dry. No; no way. But it was right there, in black and white. But there's no way Cheryl would Judas them, but it was right there in black and white.

It was right there in black and white. Detective Summers made himself comfortable in her chair and stared at the door, waiting for her to return, and she'd better have a damned good explanation...for her sake.