After Midnight - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Neurotic Temptress
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 3

He switched off the television set and closed his eyes, leaning back until his head touched the wall behind him. The interview had lasted for fifteen minutes more, with Rogue enthusiastically discussing the work that had gone into her latest project. It was her most personal album to date, filled with tracks that described more of who she was than any unauthorized biography on the market. Her very heart and soul had been poured into the record, even more so since she co-wrote and co-produced over half of the tracks on the album. Daring to bare herself to that degree became all the more possible with the array of talent she collaborated with, in the form of numerous sought-after producers and guest appearances by fellow artists. She spoke with such enthusiasm and unbridled passion that it was infectious. It was all she could do to sit calmly in her seat; she looked as if she were going to jump up and perform her latest single just to give the audience a taste of what she had described as ‘ear candy.’

He suddenly opened his eyes and stood, walking over to the desk across the room and unlocking the bottom drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out a large, velvet case. Inside was a beautiful silver necklace; simple in design, with a small snowflake pendant hanging from a chain so fine it almost appeared invisible. It was perfect. He sat down to prepare the letter that would accompany the necklace.

Two hours later, he was finished.

The music flowed all around her, soft and free, encasing her in a gentle womb of warmth. The rhythm became part of her heartbeat, steadying, pulsating; giving her the lifeblood required to sustain her very existence. It wasn’t long until she was completely lost to the sweet sensations. Enthralled. Entombed. Enticed into a world overflowing with beautiful harmonies and sensuous melodies, where one could fall asleep and wake up into forever.

And then the words came. Softly at first, barely more than a whisper, only to transform into a clear, steady voice that matched the beats note for note. The amalgamation of sounds quickly drove her to a blissful state where nothing else existed but the music around her. No pain, no confusion, no responsibilities. Simply her and the music.

Then the sounds slowly died, fading away until there was nothing left but an eerie silence echoing in her ears. Gradually, she opened her eyes, lowering the hands that she had unknowingly placed on her throat and forehead. A voice crackled over the intercom.

“That was fantastic, Rogue. Come on out and take a break.”

She reached up and slid the headphones off of her ears, hanging them over the microphone stand for further use later on in the day. Once outside the soundproof booth, she was greeted with the sight of half a dozen or so people in the adjoining room.

“So what d’ya think, Ali?” Rogue asked, picking up a bottle of water and refreshing her parched throat.

Alison Blaire looked up from where she had been leaning over the sound technician’s shoulder. “I think it was great, Rogue. I don’t think we need to record another take; you hit the mark with that one, doll.”

“Can Ah get a listen?”

“Sure thing. Tony?” She tapped the man seated in front of her.

Moments later, the sound of her voice filtered out of the numerous speakers positioned throughout the room. Deep and bluesy, it created an air of sadness in the studio.

“Like I said,” Alison commented as the last chords of the song faded away, “I think we’ve got it. We can take an extra hour for lunch, come back and put the finishing touches on the last tracks.”

“Ah don’ know,” said Rogue. “Somethin’ sounds a bit… off.” It wasn’t as if she didn’t trust Alison’s judgment -- she did, immensely. Ali was one of the best producers in the business, with an ear for music that even God would envy. But sometimes you could feel that something wasn’t right with a song. She couldn’t describe it with words, but she just knew. “What do y’all think? Logan?”

The Canadian grunted. “Sounded depressin’, darlin’. Thought that was the point.”

“Made me wanna go home right now and shoot myself; was so sad,” Guido put in, taking a bite of his roast beef sandwich.

“Well, what if I tweaked the pitch a little?” Tony asked as he adjusted several knobs. “There. How does this grab you?”

The familiar melody filled the room once more. Guido ceased his mid-morning munching long enough to wonder what the difference between the two versions was. For him, the track sounded exactly the same; same haunting tune, same throaty voice singing of pain and loss. But apparently there was a distinction between the two because both Rogue and Alison were grinning from ear to ear, now fully satisfied with the finished product.

“That’s it, sugah!” Rogue exclaimed. “It’s perfect!”

“Still never one to settle for second-best, eh?” said a voice from the doorway. “Won’t quit until every note is in its proper place.”

Rogue smiled to herself. Even without turning she knew who it was. It was a voice she would know anywhere. “Kind o’ like someone Ah know who’s exactly th’ same… Jeannie.”

The redhead grinned her greeting before walking across the studio floor and embracing her friend in a tight hug. “You look fantastic, Dixie.”

Rogue laughed at the name Jean used; only she and Ororo had ever called her by that nickname, and it sounded wonderful to her ears. “Ah could say th’ same ta you, sugah. Did ya bring me somethin’?”

The smile reappeared on Jean’s face. “It wasn’t like I had a choice really,” she said with mock exasperation. “I was under the threat of being tarred and feathered if I didn’t comply. And you know what happens when -- “

Before she could finish, a loud cry, emanating from the hallway, rang out. “Ixxxiieeee!” A few moments later, a small toddler, dressed in a pale pink t-shirt and blue overalls, appeared at the door. Her thick red hair was pulled into what had once been a neat ponytail; now several strands were escaping their confinement.

“Rachel!” Rogue’s face lit up as she knelt down and opened her arms. “C’mere, sweetie, an’ give me a hug!”

The little girl smiled and rushed into the embrace. Holding her tightly as she stood, Rogue cooed, “Oohh, Ah missed ya so much. Look how much ya’ve grown!”

“Big?”

“Yeah, sugah, yoah very big. Yoah a big girl now.”

Rachel giggled at the compliment and then leaned back into Rogue’s body, resting her head against the shoulder in front of her. She amused herself by capturing a handful of chestnut hair and twirling it in her small hand.

“Are you free for lunch?” Jean asked after she had greeted the others in the room.

“Sure. Ah’ll see ya this aftahnoon, Ali?” Rogue kept her upper body straight as she bent her knees to retrieve her knapsack from the floor. Rachel’s grip tightened slightly at the prospect of accidentally being dropped.

“Take your time, Rogue,” Alison replied. “No rush. We’re just going to polish things off a little anyway.”

“Ah’ll see ya later then, sugah.”

Thirty minutes later, they had gathered on the patio deck in back of Rogue’s New York home. Rachel had eagerly donned her swimsuit and was currently splashing in the shallow end of the pool. Unfortunately, her fun was being rained on by her nanny, who wouldn’t let her out farther than the pool steps.

“She’s beautiful, Jeannie,” Rogue said, watching the little girl attempt to submerge herself underwater. The task proved to be impossible with the plastic orange floaters on both her arms keeping her afloat.

Jean grinned. “Sure, you say that now because she’s your godchild. But wait until you get one of your own and then we’ll see how wistful you are with a one-year-old bundle of nonstop energy! You’ll be singing another tune then, my friend.”

Rogue laughed at Jean’s tone. She sounded like she regretted motherhood, but Rogue knew that just the opposite was true. Jean loved Rachel like nothing on Earth; it was an amazing thing to witness. She had given up a number of things to become a full-time mother, and she cherished every minute of it.

“So how’s Scott?” she asked as she took a bite of her meatball sandwich.

Jean eyed her enviously, picking at her chef’s salad. “I can see all that cheese oozing out from over here. I will never know how you manage to eat all this forbidden food and not gain a pound. It’s unnatural.”

“It is not. Ah exercise a lot.”

“When do you find the time? It’s not like you have a very loose schedule. They’ve got you booked from here until kingdom come.”

“Stop avoidin’ mah question, sugah. How’s yoah husband?”

Jean developed a faraway look on her face. “He’s… he’s… perfect.”

Rogue couldn’t help but laugh at her friend’s expression. “Mah goodness! An’ this aftah havin’ been married fo’ two years already. Hasn’t th’ honeymoon stage worn off by now? Ah mean, y’all have a baby an’ ev’rythin’.”

“I suppose it would wear off faster if I actually got to see my husband more often than I do. Charles is busy working on some important projects so Scott has to fill in for him on most of the heavy work.”

Rogue sympathized with Jean; it couldn’t be easy being married to the vice president of one of the heavy-hitting recording labels in the business. Scott had a lot of responsibilities; the demands on his person could have made a two-ton elephant stop dead in its tracks.

“No one evah said bein’ married ta a near-genius would be easy, sugah. Someone who’s a vice president o’ anythin’ at thirty-one is bound ta have some serious commitments.”

“I just wish Charles would hurry up and finish work on his extra projects already so I can have my husband back.”

The southerner smiled. “Don’ knock th’ head honcho, Jeannie. He was, aftah all, our biggest supporter.”

“I know, I know.” She smirked suddenly. “Remember when we had just signed our contract and our first publicist wanted to change our image? He told you to get rid of your southern accent; he told me to drop the ‘sweetie’ act and become the resident ‘bad girl’; and he wanted ‘Ro to dye her hair brown to look ‘more ethnic.’“

“Ah ‘member. We told him we’d do all that when he had th’ stick up his backside surgically removed. Th’ man was a yutz.”

“Then he threatened to go to Charles and have us ‘removed.’“

Rogue laughed at the memory. “But then Charles told him that talent like ours was one in a million but that publicists were a dime a dozen.”

Jean joined in her laughter. “Yeah, that was priceless. But we did eventually come to a compromise with him. Well, at least you did.”

“Ah didn’ mind all that much.” Rogue ran a hand down the white streak in her hair. “Ah think it’s kinda cool, actu’lly. Always wanted ta do somethin’ with mah hair. An’ Ah’m used ta ev’ryone usin’ mah stage name.”

“Speaking of you,” Jean began, pushing her salad bowl away. She had become suddenly serious. “How are you? I saw the interview this morning.”

Rogue repeated her friend’s gesture and discarded her lunch plate. She then reached for her glass of iced tea. “Ah’m good, Jeannie, real good.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dixie.” Jean tapped the side of her head. “I’m telepathic.”

The younger woman sighed. She knew it was useless to try and hide something from Jean. They had known each other too long, spent too many hours exposing every little ugly detail of their lives for Jean not to know when something was bothering her.

“It was a good interview, Ah think,” she began. “‘Cept fo’ when Amy started askin’ ‘bout th’ breakup. It’s been a year an’ a half already. Ya’d think it was old news by now.”

“People like to talk, make up stories about other people that just aren’t true.”

“Ah know. Ah jus’ didn’ like it when she started goin’ on ‘bout disbandin’ fo’ no good reason. Like she didn’ know ya had a baby.”

Jean reached across the table and grasped the other woman’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She appreciated the fierce loyalty that Rogue had for her and anyone else she held close to her heart. It was unwavering in its intensity and as steadfast as any rock. Once you were a part of her inner circle you were a member until death.

Effortlessly, Jean switched topics. “Have you heard from Ororo lately?”

Another sigh erupted from across the table. “Ya can’t keep track o’ that girl. She’s always flittin’ ‘bout from one exotic place ta anothah. Ahh, ta be a famous singer-turned-fashion model. Walkin’ down runways, stoppin’ traffic with a turn o’ yoah head.” She flipped her hair off one shoulder dramatically, pouting her lips and striking a seductive pose. “Ah’d fo’get ‘bout her, sugah; she has no time fo’ li’l people like us.”

“So she wrote you last week?”

Rogue smirked. Her attempt to be the disgruntled, forgotten-about friend had obviously no affect on Jean. She knew Ororo would always check in with them every so often.

“Postcard from Rome. Ah might meet up with her in Paris when we head ovah fo’ promotion.”

“Send her my love.”

“Why don’ ya come with us?” Rogue’s face brightened at the idea. “Ya could bring Rachel with ya. C’mon, sugah, it’ll be fun! Like a reunion fo’ th’ three o’ us. We haven’t all been in th’ same room tagether fo’evah.”

“I don’t know,” said Jean hesitantly, looking over to the pool where Rachel was tossing about a large plastic beach ball. “I’m not sure a six-hour ride on a confined airplane and a hyperactive one year old is such a great combination.”

“It’ll be fine. We’re takin’ one o’ th’ company’s planes, an’ ya know how homey they are.”

‘Homey’ was an understatement. The standard Boeing 747 was large enough to seat approximately a thousand passengers; its converted counterpart could carry fifty comfortably. It housed four private bedrooms, complete with queen-sized beds and entertainment units; three luxurious full-sized bathrooms; a dining area and a fully stocked kitchen; a living room; a television lounge; a game room and a mini-studio. Not to mention all the sitting areas scattered sporadically through the plane’s interior. It was the closet one could get to having a home in the sky.

“An’ we can take Nanny Jane with us,” Rogue continued. “C’mon, it’ll be like old times.”

Jean had to smile at her enthusiasm. “We’ll see,” she said elusively.

A wry smile played itself across Rogue’s features as she scrutinized her friend’s demeanor. “Ya’ve changed, Jeannie. Ah don’ mean that in a neg’tive way,” she said hurriedly when Jean gave her a sharp look. “Ah mean, ya used ta be so quick ta say yes ta a good plan, without thought o’ th’ consequences. An’ now yoah a… a…” she groped for the right word, “…a momma.”

“I’m still the same girl, Dix. The only difference is now I have a daughter to think about.”

Rogue nodded her head thoughtfully. “Before ya used ta seem a bit restless at times. Now ya seem peaceful… happy.”

“I am happy.”

A comfortable silence fell over them. Several moments passed and yet neither of them felt the need to break the stillness. The only sound that could be heard was the giddy laughter of a toddler and the rustling of the trees as the wind whispered through them.

Finally, Rogue spoke. “Remember that time we went skinny dippin’? That was a great weekend.”

“I can’t believe you two talked me into that!”

“Excuse me, Ms. All-Innocent-an’-Pure-as-Snow,” Rogue objected, leaning across the table, “if’n Ah recall it was th’ resident redhead who started th’ dippin’. In front o’ that trio o’ boys, no less!”

Jean grinned wickedly. “I couldn’t help it,” she confessed, “that blonde one reminded me of Kevin.”

Rogue looked momentarily confused before nodding her head at the memory. “Ah ‘member Kevin. ‘Ro an’ Ah didn’ like him too much. Tad on th’ pig-headed side.”

“What are you talking about? You guys loved Kevin. You said he was a prince.”

“No, that was Alan. Alan was th’ prince, Kevin was th’ frog.”

A giggle erupted from Jean’s throat. “Well, at least I didn’t have a relationship fiasco like you had with Rob.”

“That was a complete misunderstandin’!” shot Rogue defensively. “We had no idea we were related!”

Another peal of laughter resounded through the air. “I’ll bet! ‘Ro was laughing so hard I thought she would hurt herself.”

“Well, ‘Ro ain’t one ta talk. She ain’t as scar-free as she’d like ta think. What ‘bout that Gabe fella? Th’ one that always picked his teeth? Mah, but that was disgustin’.”

“Let’s face it, Dixie, we’ve all had our share of war stories.”

“Yeah, but at least yoah war’s ended. Ya walked home with th’ flag, an’ got a baby ta boot.”

“Well, what about that guy you’re seeing? The one you wrote me about a while ago?”

“He’s… good.”

“‘Good’?” Jean repeated, trying to catch Rogue’s gaze but failing. “You don’t fool me, missy; there’s something else. What’s with the goofy grin on your face?”

“Ah have no idea what yoah talkin’ ‘bout, sugah.”

“Oh, yes you do. You know exactly what I’m -- “ Jean stopped suddenly and faced her friend head on. She studied her a moment before asking, “You’re in love with this guy, aren’t you?”

Rogue didn’t answer. Instead, she steadied her gaze straight ahead of her, focusing on her rambunctious goddaughter.

“You are,” Jean confirmed, interpreting her silence as a yes. She pulled her deck chair closer to Rogue’s, taking her friend’s hands into her own and squeezing them encouragingly. “‘Ro and I were afraid you wouldn’t want to open your heart again. Not after what happened with… Cody.”

Rogue winced involuntarily at the name. It still pained her slightly to think about it, but not nearly as much as it once had. She had been fourteen at the time, so fresh-faced and innocent. And he had been her first love. The world couldn’t have looked brighter; the sunshine sweeter. She was on top of the world, with a new record deal and a loving boyfriend. Until she overheard him telling someone on the phone how he would ride Midnight’s rise to fame just as sure as if he were a part of the group himself.

Since that day, she had learned to guard her heart diligently; never really letting anyone get too close to her in the romantic sense, effectively giving her an aura of untouchability. It was a good way to protect her emotions, but a miserable way to ward off the loneliness.

She looked down at her lap where Jean’s hands still held her own in a reassuring grip. “Ah… Ah feel safe with him. An’ Ah haven’t felt safe with anyone in a while.”

Jean knew what she meant by ‘safe.’ Media safe. When you lived your life in front of the cameras it became public property, and any juicy tidbit about you was fair game, no matter how personal. It made dating particularly difficult, and all three women had experiences where ex-boyfriends -- or even, at the time, current boyfriends -- ratted them out for the promise of quick cash. It was a rare occurrence indeed to find a person who was capable of holding his tongue after having been told a few dark secrets.

“So when did you meet this mystery man?”

“A few years ago, at one o’ our X-Gene parties.” The annual X-Gene Records celebration served as both get-togethers for the entire company, as well as a formal introduction of the label’s latest talents. “Ah really didn’ think much about him at first, but ovah th’ next couple o’ years, we kept bumpin’ inta one anothah ev’ry now an’ again.”

“Wait a minute, you met him at X-Gene? Have I met him?”

Rogue shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What’s his name?” asked Jean, pulling back into her chair and taking a slow sip of her drink.

“Remy LeBeau.”

If Rogue had been seated a few more inches to the right or even a few more inches forward, she would have been covered in spewed-out iced tea.

“Le-LeBeau? As in country-jazz-singer-pushing-the-envelope-critics-be-damned-in-demand-beyond-belief Remy LeBeau?”

“Oh, so ya’ve heard o’ him?” Rogue teased.

“Heard of him? Hon, you’d have to be living on Pluto to NOT have heard of this guy. He’s the biggest thing on the market right now.” Jean winked at her friend. “That is, until your next album comes out. Then we’ll see who’s ‘pushing the envelope.’“ She frowned, suddenly remembering something. “Wasn’t he dating that actress from that lifeguard show -- umm…” She snapped her fingers repeatedly.

“Debra Kooling? Yeah, but that was a while ago an’ they weren’t that serious.”

“Come to think of it, he’s been linked to a lot of women.” Jean counted them off on her fingers. “That centerfold model, Kristen Lenard. Michelle Hanburg, the lingerie model. Even Millie Ryback, that famous porn star.”

“Now that one was not true!” Rogue defended. “He’s never even met Millie.” She didn’t really like where Jean was going with this.

Jean reached out to grasp Rogue’s hand once more. “Now, Dixie, you know I love you. I couldn’t love you any more if I tried. I only want you to be happy.” She squeezed the other woman’s hand for emphasis. “But are you sure about this guy? Are you sure he isn’t some womanizing playboy? His reputation -- “

“You o’ all people should know that half o’ what’s written in th’ papers ain’t true. An’ that th’ truth in th’ othah half is so diluted that ya can’t even call it that anymore!”

“I know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” Like last time, she added silently.

“He’s a good guy, Jeannie. Ya’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I will.” But in the back of her mind, Jean wasn’t so sure. She made a mental note to keep track of this Remy LeBeau.

Stretched out on the couch of his tour bus some two thousand, five hundred miles away in San Diego, Remy was restless. He usually used the time on the bus to catch up on his sleep, but this afternoon he was simply too wired. His mind kept floating back to the interview that morning, and to the woman that instantaneously stirred every part of his being. He closed his eyes and he could see her image vividly before him, causing a soft smile to touch his lips.

It had been three years since they met at the label’s annual shindig. Midnight had already one record under their belt at the time, and was working on their second. He, on the other hand, had been one of the rookies of the night, only a couple months shy of releasing his debut album. He remembered being introduced to her -- by Charles Xavier, no less -- and thinking that she was a pretty little thing, but beyond that, nothing. It would take the next two years of friendship, an ever-increasing amount of e-mails and phone calls under pseudonyms, secret rendezvous, and a series of quiet, intimate conversations to make him realize that ‘nothing’ was actually very much something.

They had been together a year since then, with the barest number of people knowing the true nature of their relationship. Rogue hadn’t even told her two closet friends exactly who he was. They weren’t ready yet to make their romance known to the world. They wanted to hold off the prying eyes and public scrutiny for as long as they possible could.

But keeping their names separate and unlinked in the eyes of the media wasn’t even the hardest part of the relationship. The one thing that drove Remy up the wall was not being able to see her as often as he would like. The times when they were able to make room in their insanely busy schedules were few and far in between. And frankly speaking, he wasn’t used to going this long without female affection. He was no saint -- he’d be the first to admit -- and so he didn’t deny the fact that his charm had easily gained him entrance to many a woman’s bedroom in the past. An article in a national newspaper had once called him ‘the Cajun Casanova’ with a devilish smile and a pair of cajoling eyes. He was fully aware of the extent of his charm, and at times, craftily used it to his own advantage, particularly with the opposite sex.

But he now found himself thinking of only one woman, one who was clear across the continent on the opposite coast. He missed her terribly; it had been a couple of days since their last conversation on the phone and well over three months since they’d last laid eyes on each another. He could clearly envision her easy smile, her hearty laugh. Her impossibly green eyes… soft mouth… oh so deliciously satin-smooth skin under his fingertips…

Remy groaned and turned over onto his side. It wouldn’t do him any good to go through sound check with a certain part of him… already checked.

Someone cleared their throat above him and his eyes flew open. Mercy glared down at him with a frown on her face and a cell phone in her hand.

“I can’ stand ya moanin’ an’ groanin’ a second longer, Remy,” she hissed, thrusting the phone into his hands. “Would ya get done wit’ it already?”

He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. “What’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, Merc?”

“I’m talkin’ ‘bout you flippin’ ‘round like a dyin’ crawfish on dat couch. It’s drivin’ me crazy.” She sat down on the matching sofa directly across from him. “Ev’ryone knows ya get a bit loopy when ya don’ talk t’ya femme, so call her already an’ give de rest o’ us some peace an’ quiet!”

With a lopsided grin on his face, Remy leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, fingering the cell in his hand. “What time is it back east?”

Mercy checked her watch, calculating the time difference. “‘Bout seven p.m.”

Remy ran through a mental checklist of the possible places Rogue could be that early in the evening. He knew that she had a few more tracks to perfect in the studio and it was more than likely that she would be there until the wee hours of the morning. Unless of course she had a date with some dashing young man. Remy scoffed at the idea for two reasons. One, they were dating each other; and two, someone more dashing than him? Please!

Reciting from memory, he confidently punched in the number to her personal cell phone. A loud sigh of relief rang out from his sister-in-law/manager’s direction and he flashed her a grin. Impatiently, he counted the number of rings resounding in his ear. One. Two. Three…

“Hello?” a male voice said.

Remy froze. For a full three seconds, his mind went completely blank. Suddenly his earlier thought of a dashing young man didn’t seem so ludicrous. “Who’s dis?” he demanded.

“Hey, you’re the one callin’, bub. Who the hell is this?”

“Logan?” Remy’s heart ceased its rapid pounding.

“That you, Cajun?” came the reply. “Sorry, Gumbo, didn’t recognize you there fer a second. You lookin’ fer yer girl?”

“Oui.” It was a rhetorical question really. Why else would he be calling her personal number?

“Bad timing. Kid’s in the booth right now, singin’ up a storm. Listen.”

Remy heard the soft click of a door opening, and then the sound of Rogue’s dulcet voice glided over the phone line. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his features. God, he loved her voice. It soothed his nerves better than any drug could. As if the mere sound of it ordered every single muscle in his body to relax.

The voice slowly faded and the sound of a closing door was heard. “They should be goin’ on a break soon.”

“Pullin’ an all-nighter, mon ami?”

“Looks like. Girl’s a perfectionist, ya know. Ya want I have her call you when she gets out?”

“Merci, homme.”

Remy pulled the cell away from his ear and pressed the ‘End’ button. He laughed inwardly at his instinctive reaction to feel jealous when he thought Rogue was seeing another man. She had a habit of leaving her cell phone in the care of someone she trusted -- usually Logan or her personal assistant, Karen -- whenever she was on stage performing, in an interview, or simply unable to answer a call. Remy had completely forgotten about it, despite the fact that this wasn’t the first time Logan had answered when he called.

“Dat was quick,” Mercy commented. “Usu’lly we have t’pry ya fingers off de phone b’fore ya say au revoir.”

“Wasn’ her. She’s appar’ntly in de studio at de moment.”

Mercy was about to open her mouth to say something more when the phone in Remy’s hand rang.

“Allo?”

“Hey, sugah.”

Remy closed his eyes at the sound of her honeyed voice. With a contented sigh, he leaned back against the sofa. “Hey yaself, chère.”

“Where are ya?”

“San Diego. On de way t’de venue.”

“Ya got a show tanight?”

“Oui.”

Silence.

“Ah miss you.”

“Can’ be half as bad as I miss you.”

She laughed. “Does it always have ta be a comp’tition with ya, mistah?”

“Toujours.”

“Well, in that case, jus’ wait a couple months an’ Ah’ll blow yoah li’l number one record outta th’ sky,” she declared with mock smugness.

“Is dat a fact?”

“That’s a promise, sugah.”

“An’ if ya don’ deliver?”

“Oh, Ah’ll deliver all right. Ya can count on that.”

Remy smiled. It was like hearing himself talk: confident to the point of near cockiness. He had been told that it was sometimes one of his more obnoxious qualities. But for Rogue, it was adorable.

“I betcha don’ deliver,” he teased, watching Mercy move to the front of the bus. “I betcha don’ deliver an’ then ya come cryin’ t’me ‘cause ya couldn’ do it.”

“Don’ hold yoah breath, suh. Ah wouldn’t turn ta ya if you were th’ last Cajun on Earth.”

He lowered his voice to a husky pitch. “Dat’s not what ya said de last time I saw ya, chère. If I recall, ya did no’tin’ BUT turn t’me… de whole night long.”

It was as if he could feel her blush from across the country, a knowing heat shooting throughout her body. Absently, he wondered if there were other people around her at the moment, and if they noticed the slight change in her.

“Ya have th’ tongue o’ th’ devil, sugah.”

“Don’ ‘member hearin’ you complainin’.”

“Would ya stop?” she pleaded.

Remy chuckled. There were obviously people around her; she was becoming self-conscious. “How many?” he asked, knowing she would pick up on his reference to the occupants in the studio.

“‘Bout a dozen or so.”

Regretfully, he consented to changing the topic. Although it would have been kind of kinky to engage in phone sex with his girlfriend in front of a dozen unsuspecting participants.

“Ya gon’ be dere all night, mignonne?” The tour bus came to a halt. Mercy reappeared and motioned for Remy to disembark.

“Prob’ly. We’re still tweakin’ some stuff on th’ last couple o’ tracks. They don’ sound quite right.” Rogue coughed slightly. “When am Ah gonna see ya again, Cajun?”

“An’ what ‘sactly do ya plan t’do wit’ me once ya see me, belle?” There was no mistaking his meaning.

“Ah thought we were off that topic already.”

“If it were up t’me, chère, we’d always be on dat topic.” His comment was met by silence. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. What was de question?”

“When am Ah seein’ you?”

“We’re flyin’ back t’New York next week t’do a late-night talk show. T’ing is, I haveta fly out de next mornin’ t’make it on time f’r de evenin’ show.”

“Yoah only gonna be in town fo’ one night?” She sounded disappointed. “That doesn’t give us much time fo’… stuff.”

One thing about his lover, she was always up front with what was on her mind. “Oh, so we’re back t’dat again, eh? In dat case -- “

She quickly cut him off. “Sugah, we’re headin’ ovahseas in about two months.”

Remy felt something inside him drop to the pit of his stomach. It was difficult enough maintaining a relationship with someone who moved around the country just as much as he did, but what more when one of them wasn’t even on the continent?

“How long will ya be over dere?”

“‘Bout three weeks, Ah think.”

He groaned. Three. Long. Weeks. Well, considering he had gone three months without seeing her, less than a month shouldn’t seem like such a big deal. Aw, who was he kidding? He’d be miserable.

“Ya killin’ me, chère,” he mumbled, as he made his way through the backstage corridors of that night’s venue.

“Well, it ain’t like yoah sufferin’ by yoah lonesome, Cajun,” she whispered huskily, sending shivers down his spine. She cleared her throat before adding, “So Ah’ll see ya next week?”

“Yeah, at de club. Got a su’prise f’r ya.”

“A surprise? Fo’ me? What is it?”

He laughed. “If I told ya, mon amour, den it wouldn’ be a su’prise, now would it? Ya’ll jus’ haveta be a good petite fille an’ be patient.”

“Hmph. That ain’t fair at all. You could at least give me a hint; tell me when Ah can expect it.”

“Ya’ll know it when ya see it. Oh, an’ chère?”

“Yeah, sugah?”

“What ‘sactly do you plan t’do wit’ me when ya see me?”

“Goodbye, Cajun,” she said, pointedly. Her voice softened considerably as she whispered, “Ah love you.”

“Je t’aime aussi, mon coeur.”

Later that night, Remy could barely keep his eyes open. He was in the hotel elevator with half of his personal security team -- Hank and Peter Rasputin -- heading up to the penthouse suite after a grueling evening of performing. Following his conversation with Rogue, he’d had an excess amount of pent-up energy that simply screamed to be released. It had been a great show; the lively crowd adding to his already enthusiastic performance. But now, as a side effect, he felt utterly exhausted. He would have fallen flat on his face had he not been leaning against the elevator wall for support.

“Remy?” Hank prodded gently, nudging the other man’s shoulder. “Remy? This is our floor.”

He opened his eyes blearily, trying to focus on the figure in front of him. “Quoi?”

“This is our floor. Come on, we’re getting off.”

“Non, père,” Remy mumbled, groggily. “I didn’ do it. It was ya other son.”

Hank exchanged a look with Peter, who merely shrugged. The young singer must have been truly exhausted to be mistaking him for Jean-Luc LeBeau.

“I have never seen him this tired,” Peter commented to Hank. They flanked Remy on both sides to guide his shaky steps. “He exerted himself too much during the show, perhaps?”

“I believe so.” Hank shook his head. “I told you to take it easy, Remy. That virus is going to catch up to you yet.”

“S’not’in’, Henri. ‘M fine.” He yawned loudly. “See? Not’in’ t’worry ‘bout.”

“You’re going straight to bed and getting some rest, young man.”

“Yes, maman.” A smirk accompanied his comment.

“It seems the exhaustion has not affected your sense of humor, my friend,” said Peter as they neared the door to the suite. They were welcomed by the sight of a sturdy young man in a hotel security uniform.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted. Recognizing Remy, he turned to unlock and open the door for the trio.

“Mornin’ already, eh? Merci, mon ami.”

Remy walked into the room ahead of his two main bodyguards. The other half of his security team, Vic and Damien, were already settled into the living room flipping channels on the TV set.

“‘Bout time you guys got here,” Damien said. “We’ve had this place secured for the past half-hour. What took you so long?”

“We ran into some interference down in the lobby,” replied Hank, helping himself to a handful of potato chips from the coffee table.

“Lemme guess,” Vic put in, “the screamin’ groupie types who worship the ground Remy walks on.”

“Armed with flashing cameras and magic markers,” added Hank, giving an affirmative nod.

“Har har, mes amis,” Remy mumbled, turning toward the master bedroom. “‘M turnin’ in.”

“Hey, boss,” Damien called out. “You okay? You look kinda green around the gills there.”

Remy nodded weakly and tried to smile, but it came out more as a twist of the lips rather than a grin. He continued his trek into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Wearily, he moved into the unfamiliar room. After the show that evening, they had spent hours on the road to get to the next city. The time on the bus would have been an ideal opportunity to get some rest but he had still been high from his earlier euphoria, so he had spent the time playing cards and drinking with the guys. It was only thirty minutes before they reached their destination that he began to feel the distinct pull of his current state of exhaustion.

Serves ya right, pup, he thought to himself. Shouldn’ have oughtta gotten Mrs. Thompson’s cat outta de hardware store.

He shook his head. Even his thoughts didn’t sound quite right. He stumbled forward, intent only on getting into bed and falling asleep before he hit the mattress.

“Morning, mon chèri.”

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked towards the bed. At first, all he saw were the long, creamy limbs peeking out from under the bed linens. His gaze slowly traveled up to where she loosely held the sheet to her bare chest. A woman was in his bed, his mind registered. His eyes moved to her face. He gasped. Staring back at him were big, shining emerald eyes, framed by long, lovely curls of auburn and white. Rogue had come to see him.

He blinked and shook his head again. No, that wasn’t right. This woman addressed him in French, not with a southern drawl. When he looked up again, the woman had changed. Now she was a plain brunette with a chin-length bob and doe-brown eyes.

What de -- ?

He blinked once more. Rogue was leisurely sliding off the bed, letting the covers slip languidly from her body. He watched, mesmerized, as she stretched her arms skyward, arching her back in the process. She smiled seductively and motioned for him to join her.

Blink.

Brown eyes.

Blink.

Green.

Rogue’s hand was running along the length of her thigh, across the span of her pale, taunt belly…

Blink. He crossed the room in three quick strides.

She yawned as she got out of the car and stretched. It had been a long night in the studio but well worth the sleeplessness. After months of working each song into perfection, the record was finally ready for public consumption. Everything was primed and set to go for the album’s release in a month’s time. And then came the fun stuff. Rogue couldn’t wait to head out and perform the new material. In her opinion, it was some of their best work, and it would be exciting to see the audience’s reaction to it.

She entered the house just as the sun’s morning rays were peeping up over the horizon. Once in the foyer, she was met by Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper.

“You work too hard,” the elderly woman scolded in way of greeting. “You’re gonna put yourself in a hospital, the rate you’re going.”

Rogue smiled warmly. Rosemary was such a mother figure. She had been clucking her tongue and waving her finger at Rogue since she was eleven years old. She was so much a part of the family that she felt like a third parent at times.

“Mornin’, Rosie. Reenie up yet?”

“She’s working in her office. Been up for about three hours now, making phone calls for your trip overseas.” Rosemary shook her head in wonder. “That’s where you get it from, I bet. From her and Raven.”

“Get what?”

“Your workaholic-ness.”

“There’s no such word.”

“Well, there should be. Specially designed for the lot of you.”

“Ah’m fine, Rosie,” Rogue assured her, heading for the door on the far left. “Jus’ a li’l sleepy. Don’ worry.”

She rapped lightly on the door to Irene’s office. When no answer came, she quietly opened it ajar and peaked in. Irene was seated at her desk with the telephone receiver cradled against her shoulder and an assortment of paper spread out in front of her.

“Well, we’ll only be there for three weeks,” she was saying into the phone. A pause. And then, “Television and radio mostly, with a couple of charity events that she’s involved in.”

In Rogue’s opinion, Rosie was right in one respect: Irene was a workaholic. She had taken over the position of Midnight’s publicist when the girls found it impossible to work with their previous one. Despite having no prior knowledge on the responsibilities of a publicist, Irene flourished in the new role. She had a knack for booking the right appearances, as well as signing the right deals on merchandising. And she had an uncanny ability to predict the outcome of certain public relations situations. It was almost as if she could see into the future of Rogue’s career.

Glancing up from the desk, Irene spotted her in the doorway and smiled. Rogue made her way over to her and planted a quick kiss on the older woman’s cheek.

“Mornin’, Reenie,” she whispered.

She straightened and motioned that she was heading upstairs. Irene nodded and Rogue walked back to the door, turning and waving before slipping out. Looking around for Rosemary, she found her dusting in the living room.

“Ah’m gonna head on upstairs an’ get some shut-eye, Rosie,” she informed her.

The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder. “There was a package that came for you last night, sweetie. I left it on the table by the closet, in the foyer.”

“‘Kay, thanks.”

Rogue made her way back into the entrance hall and discovered the small parcel exactly where Rosemary said it would be. Tucking it under her arm, she climbed the stairs and headed for her room.

Once she had the door closed, she dropped her knapsack and placed the package on her night table. Flopping down onto her bed, she gratefully closed her eyes. She was halfway into oblivion when her eyes flew open and she recalled her earlier conversation with Remy.

Got a su’prise f’r ya, he had said.

She looked over to the neatly wrapped box at her bedside. A slow smile crept onto her face.

Sugah, you are too much, she silently told him as she sat up in bed and reached for the parcel. A computer-printed label bearing her name was carefully placed in the center, but there was no return address. Never one for delicacy when it came to unwrapping gifts, she ripped off the brown shipping paper and corresponding box. Inside were a large, velvet case and a stark white envelope. Ignoring the envelope for the moment, Rogue opened the case and gasped. Lying across a bed of purple velvet was a beautiful silver necklace. She traced the thin chain with her fingers, traveling down to the snowflake pendent at the end.

Feeling a surge of warmth and love, she set the necklace aside and picked up the previously discarded envelope.

Oh, Remy, yoah always spoilin’ me, she thought as she unfolded the letter and began to read.

An unbidden scream ripped from her throat and echoed throughout the house.