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Chapter one
Remy
I walk through the quiet house, each footstep chasing away the demons lingering from my childhood. It’s been years since I walked away from this bit of my life, but the place is like a time capsule, everything still as it was, just the way my mother had liked it. Not so much as a speck of dust gathers on the gilded frames of gauche paintings or obscure photos lining the wall. The massive dining table— where we sat only when we wanted to portray a well-to-do, happy family—is set as if we’re prepared to host a small army.
I make my way into the foyer, where a fire crackles in the grate below an oil painting of my great-great-grandfather. Other than the obvious, we share many things: a powerful jaw and chiseled cheekbones, dark eyes, and even darker hair that betrays a hint of curl despite all the effort and gel in the world. The similarities don't end there. We even share the same name. Remington St. Jean had been respected, loved, hated, and feared— just how all great and powerful people are meant to be.
The bar in the corner of the room has also been well-attended in my absence, though I’m not sure all the liquor behind it is enough to get me through this without trying to crawl out of my own skin. Unfortunately, I have to try, so I pour myself a drink that by most standards is too strong, watching the fire reflect off the crystal a moment. Then I raise it up in a toast to my long-deceased grandfather, the family patriarch whom I never met and will probably never live up to.
My parents had made no qualms about the fact that I was the fuck-up, the troubled one, the failure. They didn't have to tell me I'd never achieve the things I aspired to. I know all that, but it’s not going to stop me from doing the best I can to right my family's wrongs and carve out my own place in the world, even if I die trying. I’ve already lost myself to this world they brought me into, but I can still spare my sister.
That’s the whole reason I’m here.
The bourbon goes down smoothly, so I fill my glass again and drain it just as quickly before placing it upside down on the bar with every intention of walking away. I don’t make it far, because footfalls sound down the hall, heading toward me in a hurry.
I turn just as Monica reaches the doorway, where she stops moving. She was saying something when she walked in here, but whatever it is, it’s lost when her mouth falls open in shock. Those painted pink lips spent plenty of time on me when we were younger, on my neck, my lips, wrapped around my cock. They'd trembled when I broke up with her, sliding the metaphorical knife between her ribs just hard enough that I thought she'd leave this whole place behind and never look back.
I’m just as surprised to see her as she is to see me. The only difference is, I don't show it.
"Remy!" She gasps, placing a hand on her heart as if seeing me after all this time is a shock capable of stopping her heart. And then her hand moves to cover her mouth like she can stop herself from being sick, though I’m certain her stomach is churning at the sight of me, the memory of what I did.
I allow her the moment of obvious surprise, and she recovers quickly, smoothing her skirt. "I mean Mr. Boudreaux.” She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, her voice is even and composed. “We weren't expecting you."
"You were expecting someone..." I muse, gesturing at the fire. It doesn’t even make sense to have a fire in the dead of summer, but I suppose my sister isn’t worried about the cost of the electric bill rising to combat the heat. She doesn’t worry much about anything, a fact that I simultaneously hate and appreciate. "I expected the house to be closed up. Instead, it's like a shrine."
"Your father has requested everything be kept just as it was." Monica swallows, trying hard to look at me without meeting my eyes. She looks good in her conservative black dress, the fabric clinging to her in all the right places, her skin kissed by the sun and her chestnut hair swept back to showcase her pretty face. It has lost some of the roundness of our youth, and her eyes no longer glimmer with hopes and dreams yet to be chased, but that’s an unfortunate side-effect of growing up. Other than her shattered dreams, whatever she’s been doing since I left, it agrees with her.
I was prepared for the possibility of running into her now that I’m back in the States. I just never expected it to be in my own family home, within twenty minutes of walking into it. Somehow, the distance between us has done what I had once thought to be impossible. The feelings I had for her were real, and they meant everything to me once. But they aren’t as strong as I’d thought they would be. I’ve worked hard to kill them with every measure of certainty, just as I worked hard to kill her feelings for me. I did a damn good job of it for my part. She looks like she’d rather light herself on fire than be in the same room as me.
"Can I get you something?” She ventures, clearly happy for the excuse to disappear. “Coffee or tea?"
If I was nice, I’d send her on a fruitless mission just to let her get away from me, but I’m not ready to let her walk away just yet. "Bourbon suits me just fine."
I flip my glass again and pour myself another measure of dark liquid into the heavy crystal, deliberately taking my time. I hadn't planned to have another drink so soon, but being in this house has me on edge as it is. Now my ex-girlfriend is staring at me like I’m a stranger who terrifies her. It’s fair… I am a stranger. This is the first time I’ve seen her in four years. I effectively erased her from my life, along with my old self. I burnt my former life to the ground, and then I burnt the ashes, too.
She’s right to be terrified of me.
This time, I drink more slowly, savoring the smooth and oaky taste of my father’s most expensive liquor. Upon turning, I see Monica is still standing there, visibly shaken. Of all the traits that I've learned to embrace, it’s the fear that I usually enjoy the most. Of course, it’s only fun when it’s being enacted on the right people.
"Where's Rhiannon?"
"She was working." Monica purses her lips and glances at her watch—a thin gold band that she definitely couldn’t afford on the menial salary my father offers. Perhaps she’s moved on then, found a man to care for her, to buy her expensive gifts and give her heart to. But then why would she be working here? "I'm not sure when she'll be home."
"Take a guess." I encourage, eyeing her calmly. "It's Friday night."
"I'm sure it will be a few hours, sir." Her chest moves up and down faster than it should. Is it only fear, or does that old desire linger? Is she scared of what I could do to her right now, how I could ruin her all over again? Just a kiss would be enough to do it, I’m sure. Or is she eager to find out whether our spark still remains, naïve enough to hope that I’ve come back to whisk her away to the life we used to dream of?
She says nothing as I drink her in. She’s as smooth as the top-shelf bottle I’m working my way through, but the sight of her doesn’t feel like the punch to the gut I expected. There was a time when this girl was the reason I breathed, and now she’s just another relic of a past life, like the grand piano in the foyer or the vintage wines in the cellar.
"Are you hungry? I can fix you something."
I am hungry, of course. I always am.
By this point, the hunger is as much a part of me as the lie. Nothing ever satisfies it. I sometimes muse that there’s a demon in me, and nothing will ever fulfill either of us. But I can at least sate it with whiskey, steak, and the company of beautiful women who don’t expect a night of fun to turn into anything more.
"Is Natasha still living in town?"
Monica’s eyes glimmer a moment before she blinks the tears away as if they'd never been there. Natasha... her old best friend who she caught me fucking on the couch in the sitting room.
