Chapter 2

“Good mornin’, Sam,” Rogue called cheerfully to her regular driver as he held the car door open for her.

“Good mornin’, Ms. Rogue.”

Samuel Guthrie grinned at his employer. He loved working for her; she was one of the nicest people he knew -- and that was saying a lot for someone who was in the music business. Most of his former bosses were down right nasty, even to the people they considered their friends. The term ‘diva complex’ took on a whole new meaning when you had to work for the stars day in and day out.

“Thought ya might like some coffee,” she said, handing him a slim, silver thermos, before sliding into the backseat of the car. “Careful though, sugah, it’s hot.”

He flashed her another smile as a sign of thanks. How many other employers would think to bring out an extra serving of coffee for their drivers? he wondered. Sam was pretty sure the numbers weren’t going to be very high. Nope, Ms. Rogue was one of a kind. She even insisted that he drop the ‘Ms.’ part whenever he addressed her, but being a homegrown southern boy, he found that a little difficult to do.

“All set fo’ th’ big ‘A.M. Show’ interview?” he asked her once he was settled behind the wheel and pulling out of the long driveway.

“Ah think so,” she replied, allowing a lopsided grin to creep across her soft features. “Aftah all, Ah don’ havta do much, right? Jus’ sit there an’ look pretty?”

It was an old joke in Rogue’s inner circle that the publicity interviews, though essential to promotion and record sales, were really just hair, makeup and the chance for the audience to see whether or not she grew fat during the months since her last tour. If she were given a choice, she would skip them altogether; she preferred being in the studio or performing in front of a live audience. But it was part of the job so she took it in stride. Besides, it was a good opportunity to discuss the meaning and feelings behind the music, as well as giving proper credit to all those who worked with her on the album.

“Fifty bucks says that yer mother’s gonna swoop down on us like a hawk the second we get there an’ ask why the hell we’re late,” Logan stated from beside Rogue. He turned to the man in the passenger’s seat. “What d’ya say, Guido?”

“Do I look like an idiot, shorty?” the big Italian man asked. “When I got outta the house, the phone started ringing. Didn’t even bother to head back in and answer it; could only be her.”

Rogue grinned at her two bodyguards. Everyone knew that Raven was a perfectionist, but no one knew it better than these two men. Aside from being responsible for her all-around safety, they were also in charge of making sure she was on time for all of her engagements. And although they were the best of the best and always fulfilled their duties to a tee, Raven would make it a point to give them a sharp tongue-lashing at least once a week.

“C’mon, y’all, she ain’t that bad.”

A collective groan was heard throughout the car.

“You’re right, kid, she ain’t that bad,” said Guido, turning in his seat to face her. “She’s worse.”

She playfully swatted the headrest of his chair. “Oh, stop.”

Guido simply smirked in her direction and then turned back to watch the road. She knew that he was only joking about Raven’s behavior and that he didn’t mean anything by his remarks. That was Guido for you; always had a wisecrack ready at the tip of his tongue. He was really more of a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Not very serious at all.

Logan, on the other hand, seemed to be nothing but serious at first glance. He was a short, gruff man who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. But Rogue knew that underneath that feral exterior, he was a sweetheart. He was like the proverbial overprotective, big brother who kept her away from all the dangers of the world. He fell into the role so well that at times she wanted to shake him and tell him to relax before he suffocated her.

“Darlin’,” Logan said, softly nudging her and bringing her out of her thoughts. He gave a slight jerk of his chin. “We’re here.”

She nodded and watched as first Guido, then Logan, and finally Sam exited the car. It was ‘standard procedure,’ as they liked to call it. That always made her smile; it sounded as if they were on a covert mission for a special ops division of the government, instead of just escorting her inside the building. She knew that Guido was standing just outside his door on the right side of the vehicle, while Logan would come around and open her door, thereby sandwiching her in between the two men. Sam stayed by his door to make sure no one tried to jump into the car through Logan’s side.

Surprisingly enough, considering the early morning hour, there was already a crowd of people gathered around the studio’s entrance. Once they caught sight of Rogue, they began chanting her name and screaming for autographs. Regretting that she could only accommodate a few, she quickly scribbled her name on everything from pieces of paper to body parts before Guido and Logan pulled her into the building. Once inside, Raven immediately descended upon them with a disapproving look on her face.

“And where exactly have the three of you been?” she demanded, ushering Rogue to one corner in the back of the studio, leaving the two men to follow.

As soon as the young singer was settled in front of the illuminated vanity, Logan caught her gaze and gave her a look that clearly said, ‘I told you so.’ She snickered at his unspoken comment but quickly composed herself as the show’s stylist went to work on her face.

“Good morning, Rogue,” a blonde woman greeted, coming up to them and extending her hand. “My name’s Marsha Lewis; I’m one of the show’s producers. I just wanted to come over and tell you a little about what’s going to happen this morning.”

“A pleasure ta meet you, Marsha,” replied Rogue pleasantly. “Ah’m all ears, sugah.”

“Well, you won’t be on until around seven, after Amy is finished with the world news. That’s still about an hour away so Suzanne here,” she indicated the stylist busily applying foundation to Rogue’s skin, “will have plenty of time to make you look gorgeous.” She paused, checking the clipboard she was carrying with her. “We’ll come out of commercial, Jeff will give a brief introduction, and then it’s on to the back-and-forth portion. Any questions?”

“Ah don’ think so.”

“Can I get you anything in the meantime? Some breakfast? Coffee? Toast?”

“No thanks, sugah, Ah’m good. But thank you fo’ th’ offer.”

“Well, if you need anything, please let me know. Now if you’ll excuse me…” And with that Marsha was gone.

“What a fast broad, that producer-lady,” Guido muttered when Suzanne left to get some water. “Seems like she couldn’t get outta here quick enough.”

“Leave her alone, Guido,” Rogue scolded. “She’s jus’ got a lot on her plate right now. Speakin’ o’ which,” she eyed the breakfast table behind them, “why don’ ya get somethin’ ta eat ovah there? Ah can see some donuts.”

“Ya don’t mind?”

“Nah, Logan’s here. You go on.”

He chucked her under the chin lightly. “You’re a gem, kid, ya know that?” he said before he walked toward the food.

She smiled and waited for Suzanne to finish her makeup.

“Rise and shine, my young Cajun slave driver.”

The long, heavy curtains were abruptly pushed aside, allowing the sun’s soft kiss to penetrate what was, until seconds ago, a blissfully darkened room.

Remy LeBeau groaned audibly. It was no secret that he wasn’t a morning person. If possible, he would skip them altogether and start the day off with the afternoon. So it was with a curse of displeasure that he grabbed a pillow and buried himself beneath it.

“Henri,” he muttered loudly, “‘M gon’ kill you, ya know dat?”

“Aw, you don’t mean that, now do you?” Hank McCoy cooed as he yanked the bedcovers down. “You’re just a little cranky. This, my friend,” he indicated the scene outside the window, “is what we normal folk call ‘morning.’ It’s an amazing phenomenon actually. It’s followed directly by what we like to call the ‘afternoon.’ I believe you are familiar with this term.”

“Changed m’mind,” Remy declared, sitting up and rubbing a hand across his deep brown eyes. “Killin’ is too good f’r ya. Maybe I’ll jus’ fire ya an’ see how well ya get yaself t’rough med-school wit’out cash.”

Hank raised a hand to the expression of mock surprise on his face. “My good sir, you wouldn’t dare throw a lowly peasant out on his tush, would you?”

“Ya bet I would.”

Hank smiled at his boss. Despite his harsh words and even harsher tone, he knew that Remy had no intention of dismissing him. They had known each other for four years now and had developed quite a close bond. Remy had even been his biggest supporter when he made the decision to continue on with medical school. Of course that idea had been put on hold for the meantime, what with the demands on Remy’s hectic work schedule and all.

“Remind me again why ‘m up dis early, mon ami,” grumbled Remy as he slipped out of bed and headed for the shower.

“Because you just loooovvveee mornings?”

A rather colorful expletive echoed from within the bathroom, followed by silence, and then the sound of running water.

Hank walked over to the desk and picked up the telephone, intent on having breakfast sent up. After ten minutes of debating the differences between sunnyside-up and over-easy eggs with the kitchen staff, their food was on its way. Just as he was replacing the receiver, Remy stepped out of the bathroom clad in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Our daily dose of early-morning sustenance will be arriving shortly. In the meantime, might I suggest we indulge in the reason for our break-of-dawn state of consciousness?”

Remy flashed him a grin, his eyes sparkling. “S’it time already?”

Hank picked up the remote control to the television set and switched it on. On the screen appeared a rather attractive brown-haired man, approximately in his early thirties. He was accompanied by an equally attractive blonde woman who didn’t look more than twenty-something herself.

“Thank you for joining us,” the man said to the camera. The show had obviously just come out of a commercial break. “We have a special in-studio guest this morning. Now this is a treat.” He smiled at his co-host. “At the tender age of fourteen, she and two of her friends were offered a record deal with X-Gene Records. Their first project, a self-titled album called ‘Midnight,’ was released a year later. A successful string of promotional tours and record sales followed, and then a second album, ‘Shiver,’ was released eighteen months after.” He consulted the notes in front of him. “However, the group subsequently disbanded following the promotion of their sophomore record for reasons that are, to this day, still talked about. Amazingly, in only six months after the break-up of Midnight, our guest was able to release her very first solo offering, entitled ‘Step Away.’”

“That was a very successful album, Jeff,” his co-anchor commented from beside him. “If I remember correctly, it earned her the record of ‘Fastest-Selling Album by a Solo Female Artist.’”

“Yes, it did, Amy. All of that, and she’s only nineteen!” Jeff shook his head as if in disbelief. “She’s here today to promote her latest project, ‘Where Are You?’ Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome singer/song writer, Rogue!”

The studio audience obediently broke into applause as the camera panned out to accommodate the singer seated at Jeff’s right side.

Remy breathed in sharply. Even this early in the morning, the woman was beautiful. Her auburn hair, with its distinctive white streak, fell softly about her shoulders. Her large, mesmerizing eyes were hidden behind blue-tinted sunglasses, but he knew their emerald depths were enchanting. Her sweet, pouty lips were curved into a pleasant smile as she greeted the two hosts as well as the audience watching them. He could barely concentrate enough to follow the course of the ensuing conversation.

“Now, Rogue,” Jeff began, turning to face her, “as I was just telling Amy, that’s a lot to accomplish in such a short lifetime. You’re only nineteen! According to American law, you’re barely legal, and still two years shy of the legal drinking age. And yet here you are, doing things kids your age only dream about.”

She smiled again. “Ah’ve been very blessed. Fate’s been good ta me.”

“Now let’s start at the beginning. You met your former bandmates, Jean and Ororo, seven years ago, I believe?”

“Yeah, it was at a New York audition an’ all o’ us were tryin’ out. We clicked instantly fo’ some reason. We were tagether constantly aftah that. Then one day we tried singin’ tagether an’ ev’ryone, includin’ us, was surprised at how well our voices blended. From then on, we practiced as a group.”

“I heard that you would accept every kind of job from birthday parties to clubs that you weren’t even supposed to enter because of the age limit,” said Amy.

“That’s right,” Rogue laughed. “Ah don’ know how mah momma -- who’s mah manager -- convinced them all ta let minors sing in their clubs. She’s a wonder, that one.”

“Tell us about the big record deal,” prompted Jeff.

“Well, we were performin’ in this upscale place in Manhattan -- ‘Jerry’s,’ if Ah recall -- when a man came up ta us durin’ our break an’ introduced himself as a Mr. Charles Xavier of X-Gene Records. He asked us if we’d be int’rested in auditionin’ fo’ him th’ followin’ week. Honestly, we couldn’t say yes fast enough!”

Jeff and Amy smiled encouragingly.

“Ya couldn’t talk ta us two days before th’ big audition; we were so nervous! But it all turned out good in th’ end; we got th’ deal. A few days later, th’ girls an’ Ah found out who Mr. Xavier was.”

“The president of X-Gene Records,” Jeff supplied.

“Exactly… imagine our su’prise.”

“So what happened in that time from getting the contract to actually putting out the album?”

“Oh mah God, it was insane! They put us through what we called ‘musician’s boot camp.’ Our days started before th’ crack o’ dawn an’ most times ended well past midnight! We did it all: dance rehearsal, voice lessons, proper conduct, etiquette, studio sessions, ev’rything!”

“Sounds like you girls were steamrolled,” commented Amy as she glanced at her notes once more. “So it’s all going good: Midnight releases a hit record that’s well received; promotion-wise, the label is happy -- enough to prompt them into churning out another record a year and a half later. Promotions, interviews, TV and radio appearances -- the whole nine yards.”

Rogue nodded, but Remy noticed that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, although the change was too slight to be caught by the audience.

“And then the break-up,” Amy continued. “It was a shock to everyone. The entire country couldn’t stop talking about it for months after it was announced. A musical act, seemingly on top of the world, suddenly disbanding for no apparent reason. Rumors were flying about, left and right. Mostly about how you,” she gestured in Rogue’s direction, “were becoming a snobby witch and developing delusions of grandeur.”

Remy narrowed his eyes at her tone; it was far from pleasant, and completely disrespectful to Rogue as a guest on the show. He expected Rogue’s temper to flare, but instead the half-smile made a second appearance.

“Ah’d hardly call Jean havin’ a baby ‘no apparent reason,’ sugah,” she said, evenly. “When we found out she was expectin’, we all sat down an’ talked about what we were gonna do. Jean really wanted ta start a family an’ ‘Ro an’ Ah respected that; we were happy fo’ her. Th’ decision ta go our sep’rate ways was a group decision.” She smiled wryly. “All’a th’ rumors that have been flyin’ ‘round are a buncha bull, truth be told.”

“So there were never any connections to the Italian mafia? No contracts made to ‘exterminate’ ex-boyfriends? No love children with Elvis?”

Remy scoffed. Were these people serious? What reality were they living in?

A knock at the hotel room door brought his attention away from the interview.

“Room service!” a voice called.

Remy watched as Hank, ever the dutiful bodyguard, stood to answer the door. He returned a few moments later pushing a cloth-covered cart. Wordlessly, he uncovered one platter and held it out to Remy. The younger man accepted it with a grin and asked, “Ya pick a fight wit’ de kitchen ‘gain, Henri?”

“Well, if they’d only figure out how to make a decent over-easy egg I wouldn’t have to!”

Remy couldn’t help but laugh. It was like that in every single hotel they stayed in, from sea to blessed shining sea. Hank was very meticulous with his food, particularly his breakfast eggs. And God help the man who messed with Henry McCoy’s Twinkies.

He turned back to the television where Rogue was now talking about her yet-to-be-released sophomore album. “She somet’in’ else, ain’ she?”

Hank pretended to scrutinize the pretty, young brunette. “Well, she could lose the white streak, for one. Maybe dye her hair black, cut it to about shoulder-length. Add a few pounds here and there. Oh, and definitely change careers. Maybe journalism or a newscaster for the nightly news in New York. Then she might have some possi-- “

A precisely thrown pillow caught him in the head.

“We ain’ talkin’ ‘bout Trish Tilby here!”

Hank chuckled. “In that case, my temperamental Cajun friend, she’s perfect… for you.” He chewed thoughtfully on his breakfast before asking, “Are you sure you’re up for another hard day?”

Remy flashed him a lopsided grin. He knew that Hank had concerns about his health. Who could blame him really, when you considered the strenuous, not too mention long hours that they kept when on tour. It consisted of waking up anywhere from seven to ten o’clock in the morning; making local television and radio appearances until late afternoon; going through sound checks and last minute updates and changes; and then finally show time at around nine p.m., where he would play and sing his heart out for a full hour and a half. Then it was immediately onto the tour bus and away to the next city, which was usually about a two to three hour ride. On a good day, if he was lucky, he could get four or five hours of sleep before the entire process started again the following day.

But despite all this, he knew that -- if given a choice -- he wouldn’t trade his life for anything. Dis tour stuff, he thought, biting at a strip of bacon, dis be not’in’ compared t’what I went t’rough as a pup. Now, dat dere was some hard times.

He had been abandoned in a dumpster behind the hospital. It was by pure coincidence that one of the night nurses braved the chilly winter air to smoke a cigarette. Had she not been there, the month-old infant would have surely died of pneumonia.

Everyone loved him in the pediatric wing; he had every female on the floor in love with him within twenty-four hours. He was placed in the most comfortable crib and positioned in what the nurses called ‘the corner with a view.’ It didn’t have a view really, but it was the best spot in the nursery; far enough from the air conditioning vent so as not to be drafting and yet close enough to be cool. He couldn’t remember all of this, of course, but that was what he’d been told. When he became older, he befriended some of the old nurses in the hospital and they’d been more than happy to share their memories with him.

Since no one had come to claim him after a month of being in the hospital, social services came and placed him in an orphanage. It wasn’t a particularly happy place for him. They were always shipping him from one foster home to another, only to be returned a few months later. Finally, he’d had enough and had simply ran away from the orphanage. With nowhere else to go, he took up residence with a gang of street urchins known as Fabian’s Mob. They weren’t exactly the best influence on an impressionable seven year old, but at least he wasn’t starving and sleeping between dumpsters.

Fabian’s little band of hustlers taught him the essentials to surviving the mean streets of New Orleans. They showed him which hangouts were most frequented by unsuspecting tourists, and which were swarming with cops; they tutored him on the art of pick-pocketing and thieving; and they instructed him on how to charm a potential victim into thinking they had nothing to suspect from the ‘poor Cajun boy.’ It was a hard life, but a good one. Or so he thought.

He had been out ‘working’ with Louis that day. It had been a slow morning and they had decided to split up; ‘to make better ground,’ Louis had said. After three hours of swiping only ten dollars and a cheesy gold watch, Remy was about to head back to the hideout when he spotted a possible ‘client.’ He was a tall man with red-brown hair several shades darker than Remy’s, which he wore in a neat ponytail down his back. His attire screamed of wealth and fortune, and Remy simply couldn’t resist the challenge. He quickened his pace and had soon fallen into step behind the man. Studying his prey, Remy took note of the man’s movements as well as the sway of his gait. Satisfied that he had his rhythm down, the young thief moved in for the take.

If only he had been quicker, he might have been able to pull his arm back before the man’s ironclad fist clamped down on his wrist. This was a new experience for him, being caught. In the four years he had been running with Fabian, he had never been caught. A few sporadic close calls, but never this close. He quickly decided it wasn’t a situation he liked very much.

Adding to the problem was the fact that the boys had never really taught him how to escape situations like these. Or if they had, he probably hadn’t given it much interest. Damn his short attention span. At the moment, he was at a loss as to what to do. Twisting out of the man’s grip would prove impossible, since he held him firmly with one hand. Screaming for help would do nothing but draw the attention of the police. And what exactly would be his defense? ‘Help! The man I tried to rob wants to hurt me’? Non. That wouldn’t do.

But before he could come up with a proper means of escape, the man caught his gaze. Remy was taken aback by the kindness he saw in those dark eyes. There was no accusation, no threats, simply curiosity at the young creature itching to relieve him of his wallet.

“If ya wan’ed some money f’r food, petit, ya could’ve jus’ asked,” the man had said softly, kneeling down to the child’s level.

Remy stood speechless, unsure of what to say, and yet helpless to leave with his arm still held by the stranger.

“What’s ya name, chile?”

“R-Remy.”

“Well, Remy,” the man announced, rising and releasing the young boy’s wrist, “‘M jus’ about t’have lunch in dat rest’rant over dere wit’ m’son, Henri. Would ya like t’join us?”

Remy’s eyes grew wide. Lunch? In a real restaurant? Where they had fancy tables and waiters and all the bread you could ask for? He had never been in a restaurant before and his curiosity got the better of him. He quickly turned to the man and vigorously nodded his head.

The man smiled down at him and placed his arm about Remy’s shoulder. “Bien. Let’s go.”

Jean-Luc LeBeau -- Remy learned his name after trying to simultaneously shove three bread rolls and a glass of water down his throat -- was an extremely wealthy businessman who dealt in the redistributing of acquired wealth. At the time Remy didn’t understand what that meant. He later found out that Jean-Luc would visit the homes of the recently deceased and would make an offer for certain valuable items in the household. He would then resell the item for two, three, sometimes four-times what it was worth. He was a shrewd businessman who knew exactly when the right time was to push hard and when to use kid-gloves on prospective clients. He would have held a monopoly on the market if it hadn’t been for his direct rival, Marius Boudreaux. The two had been long-time enemies and were constantly looking for ways to sink the other’s company.

After that fateful lunch, Remy saw a lot of Jean-Luc LeBeau. They would continually bump into each other along the busy streets of the French Quarter -- usually when Remy was about to score a take. Even his son, Henri, whom Remy liked immensely, seemed to become a permanent fixture in the walkways that he frequented. He started to wonder about this until one day, Jean-Luc approached him and asked if he would like to come and live with their family. Again, Remy was struck speechless. A few months ago, this man offered him food. And now he was offering him a home and a… family. He couldn’t believe it.

But it was real all right. Jean-Luc meant every word, and he took Remy in and adopted him. The adoption itself took some time since the birth certificate the nurses had made for him had been lost in the orphanage. It wasn’t until he was eleven years old and seven months that he officially became Remy Etienne LeBeau.

Remy’s first public singing performance had been a dare from his brother, Henri. He fearlessly took the challenge and entered the contest to show Henri up. But mostly he did it to impress Bella Donna Boudreaux, who was the daughter of his father’s arch-nemesis. At fourteen, he had become infatuated with her. But then again, as Henri would be quick to point out, he was infatuated with anyone of the opposite sex.

After his first singing contest, wherein he placed second -- Remy still believed the judges were fruit loops for not choosing him -- he would dabble in competitions every now and again, whenever the mood struck him. He preferred composing songs on his guitar along the banks of the Louisiana bayous or on the steps of Tante Mattie’s back porch. It wasn’t until he was seventeen, and heartbroken after catching Belle in bed with Olivier Deveraux, that he became serious with his passion for music. He began practicing and composing constantly, and entering contests religiously. In his spare time, he would hang out at jazz clubs and listen to the greats belt out bluesy tunes about lost love and heartaches. It became an obsession for him, to make it as a singer and a songwriter.

However, not everyone thought it was a good idea he was pouring so much of himself into this goal. Most believed he wouldn’t make it past the state line before he came crawling back and admitting he couldn’t hack it as a musician. The only true supporters he had were his family: Jean-Luc, Henri, Tante Mattie, and then later Henri’s wife, Mercy.

It was Mercy who really got him going; she was a take-charge kind of woman, and she certainly took charge of his career! When he was nineteen, she started booking him for gigs all around New Orleans, and six months later he was a hot commodity. Her managing skills left nothing to be desired, and he jokingly told her he’d take her on as an employee. She had looked him straight in the face and told him, “I get a ten-percent cut, pup,” and then proceeded to line up more jobs.

It was at one of these gigs of Mercy’s that a talent scout took notice of him. From there, things were a whirlwind of auditions, meetings and finally, the big contract signing. After three years of blood, sweat and tears -- all on the part of other people because he was enjoying the ride -- he finally had his record deal. The euphoria extended well past the one-year mark when his first album, ‘Stranger in My Eyes,’ was released. Promotional tours and guest appearances were scheduled one after another, and his life became a nonstop roller coaster ride. However two years later, he did slow down long enough to work on his second album, ‘Infrequency,’ which he was currently on tour promoting.

“Yeah, ‘m good, Henri,” Remy said, breaking out of his memories and answering his friend’s question on whether or not he could cope with another action-packed day. He had been battling off a cold for the past week. “Jus’ a li’l sleepy, is all. I’ll perk up once de day kicks in… hopefully.”

At that last word, Hank’s attention snapped to Remy. But the younger man merely smirked and returned his focus to the auburn-haired beauty on the screen.

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