The air rushed out of her lungs in a painful breath and she lost her grip on her cell, causing it to crash noisily against the floor. It was him. Her stalker.

But how? How could he have gotten the note into her jacket? Her mind whirled, trying to come up with the answer. When was the last time she had worn the coat in public? Thoughts raced through her brain. It couldn’t have been recently; neither her stylist nor her mother had let her worn the garment to any of their recent public engagements, opting instead for fashion that was a little less subtle. She racked her memories. When? When?!

The color drained from her face. The club. The night she had met Remy. But it couldn’t have been… that was six weeks ago. Had she been walking around with this crackpot’s handiwork in her pocket for a month and a half?! She couldn’t believe it. But then again it wasn’t all that unbelievable, she reasoned, considering she never used her coat pockets. Six weeks…

She didn’t want to, but for some reason she couldn’t tear her eyes from the words pasted on the paper. They were sick, perverted. Thoughts about her. By a man she didn’t even now… didn’t want to know.

A knock sounded at her door and she quickly jammed the note back into her pocket. No one could know about the second letter; her mother would have no qualms about canceling the tour halfway through their journey, and she couldn’t let that happen.

Karen popped her head into the room. “Did you find it, Rogue? Raven’s just about ready to shoot herself.”

“Yeah, sugah, Ah got it.” Picking up her fallen cell phone, she followed Karen out the door.

Having just finished with a local radio interview, Rogue stood waiting for the elevator with Raven, Karen and her security team. Finding the second letter had scared her, but she pushed that feeling out of her mind, refusing to let it interfere with her schedule. She had work to do and a dream to fulfill, and by God she would do it, with or without the psycho watching in the sidelines.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Turning, she saw a rather large man with his daughter, who couldn’t have been more than six years old. The child was crying profusely, hugging a rag doll to her chest and screaming for her mother. The father, obviously agitated and fed up with her behavior, raised the back of his hand and slapped the child across her face, sending her reeling to the floor.

In that instant, Rogue’s entire world melted away and she was once again the terrified eight-year-old succumbing to her father’s abuse. Only this time, her nineteen-year-old mind demanded that she do something about it. Launching herself at the man, she all but tackled him; the momentum from her initial assault caused him to stagger but he did not fall. Desperately, almost mindlessly, she clawed at his face and chest, venting out all the fear and emotions she had thought long ago settled within her.

It took both Logan and Guido to pry her off the man. But even in their grip, she struggled, attempting to kick at the father with all her strength.

“What kind o’ a man are you?” she screamed at him, her fists clenched. “Hittin’ a defenseless child! Yoah own DAUGHTER!” She lunged at him again, but her bodyguards held her firmly.

“Rogue! ROGUE!” Her mother’s voice drew her out of her trance-like state and forced her mind to focus. “That’s enough, darling.”

She locked eyes with the woman before her, the woman who had taken her away from the abuse in the first place. She looked into her mother’s honey-colored gaze and realized that she was safe. There would be no more abuse, there hadn’t been for a very long time, because her mother would protect her; she would keep her safe from the boogeyman lurking in the dark corners of her mind.

Gradually, her nerves calmed and she surveyed her surroundings. She was stunned to find quite a number of people gathered in the hallway, having heard the disturbance. Someone had handed the father several tissues and he was cleaning the considerable amount of blood from his face. The little girl was off to one side, still clutching her doll, her eyes wide at the commotion she had caused.

“Logan, get her out of here,” Raven said under her breath, nodding slightly toward Rogue. “I’ll take care of this.”

They left her then, climbing into the elevator and making their way to the tour bus. They didn’t see Raven again until much later in the day, just before Rogue was set to perform that night.

“Momma, Ah’m sorry,” Rogue began in a rush. “Ah know it was a stupid thing ta do, ‘specially in front o’ all those people but somethin’ inside me jus’ went crazy an’ Ah couldn’t help -- ”

Raven silenced her with a gesture. “What’s done is done. I couldn’t stop the media from finding out, but they already know your history as a child so it won’t come as a shock to anyone.” She sat down before she added, “Some might even admire you for taking on a man twice your size. Perhaps you could take that into consideration, darling, the next time you feel like starting a brawl with someone who looks like he could snap your neck with his little finger.”

Rogue sat down next to her mother and asked seriously, “What happened ta th’ li’l girl?”

“The police are taking care of it. I’m sure children’s services will be looking into it as well.” She heard her daughter’s sigh of relief and smiled. Raven drew her into an embrace like she had done so many times when Rogue was a child. “Are you all right, darling?”

Rogue nodded. “Ah don’ know what happened. Ah mean, th’ stuff with Daddy happened a while ago an’ Ah’d come ta terms with it already. You an’ Reenie an’ th’ counselin’ helped me get through it. Ah guess seein’ that man hit his daughter triggered somethin’ in me.”

Raven soothed her, comforted her. “It’s over, child. You know that, don’t you?”

“Ah know, Momma, Ah know.”

The sound was a tangible force that pressed against his body; the steady beat of it like a wave crashing against the shore. It assaulted his ears with a fervor that he was sure would cause him to go deaf. But it was his drug, his addiction; something he would surely die without.

Remy turned slowly, completing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree rotation to face the sea of people behind him. The stadium lights were dim, casting ghostly shadows across the audience and stage. He didn’t think it was possible, but as he turned, the sound grew louder, more intense. The entire building shook with the force of it all.

The band began to play and the music took hold of his soul, entrancing him in its well-known spell. The roar of the crowd was anything but ignorable, but for the moment it was little more than a whisper in the back of his mind. The music was thunderous, unrelenting, demanding his attention.

He would miss this, performing in front of thousands of people, feeling the rush of energy radiating from them and fueling his adrenaline high. The tour was almost over; only a handful of shows more to go. And he wouldn’t be on the road again for at least another year. He needed to savor these feelings, soak up as much as he could to tide him over until the next time he got a chance to perform again.

Blissfully, he closed his eyes, belting out the familiar words with a voice filled with passion. Was there anything better in the world than this feeling? It was exhilarating. Mind-numbing. And far, far too intoxicating.

He gradually opened his eyes again and was shocked to see a woman on the stage a few feet away from him. It wasn’t unusual for security to select a female fan from the audience and allow her access to the stage, but that particular part of the show wasn’t until later in the second half. Without skipping a beat or a lyric, Remy turned to security to silently question the change in plans, but was met with nothing but darkened shadows in the wings.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as suspicion flooded his body. Continuing with his performance, he turned back to the woman and realized he had seen her before. She was the same woman that night in Los Angeles, all those weeks ago. An undeniably sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he watched the woman approach him, casually strolling his way with her hands hidden behind her. Once she was within arm’s reach, she smiled up at him with soft, brown eyes. Strangely enough, even the music, once so powerful and strong, was now pushed into the background along with the noise of the audience.

The woman kept up her radiant smile as she took a step back and pulled a thick newspaper from behind her, obviously wanting him to read the headline printed there. He glanced down -- his curiosity, mingled with fear, getting the better of him -- and tried to read. The words were jumbled, blurry, making it impossible for him to make out the words. This seemed to amuse the woman and she laughed slightly.

“Remy,” she said lightly, making a tsking sound as she softly shook her head from side to side. “Remy, Remy, Remy.”

He felt a shaking at his shoulder. It was irritating really and he attempted to shrug the person responsible off.

“Remy.”

The shaking persisted and he opened his eyes to focus on the person before him.

“Has anyone ever informed you that you are a real pain to wake up in the morning?” Hank asked him when he finally got the young singer to open his eyes.

Remy sat up in bed and looked around him. He was in his hotel room, and judging from the bright stream of sunlight trespassing from beneath the curtains, it was already midmorning.

Dream, he thought as he fell back into bed. Jus’ a dream.

He could hear Hank moving across the room, opening the cabinet that held the entertainment unit. Propping himself on an elbow, Remy watched as the other man inserted a tape into the VCR and turned the television set on.

“Kinda earlier in de day f’r a movie marathon, don’ ya t’ink, Henri? ‘Sides which, we don’ even have de proper materials: popcorn, beer, beautiful woman t’pretend dat she’s scared at de nasty parts o’ a slasher flick.”

Hank ignored his comment as he slid back into a chair and hit the ‘Play’ button. “We taped this off the news last night while you were on stage. I thought you might want to see it.”

Remy sat up fully and turned toward the television. The news anchor was an attractive ebony-haired woman dressed in a soft gray business suit.

“Earlier today,” she began, “multi-platinum singer/song writer, Rogue, attacked a man just outside the WRKP studios in Memphis, Tennessee. Witnesses say the nineteen-year-old musician assaulted forty-two-year-old, John Wynberg, after the man slapped his daughter across the face. Rogue, who has been very open with regards to her own abuse as a child, was quickly rushed from the scene by her security before authorities arrived. Wynberg’s six-year-old daughter is currently in the custody of the local children’s services while allegations of child abuse are being investigated. As of yet, no charges have been pressed against either Wynberg or Rogue.

“In a related story, rumors surrounding the alleged relationship between Rogue and country/jazz superstar, Remy LeBeau, continue to circulate. For the past several weeks, fans have been speculating on the possibility of a secret romance between the two artists. Representatives of both singers declined to comment. Rogue is slated to fly to Europe next week for a string of promotional appearances. Her latest album, ‘Where Are You?,’ is set to be released at the end of the week.”

Remy leaned back against the bed’s headboard as Hank switched off the TV and the VCR. He was feeling both a mixture of pride and concern. It was obvious to anybody with one good eye that Rogue was a passionate woman. Once she made up her mind about something, there was no swaying her from it. He knew how strongly she felt about any form of abuse, but most especially towards children. Her reaction wasn’t the least bit surprising. He was proud of the way she stood up for the little girl, whereas others might have chosen to look the other way. What concerned him was the effect the incident might have had on her. It must have reminded her of her own childhood to warrant such a severe reaction.

Peter appeared at the door of the bedroom, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Remy, there is someone here to see you,” he said.

“Who?”

“A deliveryman. He says that he cannot release the package to anyone but you.”

Remy climbed out of bed, quickly donning jeans and a sweatshirt, before exiting the room. He was met by a man in a company uniform armed with a clipboard and a thin manila envelope.

The man smiled pleasantly and greeted, “Good morning, sir. I have a package for you.” He handed Remy the clipboard and pointed to a line at the bottom. “If you could just sign next to the ‘X’…” Once he had done so, the man took the clipboard back and handed the envelope to Remy. “Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”

“Merci. You too.”

Once he had left, Remy sank into one of the chairs to open the package. Pulling out the sheets of paper that he found within, he began to read. After a few minutes, his eyes widened and he let out a low hiss of breath.

“What’s the matter, boss?” Damien asked from his perch across the room.

Instead of answering, Remy leaned forward in his seat and spat out, “Putain de merde!”

Hank’s own eyes widened at the French curse and he made his way to Remy’s side. “What does it say?”

Remy handed the papers to him, lowered his head and then proceeded to bury his hands in his hair. Before Hank had a chance to scan them, he said, “Dey’re documents. Legal documents.” He raised his head. “’M bein’ sued f’r paternity.”