"Is it?" I raised an eyebrow, setting down another card with a soft snap against the cloth. "You'd know all about telling peoplewhat they want to hear, wouldn't you?" I held his gaze, letting the accusation hang in the air between us. The smile finally faltered. Just for a second, just a crack in the facade—but I saw it. His fingers tightened around his beer bottle, knuckles going white.
"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice was still light, still playful, but there was an edge underneath now. A wariness that made his shoulders tense, his body going still.
"It means I've been watching you all night." I set down my cards and folded my hands on the table, giving him my full attention for the first time. "The charm, the smiles, the way you make everyone feel special. It's a good act. Convincing." I paused, letting the words land. "It's still an act." I tilted my head, studying the way his jaw tightened.
He stared at me, the smile frozen on his face like he'd forgotten how to take it off. His amber eyes had gone wide, startled, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
"Does that smile work on other women?" I tilted my head, studying him the way I'd study a particularly interesting card spread, cataloging every micro-expression that flickered across his handsome face. "It's cute that you think I'm other women." I let a small smirk curl my lips, sharp and knowing.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged. Around us, the bar continued its cheerful chaos—music from the jukebox now, laughter, the clink of glasses. In our little corner, everything had gone very still.
Then Remy did something I didn't expect. He laughed. Not the practiced, charming laugh he'd been using all night. This was something rougher, more surprised, like I'd startled it out of him against his will. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were bright with something that might have been delight.
"Damn, chere." He shook his head, running a hand through his sweat-damp curls, making them stick up in all directions. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something real in them. Something vulnerable. "You don't pull punches, do you?" He was still grinning, but it was different now—less performance, more genuine surprise.
"Life's too short." I picked up my cards again, shuffling without looking at them, letting the familiar motion ground me. "I find honest cruelty more interesting than pretty lies." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, watching him process my words.
"Honest cruelty." He repeated the words like he was tasting them, rolling them around on his tongue, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered them. "That what you're offering?" He leaned forward, genuinely curious now, the mask slipping further.
"I'm not offering anything." I began laying out a spread, not for him, just to give my hands something to do while I felt the weight of his attention on me. "You came to me, remember?" I placed each card with deliberate care, not looking up.
"I did." He watched my hands move, tracking the cards with unexpected intensity, his gaze following each one as it landed on the cloth. "You know, I saw you earlier. When I was playing. You were watching." His voice had softened, lost some of its practiced smoothness.
"Lots of people were watching." I turned over the first card. The Fool. How appropriate. "You're very watchable." I tapped the card with one finger, still not meeting his eyes.
"Yeah, but they were watching the show." He leaned forward again, close enough that his scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. "You were watching me. The real me. During that song..." He trailed off, something uncertain creeping into his expression, his throat working as he swallowed.
"The song about Luc." I said it quietly, without looking up from the cards, giving him the mercy of not watching his face when I said it.
His whole body went still. The easy posture vanished, replaced by something rigid and guarded.
"How do you know that name?" His voice came out rough, stripped of all its honey warmth, his hands flat on the table like he was bracing himself.
"You said it." I turned over another card. The Moon. Illusion, fear, the subconscious. "During the song. You sang it in French, but I caught the name." I kept my tone gentle, neutral, giving him space.
"Most people don't." His voice had gone rough, the charm stripped away entirely, leaving something raw and wounded underneath. He swallowed hard. "Most people don't speak the old Cajun." His accent had thickened, the words coming slower.
"I'm not most people." I finally looked up, meeting his eyes. They were wet, I realized. Just barely, just a shine at the edges that he was trying desperately to control. "We've established that." I held his gaze steadily, letting him see that I wasn't going to look away.
He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his hands curling into fists on the table.
"Luc was my brother." The words came out barely above a whisper, rough with old grief that had never fully healed.
"He died when I was seventeen." The words came out flat, rehearsed, like he'd said them so many times they'd lost all meaning. His hands were shaking slightly where they rested on the table, a fine tremor he couldn't quite control. "I was supposed to be watching him." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, jaw clenched tight.
I set down my cards and did something that surprised us both. I reached across the table and covered his trembling handwith mine. His skin was warm, calloused from guitar strings. His fingers twitched under my touch but didn't pull away. When he looked at me, the mask was gone entirely. Just a boy with ghosts in his eyes, desperate to be seen and terrified of what someone might find.
"That song was real." I kept my voice gentle, which wasn't something I did often, letting the words settle between us like an offering. "That was you, under all the bullshit. I liked that version better." I squeezed his hand once, firm and grounding.
He stared at me for a long moment, speechless. I watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, vulnerability, something that might have been hope. His breath hitched, his eyes glistening. Then his gaze dropped to our joined hands, and when he looked up again, some of the swagger had crept back in. It was different now. Softer. Like he was choosing to show me the performance instead of hiding behind it.
"You're something else, chere." His thumb brushed across my knuckles, feather-light, tracing the lines of my hand like he was memorizing them. His voice had gone husky, warm. "You know that?" He managed a crooked smile, still shaky but real.
"I've been told." I pulled my hand back, but slowly. Deliberately. Letting him feel the loss of contact, watching his fingers curl into a fist on the empty space where my hand had been. "Usually not as a compliment." I began gathering my cards, tucking them into their silk bag.
"Oh, it's a compliment." His smile returned, crooked now, more genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way the fake smile never had. "Trust me." He leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
I gathered the rest of my supplies, tucking them back into my bag. The bachelorette party was winding down, women in pink sashes stumbling toward the door, and I'd done my job for the night.
