She tore another truth from him and everything was starting to feel bloody and raw. Yet Remi couldn't deny that there was something sweet about it as well.

"Because I wanted you to say yes," he confessed. "And having a stark reminder of where you'd most certainly wind up right in front of you made that more likely."

Her cherry lips parted, pupils dilating with shock. She looked at him like that every time he told the truth. She'd been looking at him like that a lot tonight.

"Why do you care?" she finally asked, something nearly vulnerable in her voice. "I mean, like I said earlier, there are plenty of people who'd jump at this opportunity."

A laugh bubbled up in his throat and he fought against it for a moment, but only for a moment. 

"Not really," he lied. No reason for her to know this had been an offer centered solely on her. "Most people aren't..."

He got the feeling he should maybe tread lightly here. Too many truths could leave them both bleeding.

"Desperate enough?" she offered, her tone cold enough to freeze the Gulf.

"That, I suppose." He didn't want to say she wasn't wrong. Desperate enough was nine times out of ten what drove people to his world. But that seemed a little blunt, and he got the sense that delicacy was needed here. "I was going to say... flexible enough."

Another silence descended and he slowed down, pulling up outside of the house on Saint Ann. He parked and killed the engine. Something else was tugging at his thoughts. Something he knew needed saying, but he was sure it wouldn't go over all that well.

It's not just for me. It's for her.

Remi shook his head, steeling himself.

"Don't talk back to me in front of those people."

She grew stock-still, and he braced himself for any reaction from her screaming at him, to her turning and slapping him across the face. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. Remi returned her gaze, forcing his expression to a non-confrontational blankness.

He could see the storm brewing in her eyes. She needed  to understand. He needed her to understand.

It wasn't dramatic to say this was a matter of life or death. For her, for him and anyone who professed any true loyalty for his cause.

Before he realized he was going to, he lunged across the space between them, snaking a hand behind her neck and pulling her forward, forcing her to look him in the eye. To see how dead serious he was. 

Fire flared, her temper exploding right in front of him and she jerked backward, making his fingers slip over her skin for a second. 

He let out an angry breath. "What did I tell you earlier tonight, before we left the club?"

Charlie grew still, and he let out an internal sigh of relief. It bothered him when she acted less intelligent than she really was. He didn't have much time for stupid people, or those slow on the uptake.

"Let me go," she demanded, her voice sharp.

He blinked, his fingers loosening their hold as soon as she issued the order. But he didn't remove his hand, brushing his thumb against the skin behind her ear. After a moment, she softened slightly, leaning toward him. 

"What did I tell you?" he whispered, ignoring how warm she was. Ignoring the impulse to touch more of her.

"You said a lot tonight. You're gonna have to get more specific."

He could see on her face that she was just being stubborn now. And he was a little too tired to play against her anymore.

A heavy sigh came through his nose, and he watched her through half-lidded eyes. "It's a show. Everything I do, every move I make is a grand exhibition."

"Okay?" She drew out the word, blinking slowly at him.

In that instant, he realized that perhaps he wasn't the only one playing. And she was getting exactly what she wanted. She was forcing him to lay his cards down for her to see, rather than guessing if he held her card like she was supposed to.

He nearly wanted to applaud her, but settled for leaning in until his mouth brushed her ear. "This life is illusion. It's sleight of hand and hiding behind a curtain. I project an illusion of power, and the people around me believe it." 

Sometimes he wondered if there was any difference between an illusion of power, and actually holding it. Did any man really have power, or was it just up to the whims of other men to believe that one among them held power, and to follow that one by choice?

Most of the time he liked to believe that power was real, that it was earned. But either way it had to be painstakingly maintained.

"Why are you telling me this then?" she asked, putting a hand on his chest, lightly pushing him away.

He moved back a little, enough to let her understand that he didn't want to hurt or scare her. He just needed her to see the gravity of the moment in the same way he did.

Charlie didn't look any more at ease.

"When you tug at the curtain," he said, "you risk my life."

It physically hurt to admit any sort of mortality. Any sort of vulnerability. Venom welled up in him, trying to burn away even the idea of weakness.

Then he broadened the ramifications, turning the spotlight away from him. "You risk yours and Leon's and Moira's. Anyone who is truly loyal to me, and those are few and far between."

She scoffed, the sound surprising him. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. 

He sat back in his seat, lips pressing together hard. Did she not understand, even after the little bit she'd seen tonight? Did she not understand that the streets could be painted with his blood just as easily as he'd painted them with the blood of his predecessor, of his rivals? 

A sudden image of him opening a door to find her lying on the floor, blood and hair spilled messily across tile sent ice running through his veins. He shook the image away.

That wasn't Charlie. That was an old memory.

"I—"

"Good night, Charlie," he said, cutting her off. He could feel he was moments away from doing or saying something he would probably regret. 

Her lashes fluttered, like her eyes were burning. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head.

Anger and vitriol were running through his blood like gasoline. All it would take was a spark. "Good night."

She snapped her mouth shut and threw the door open, launching herself out of the car. The door slammed shut, making him snarl, but she had practically flown up to the doorstep and hadn't heard him.

Remi gunned the engine, wheeling the car around. Tires squealed, leaving rubber across the pavement. Fury rushed through him like a riptide, catching him by surprise and ripping him away from the control he clung to so voraciously.

Like he'd told Charlie, his life depended on control, or the illusion thereof. 

How did she do that?

His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as he ran a red light.

A whooping sound went up behind him, and he looked into his rearview mirror with disbelief at the red and blue lights flashing behind him. Remi swore viciously, turning his blinker on to let the cop know he was pulling over.

He pulled onto a side street, out of the flow of traffic, and the patrol car pulled in behind him slowly. He reached over to the glovebox, extracting his registration from underneath the revolver it was pinned by. 

Then he dug his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out his driver's license. He rolled down the window.

It took seven minutes before the cop got out of their car, making the slow walk up to his window.

"Evenin', sir," he started. "Could I—"

Remi offered his license and registration before the officer could finish, held between his index and middle finger. He didn't bother looking at the cop. It wasn't one of his. Cops on his payroll didn't do shit like this.

"Do you know why I pulled you over tonight?"

Remi suppressed a sigh. New boy, all gungho and piss and vinegar.

"Probably has somethin' to do with that red I ran," he answered. 

A shocked silence met him and he looked up, squinting in the beam of the flashlight the cop was holding. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see it written all over the young man's face. He'd been expecting an argument. Perhaps hoping for one.

"Uh," the cop recovered, taking his ID, "right... I—uh..."

"Just run the ticket, son," Remi said with a sigh. "I got places to be."

He probably wasn't any more than six years Remi's junior. But twenty-eight years had been an eternity with the kind of life he'd led.

Without another word, probably unsure of what to do with the distinct lack of anger or frustration he was most likely used to, the cop went back to his car. Remi personally didn't see much point. He was already angry, he didn't have any to spare for a man just doing his job.

What felt like an eternity later, the cop came back with his ticket. Remi took it, tossing it into the passenger seat without looking at it. It wasn't like it mattered how much it cost.

He sat quietly through the officer's spiel about his options to either pay the ticket or to dispute it in court.

Remi had no intention to draw any sort of attention to himself. Not that kind of attention. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his heart matching the tempo against the back of his ribs.  

Finally, finally, the cop told him to have a good evening. He returned the nicety, then pulled out slowly once the cop was back in his patrol car. Remi didn't bother turning the car around. 

He didn't have any place he wanted to be anyway.

Then it hit him like a bolt of lightning, crackling through him.

If he was screwed, he might as well be good and screwed.

He wiggled around the smaller side streets until he was back on Saint Ann. Practically out of the car before he'd even put it in park, he was at her door in a second, pounding his fist against the wood.

She had to understand. She had to know. Before anything else could happen.

The door flinging open nearly unbalanced him as his fist hit empty air.

"What the hell, Remi?" she snarled. "Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?"

The makeup was gone, her hair was down in soft curls around her face and she was wearing boxer-shorts and a tank top.

He stepped inside, forcing her to back up, and kicked the door shut behind him. Her face was white and her fists were clenched.

His breathing slowed as his rational brain caught up with whatever else was doing his thinking right now. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pleased when she didn't pull away.

Modulating his voice to something less intense, he said, "I need to know you understand something."

"You can't just come slamming in here at three in the morning!" she protested. "You can't—"

"I," he hissed, "can do whatever I want. I earned that right."

She yanked away from him. "You don't have any rights," she sneered the word, "where I'm concerned."

Setting his jaw, he looked away. He could barely explain why he'd come storming back. He should have just let her think about it. She was smart enough to come to her own conclusions concerning what tonight was all about. 

What really bothered him here was that he knew she was right.

"You need to go," she said, voice exhausted now. "I have a shift tomorrow at six. It's..." She looked around for a clock, and he extended his wrist when she didn't find one.

She cocked her head to look at the watch. "It's nearly one in the morning. I'd like to get a little bit of sleep."

"Do you understand what I told you in the car?" The words had an urgent flavor to them that he disliked. They sounded... they were sincere.

 Charlie's expression turned wary at that, her hand going up to the back of her neck. She stared down at the floor for a moment, then sighed. 

It nearly shocked him when she turned her back on him, but all she did was walk to the sofa still residing in the middle of the half-painted living room. She flopped down onto the cushions with a weary sigh, then curled up into a ball, her back braced against the arm of the sofa.

He raised an eyebrow when she raised an arm, gesturing to the other end of the sofa, but walked over and sat down, angling himself toward her. She had her knees up to her chest, one arm wrapped around her ankles, the other resting on her knees.

After a moment, she rested her chin on her forearm, staring at him. Neither of them blinked and he had the strangest sensation that she was staring right through him into his soul. 

"If you wanted a meek little church mouse, you picked the wrong girl, Remi," she said softly.

They were the first non-combative words he'd gotten out of her all night. Everything else had been tinged with everything from pure anger to sly teasing.

"No," he said, "I picked the right girl, she just doesn't know the rules. Yet."

Another silence fell between them. He wondered why she could go so long without blinking. He wondered what thoughts were flying through her head right this second.

Remi startled when she shifted, pushing herself away from the arm to where she was on her knees right next to him. She sank back to sit on her heels, hands folded in her lap.

"Okay," she said on an exhale. "Then I need something from you."

He hesitated, but only for the barest second before he asked, "And what would that be?"

Charlie chewed at the inside of her cheek for a moment, her lips pursing. "I need you to just explain them to me like... not a psycho lunatic, okay?"

It took him a while before he could decide if he was amused or offended. Then he let out a small laugh. "Clinically, I think I'd fall somewhere on the sociopath scale," he half-joked.

The corner of her mouth twitched, but all she did was raise an expectant eyebrow.

He took that as a sign that she was actually listening. 

With a groan, he stretched his arms over his head, then loosened his tie. He could feel every ounce of concentration she leveled on him. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

"It's just like I said, cher," he started. 

She tilted sideways a little, leaning her shoulder against the cushion.

"Control in this world is a tenuous thing. People only follow those they believe to have everything, or at least most everything, under control." His lip curled slightly. "I work with extremely dangerous people, Charlie."

"You are extremely dangerous people," she muttered, making him look over at her.

She had her eyes closed now.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" he teased.

"Take it how you want." Her eyes opened. "It's just the truth. Isn't it?"

"I..." He hesitated again. That was the third time she'd made him do that tonight. "I suppose that depends on your definition of dangerous," he hedged.

She smirked, shifting again to where her shin pressed into the side of his thigh. Her elbow was resting on the top of the sofa now, her head propped up with her hand.

"Fine, yeah," he admitted. "Because I have to be."

"Because you like to be."

How did she know that?

She reached forward, trapping the edge of his tie between her index and middle finger, running them down the length of dark cloth. Her fingers stopped just shy of his belt.

"I'm dangerous because I have to be, and I eventually acquired a taste for it," he said after a moment of trying to track down his train of thought. "But back to my original point."

"You had an original point?" she murmured, glancing at him through her lashes. 

"When you question me, or talk back to me, or whatever in front of the people who work for me, you open a door."

She was still playing with his tie, but something about the action seemed subconscious. Like she needed something to do with her hands to prevent any other, perhaps more drastic actions.   

"When I let you get away with it, those same people start to think I'll let them get away with it too." He grabbed her hand. "Then things get ugly and you end up cleaning up a lot more blood then you'd otherwise need to."

Charlie's hand twitched in his.

"Your hands are cold," he whispered, wrapping his fingers around hers. 

She ignored this. "So... what? I can't talk back to the teacher because it might make the other hooligans rebel?"

Remi sent his gaze up toward the ceiling, trying not to laugh. "More or less. Look, Charlie, it's just... it's better this way. It's for your safety and—"

"Yours," she interrupted, looking up to meet his gaze.

His mouth thinned down into an uncompromising line. That wasn't a truth she was getting from him. 

"Moira's. Leon's." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you still all mad?"

"Yes," she said immediately. "But I'm too tired to fight. I just... I don't know what to do with this, Remi. This is... it's completely fucking nuts. I'm sitting here with someone who's probably sunk more bodies in the bayou than I've met."

"Yet, you're still here, aren't you?" He didn't bother denying what she'd said. It was probably true.

"These past few days I've really been thinking there's..." She trailed off, staring at their hands.

She pulled her hand away, curling her fingers into a fist. "I think you should go."

On a level, he knew she was absolutely right. Instead, he threaded his fingers through her loose hair and kissed her. A small, muffled groan came from the very back of her throat.

Her lips were soft. Then she was in his lap, fingers digging into the back of his neck. His hands pressed into the small of her back, holding her tight body flush against his. She moved against him, setting a match to that gasoline in his blood, her fingers running through his hair before she bit his lip.

Now her breath was in his mouth like he'd wanted all night.

Then she jerked back, nearly ending up on the floor before Remi grabbed her arms, balancing her. Her chest heaved and her cheeks were flushed, and he yanked her forward again.

But she turned her face and he stopped moving, his mouth on the edge of her jaw.

"I think you should go," she whispered.