Bonjour to all. This is a story that I'm doing purely for fun. I have the plot all worked out, but only a few chapters written- I make no promises on updating. Reviews will expedite the process, but whenever I promise another chapter, or give myself a deadline, the entire story collapses.
So. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it; and, as all writers, I'd appreciate any reviews. :)
Diclaimer: Don't own it, wish I did, yada yada [insert something witty here.]
Rating: T for now, potentially M. While humor/romance, this isn't headed pretty places.
Marie groaned as she came awake, clutching her head as the dim light of the room pierced her retinas. With bleary eyes she searched her surroundings, wondering where she'd ended up.
"Ah could kill Logan for this," she mumbled.
Though, perhaps hitching various rides to Baton Rouge, Louisiana and allowing the maudlin tendencies of the (former) object of her (not-so-secret) attentions to direct her to a dingy bar could not be considered- entirely- his fault. Maybe.
But she really wanted to blame someone for this.
Marie stumbled upright, somehow, and nearly fell again when her vision faded out; and noticed that she had forgotten how to breathe at some point. She addressed that issue, trying largely unsuccessfully to steady herself.
Next time I decide to drink, I'll remember not to do it like I'm a man with a freaking healing factor.
She couldn't seem to remember much about last night. It was all a rather large, rather pleasant blur beyond the third (fourth?) beer.
But as her vision slowly stopped swimming around, all surviving good feelings vanished. She definitely did not remember coming here.
There was a king-sized bed with rumpled burgundy sheets- were those silk?- which she had apparently either fallen off of or not made it to; an assortment of bookcases chock full with all manner of titles; a large mahogany desk complete with a leather armchair, high tech computer monitor, and a conflagaration of wires and strange machines; and finally, a large assortment of clothes was strewn about in piles on the deep, richly colored carpet.
When did she-?
All other concerns faded when a wave of nausea overtook her. Swaying back and forth on her feet, Marie managed to make it to the nearest door without falling- miraculously, without tossing her cookies- and prayed that it was the bathroom.
She was in luck. And it continued to hold as she fell forward on her knees: she somehow didn't crack her head open on anything, and she ended auspiciously placed beside the toilet.
After three minutes of dizzying, horrifying grossness in which she puked her guts out (and perhaps an organ or two; she couldn't be sure), she felt much better. Her headache seemed to have lightened a little as well.
Feeling strangely weak, she hauled herself up and flushed the toilet with a trembling hand. It was really cold all of a sudden.
First and last time I drink, she moaned internally, and went to the sink to rinse her mouth out.
Feeling better still, she turned to see if she couldn't figure out where the heck she was.
Her rear slammed ungracefully and painfully against the counter as she wheeled away from the stranger who was abruptly there, and only managed to keep her unreliable balance with a combination of scrabbling hands and some more of the aforementioned luck.
The perpetrator, a tall man with long, tousled brown locks that fell in his face (further hidden by a pair of sunglasses), leaned against the door frame with an amused smile tilting the side of his mouth.
"Feelin' better?" he asked.
She eyed him mistrustfully. She, with miraculous willpower, suceeded in ignoring the conclusion that every clue was pointing to, and asked, "Who are you?"
"Aww, cherie, you don' remember Remy? 'M hurt."
Anger rose swiftly in her chest- this was no time to be joking around- and her lips thinned. "Where am Ah, swamp rat?"
"Dis, river rat," he replied easily, "would be mon appartement."
It took her wits a moment to recover from this blow. "Your apartment," she repeated faintly, after a moment. "Are you sure? It don't mean, lahke, somethin' different in French?"
"Non, petite. Sorry. Yo' in Remy's apartment, no gettin 'round it."
"Okay," she said, struggling to make sense of this appalling development, and hit upon an acceptable explanation.
"Well, thanks for yoah help gettin' back from the bar an' awll; but Ah think Ah should be headed back now," she said.
It didn't particularly matter, at that point, that she had no idea where 'back' would be. She just had a vague suspicion that she didn't want to stick around much longer to discover any other potentially (okay, in lieu of the situation, very probably) unpleasant facts.
Along those lines, she really didn't want to think about why his voice shook a little with mirth when he spoke. "Dat wasn' zactly how it went down, chere. I c'n understand how it's a bit muddled in dat head o' yours, seein' as y' didn' want t' let go of dat bottle even for de ceremony."
"Ceremony?" she repeated softly.
He was outright grinning now. Like a wolf, she thought numbly. "Oui, ma femme. Y' taken a look at y' left hand lately? Picked it out m'self."
Still disbelieving, she looked. And there, glinting innocently in the light of the bathroom, was an ornate silver band- a large, brilliant emerald set in the center, surrounded by dozens of crystal diamond droplets.
"Oh mah Gawd."
I know, I know; Remy getting married isn't exactly in keeping with his character. Trust me, he has a reason-- this is only the prologue. I can't be revealing my secrets right off the bat.
So, interested? Suggestions? I appreciate all reviews- even flames, as long as there's something worthwhile I can take away from them. :D