Summary: How do you bring together two people who have been there, done that, have seen it all, and decided “No, thank you?” Show them that they don’t know everything they think they know. RoLo, alternate verse. If you’re looking for claws and lightning bolts, look elsewhere.
Categories: NC-17 Characters: None
Genres: Romance, Comedy, Angst
Warnings: Adult language, Sexual Situations
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 21
Completed: Yes
Word count: 151344
Read: 52569
Published: 10-15-06
Updated: 05-02-07
1. No Man's Land by OriginalCeenote
2. Trippin’ by OriginalCeenote
3. Six Degrees by OriginalCeenote
4. Awkward by OriginalCeenote
5. Butterflies by OriginalCeenote
6. Cold Feet! by OriginalCeenote
7. Sit Tight by OriginalCeenote
8. Mixed Messages by OriginalCeenote
9. No More Words by OriginalCeenote
10. Word Games by OriginalCeenote
11. Side Stepping by OriginalCeenote
12. Bad Move by OriginalCeenote
13. Off-Beat by OriginalCeenote
14. Floored by OriginalCeenote
15. Cheek to Cheek by OriginalCeenote
16. Slipping Up by OriginalCeenote
17. Kick Down by OriginalCeenote
18. Kick Down, Continued by OriginalCeenote
19. And I Dip, You Dip, We Dip by OriginalCeenote
20. Cover Songs and Eight-Track by OriginalCeenote
21. The Macarena, and Sillier Rituals by OriginalCeenote
No Man's Land by OriginalCeenote
“So what’d you get her again?”
“I’m not telling.” Smugness oozed from her tone.
“Awwww!”
“Pretty pleeeeeasssse??”
“You’ll get to see it when she opens it.” They peered around the deli with scant interest, leaning in toward the clear case displaying the hot items.
“I feel like some chicken wings.”
“We’re not here for wings, we’re here for spinach dip. So we’re getting spinach dip.” This declaration was matter-of-fact and impatient, indulging no whining.
“Party pooper.”
“That was the last thing on her list, y’all. That and the vodka oughta just about do it.”
“Tell me again why we’re out here running around at the last minute while Betsy and Emma are sitting on their asses back at the house?”
“They would have argued for a half hour whether it was vegan, glucose and dairy-free. Just drop it, Allison. Don’t even go there.”
“Fine, then.” She perused the bread shelves and picked up a sweet Hawaiian kettle loaf, inhaling its light aroma. “Why are you guys dragging me to his thing again?”
“If I’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,” Lorna grumbled.
“There. There you go.” That reason was cut and dried enough. It still didn’t cut it with Allison, who was already regretting having her highlights redone for this.
“You’re no help, ‘Ro. Back me up, here.”
“You’d feel guilty if you didn’t go. I can’t let you feel guilty, Al. I just can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
“Jean’s one of your oldest friends.”
“So automatically I’ve gotta pull bridesmaid duty in foofy taffeta and matching dyable shoes. I mean, was it really that bad, Ororo?”
“Was what really bad?”
“Whatever I did in my past ten lives that warrants such punishment? You know what this means, don’t you? Another trip to the consignment shop with a friggin’ trunkload of dresses from the Bridesmaid Graveyard in the back of my closet. I haven’t worn one of those damned dresses a second time. Not once, do you hear me? ONCE!” Ali’s voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch, drawing furtive stares from a harried looking soccer mom struggling along with her two toddlers grinning out from the shopping cart shaped like a car.
“Ungrateful much?” Rogue quipped. “It’s ‘sposed ta be an honor, sugah. Nobody bent yer arm ta say yes.”
“Wanna bet? You’re looking at nobody right there,” Ali sniffed, nodding toward Ororo as she selected the larger tub of spinach dip that was the featured member purchase of the day.
“How often do we all get together anymore?” Rogue pointed out. “Never. Only once in a blue moon if we’re lucky. We plan a girl’s night out? Work gets in the way. We plan a movie night in? Men get in the way. We plan a weekend drive to Virginia Beach? Life gets in the way. One of us gets married, though, and we all drop everything like a pair of dirty drawers and show up with bells on.”
“Gotta be the hosted bar,” Lorna rationalized. They trekked through the liquor aisle looking for last minute necessities and laughing at the names of the drinks. “Fat Bastard Merlot,” she announced out loud, grinning from ear to ear.
“Pinot Evil,” Rogue challenged, holding it up.
“Nice,” Ali confirmed with a shake of her head. “First person who grabs a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry and thinks they’re walking through the line with me to pay for it gets to run alongside the car on the way to the house.”
“You’ve forgotten your roots,” Rogue accused.
“Nope. Just highlighted ‘em today. C’mon.” They trekked to the cashier’s counter and waited in line behind three boys who barely looked old enough to drive to the Laundromat and separate their own lights from darks. Two of them were sporting fraternity sweatshirts and board shorts. Ali turned to face Ororo and rolled her eyes with emphasis toward their purchases lining the conveyor belt: four cases of Keystone, a bottle of mudslide mix, three bags of ice and a jumbo-sized, one-pound bag of crunchy CheeTohs. Ororo smothered a giggle behind an unseasonal cough, clearing her throat when one of the subjects of it turned around and leered.
“Where are you ladies headed tonight?” The youngest looking one of the three “ a mere pledge, Ororo guessed, probably an incoming frosh “ nodded his approval and gave his best impression of someone beckoning a horse to gallop with a clicking sound of his teeth. With a pang, Ororo sighed over the irony. Ten years ago, she would have fallen all over herself to muster any semblance of “banter” or “small talk” to keep guys just like these engaged long enough to swap a phone number, or an email address.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Junior,” Lorna muttered under her breath.
“No Man’s Land,” Rogue agreed.
“Just a little house party,” Ororo hedged, wanting to be polite. Her tone of voice suggested something boring like Pampered Chef or Mary Kay. It was moot. The boys’ collective ears pricked up at the word “party.”
“Might wanna swing by ours tonight, just follow the crowd down to East Fifth. Can’t miss it. A few of our brothers are pickin’ up a keg, might have a little Jaegermeister, maybe even some wine coolers?” Ororo could tell the last was for their benefit, and that it must have been a big draw for previous girls they’d tried to impress. She reminded herself that she wasn’t a girl anymore, without an ounce of regret.
“Enjoy your party,” she cheered goodnaturedly as Allison pulled out her Visa card and ran it on the scanner. The spinach dip made its way into a tiny white plastic bag, and Rogue looped the handles around her slender wrist, taking care not to tangle it in her favorite charm bracelet. Lorna followed behind, purchasing a pack of mint breath strips, some orange TicTacs, and a pack of vanilla spearmint gum. Some old habits died hard. Just because you didn’t have to step lightly over creaky floor boards in the dark past curfew didn’t mean you stopped observing the niceties, such as not letting strangers get downwind of your liquored burps in a tight space.
Jean’s house was going to be packed to the rafters tonight. Ororo shivered. Pietro had never let her hear the end of it.
“I can’t believe you’re actually going.”
“You went to Scott’s,” she reminded him.
“That was different.”
“Sure. Tell me another one.”
“You’re going to watch naked men…”
“No. One man. Probably in his fancy underwear. Last time around, it was a pair of black tuxedo ‘man panties’ with a sparkly little bowtie on the front. It was cute,” she assured him with a perfectly straight face. Then it occurred to her,” But since you know so much about naked people at bachelor parties, perhaps you’d like to fill me i-“
“Not a chance.” Pietro tapped the microwave off ten seconds before his food was finished cooking and already had his fork in it before he’d even shut the door. Boy was always so impatient, she considered. Couldn’t ever wait for anything.
Except for a real commitment. Let’s not forget that. Shit, not that she could.
Ororo simply watched Pietro slurp up a hearty mouthful of reheated chow mein, enjoying the little pucker of his chiseled mouth as he sucked up a long noodle. He lounged on the beige leather sofa with his stocking feet propped on the cedar coffee table, enjoying a quick dinner while he watched the movie “The Italian Job” on basic cable. His body was relaxed; he was easy in his skin. Pietro was good at doing just enough to get by. He was the physics major who could study for a test mere hours before and ace it, or leave a sonnet he had to memorize for a literature class til the very last minute and recite it back without stuttering over a single syllable. He was a fast study. Not much got by him, particularly the tall, stunning woman with café au lait skin and eyes the color of dusk that worked in the local coffee shop he frequented for his favorite biscotti.
”What size do you want on that latte, sir? Venti, grande, or tall?”
“Er…tall. Tall would be nice,” he stammered. And she was, easily eye to eye with him in her bare feet. It never occurred to him that he’d ordered the smallest size they had. Nothing else mattered but getting her to go out with him.
She let him dangle for six months.
They actually made a connection outside the café in a grungy dive that was Ororo’s favorite watering hole, called Harry’s. Ororo, Betsy, Allison and Anna had stumbled out from the rest room, avoiding the eyes of the bouncers lest they get thrown out, or heaven forbid, cut off. Ororo was halfway through explaining that she was one more purple hooter shy of passing out when she ran smack dab into someone very lean, firm and warm, who smelled damn good. Ororo stared blearily into familiar eyes as silver as new dimes that she didn’t remember being so beautiful all of the times she’d seen them before. They studied her, lingering on her face, drinking in the lushness of her mouth. His hands held her steady and curtailed her escape. They were nice hands. She felt a pleasant shiver run up her arms beneath his grip.
“You’re Biscotti Boy,” she announced. Behind her, Anna Marie and Allison dissolved into giggles while Betsy muttered incredulously, “Biscotti Boy? Did she just call him Biscotti Boy?”
“If you want.” He grinned back at her. “I’ll be whoever you want.”
“Hmmmm…” she considered. “Whoever I want?” Anna tsked behind her. “Who do I want you to be?”
“Anybody but that dumb ass that was lookin’ under yer skirt at Crazy Horse,” Allison slurred. “He was skeevy.”
“Short skirt, fair game,” Betsy reasoned. “Couldn’t blame him for trying.”
“No. You couldn’t,” Pietro agreed, letting his eyes wander over her lithe, endless legs. Dancer’s legs, possibly. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“It’s not Sweetheart,” she chirped, before turning back to Anna for input, “is it?”
“Naw it ain’t.”
“See, it’s not Sweetheart,” she confirmed confidently. She reached back to swat ineffectually at Betsy who was still muttering “Biscotti Boy?” under her breath. “Ororo. It’s Ororo. That’s me. I think.” She reached up to straighten her hair before she could stop the reflexive effort at preening. That just made his grin wider, and his eyes looked downright wicked. “Was this morning, anyway.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Just my word?”
“Unless you had something else in mind?”
“How about a phone number?” She wanted to kick herself. What the fuck? No more shots for you tonight, Munroe.
“How about a dance first?” Mmmmmmm…
The next two hours whizzed by on a flood of drinks, innuendoes and dancing that became more wanton as the night progressed. They moved together as though they’d danced together for years, complementing each other’s steps and flow, melding together on the floor and growing lost in the music. Ororo never wanted to find her way back. Ororo’s arms were draped around his neck, and her hips followed his lead. Pietro’s hand flattened and splayed across the small of her back, guiding her into the steps, allowing her to swing and dip, arching against him, snug as a garment. Ali had to pry her away, reminding her that they were sharing a cab home, and Ororo had everyone’s keys in her pocket. Pietro marveled that she found anywhere to put them.
“So,” Ororo hedged, peering up at him through her lashes.
“So…” Pietro murmured. “I don’t kiss on a first date.”
“This isn’t really a date,” Ororo reminded him.
“Ah. A loophole.” Ororo knew she was courting trouble. He’ll never call. He’ll never darken my doorstep for a biscotti again…she dismissed that nagging voice as he kissed the breath out of her. Her fingers twined through his thick platinum hair as she tasted his hunger, smothering a sound rife with need. His lips were cool from the ice in his Tanqueray and tonic as they devoured her. Please, don’t do that shit of losing my number, her mind screamed.
“Damn, ‘Ro!” Anna Marie drawled. “Save him something for later, girl!” And she did. One date, arranged three days later, turned into two. That led to a comfortable routine of dinner together. Gym workouts. Watching Pietro play softball. Showing up with each other for “work stuff” and weddings.
And here she was, wondering when “comfortable routine” nosedived to “ponderous monotony.”
“So are you gonna save me some for tonight when you get home?” Pietro teased.
“You’re such a lech,” Ororo nagged. “Quit it!”
“C’mon, baby, does it make you hot? You like to watch, don’t you? Hmmm? C’mon, baby, bring it home to Daddy!”
“Eeeeeeww.” She curled her lip at him as she wandered back to the bedroom of her tiny two-bedroom condo to get ready.
“You know you like it,” he accused, letting his words trail after her.
“Watch your sports crap,” she snarled. Truth was, she didn’t like it that much. She’d already been there, done that, had the tee shirt to show for it, thank you very much. It was just…silly. Sweaty. Contrived. She got a bigger thrill from her bookcase of novels and watching old Patrick Swayze movies on free cable. Despite herself, Ororo dragged some glad rags out of her closet and laid the clothes on the bed before she ran her shower. The bathroom fogged with steam quickly; Pietro always liked his showers so hot, and always left the water dial turned all the way up. She’d scalded her tailfeathers more times than she could count first thing in the morning, forgetting to check the temp before stumbling into the tub.
Her bottle of bath gel from Victoria’s Secret was down to its last gasp; she gave it one last futile, sputtering squeeze and lathered up. She was just leaning back into the spray to wet her hair when she heard the swish of the door. The shower curtain rings skittered across the rod with a clatter as Pietro bounded into the tub, eyeing her with crystal-clear intent. He looped an arm around her waist and ground himself against her, capturing her indignant words in a nipping kiss.
“You already took a shower! There’s only one dry towel left,” she complained. Then he pulled the move she was ready to brain him for: Spun them around and took her spot under the spray, letting the water bounce off the top of his head and splash the spray into her eyes. Errrrgh. Why did he always have to DO that?
“Awwww. and I can’t even get you a new one. Little baby ‘Ro doesn’t have a towel,” he pouted back, not the least bit sorry. “I’ll get you one on my way out,” he promised, dropping his tone to a rumbly purr as he closed in on her throat. She put her protests aside as her body responded to him. The steam and heat of the shower relaxed her, and his lips did the rest, encouraging her to slump against him and fit her curves against the planes of his chest and washboard stomach. She’d get him back later, she promised herself. Right now, it was time to settle his hash. She needed to get ready.
“Mmmmph…mmmm. Ororo…oh. If you insist…?” His voice trailed off as her mouth blazed a hot path along his jaw line, dragging over his collarbones and working their way south. “Weren’t you mad…at…me…a few minutes ago?”
“Mmm-unh-mm,” she shrugged around him, caressing him with her mouth. He arched back, collapsing against the slippery tile wall, senseless in his ecstasy.
“You win. Stay out and enjoy yourself. I’ll quit talking shit about it,” he gasped. She coddled and loved him, enflaming him with the caress of her hands over his body as she took her time. “Ororo!” He bucked and jerked beneath her ministrations, letting his fingers drift through her saturated hair. She peered up at him through damp lashes, relishing his lax features. He was beautiful to her in his pleasure. She sighed, and the sound resonated through him, mingling with the small cries that continued to escape him.
“That’s it. Save something for yourself!” he rasped, jerking her to her feet and drawing her back against his chest. Naughty teeth found her earlobe and drew on the morsel, evoking cries from her this time. His fingers stroked her, finding her center unerringly. He’d had five years of practice. Arguments over finances and nights out were frequently settled in the “conference room” in similar fashion, usually after throwing out the agenda. Pietro laced his fingers through hers as she braced her hands against the shower wall. Her voice rose in desperation, resonating off the shower walls.
“Oh, God! PIETRO!” Her breath staggered out in gasps that were nearly guttural and broken as he claimed her, moving in the rhythm she knew and craved. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, needyouneedyouneedyouOHGODyessssss!”
“Shit!” he hissed through his teeth, dropping his head to his shoulder and tasting her skin. “So…good…damn it, Ororo…feel so damned good…oh, GOD!” Minutes later, it was over. Pietro kissed her one last time before stumbling out of the shower. He didn’t even offer to wash her hair, she carped to herself. But to his credit, he at least brought back a towel and dropped it on top of the toilet seat before taking off. She ignored that it was the same half-damp towel he’d used for himself.
“Nice,” she grumbled. “Real nice, ‘tro.”
She yanked on her clothes, including the prerequisite “foundation” underneath, namely the mother of all demi-cup underwire bras with convertible straps to “push ‘em up under yer chin,” as Anna so eloquently put it when they bought it. Thong panties guaranteed a clean, pantyline-free finish beneath her slim little black capris. A backless black handkerchief top that tied around her neck and beneath her shoulder blades made an excellent backdrop for the gold earrings and slender bangles laddered up her wrist, as well as an ornate arm cuff that her friend Stevie brought back from her dance troup’s tour of Ghana. Tiny black mules with a three-inch heel and dripping with knots of seed beads over the toes completed her look. She pulled her hair back from her face with a black leather barette, letting it hang down her back, and spritzed on some of Pietro’s favorite cologne “ his, not hers. Out of long habit, she still enjoyed carrying his scent around her. She put on her face, taking it easy with only a light coat of lipstick and a dab of eyeliner. No sense in putting on anything she didn’t want to sweat off.
She called out to Pietro, “How do I look? Baby?” She wandered into the kitchen of her condo. “Tro?” Silence greeted her, until she heard the roar of his Jeep careening down the driveway. She clopped out the front door, yanking it open to catch him waving to her from the rolled-down window.
“You never said you were going out,” she accused, trying not to shout. Her neighbors were nosy.
“Never said I wasn’t,” he reasoned. “I’m headed out with Scott, Alex, and some of the guys. I took out forty bucks, and I’m filling up the tank, ‘kay?”
“Yeah. Sure,” she muttered before she remembered to ask, “Did you leave me the card?”
“Yep. On the counter.” He peered over his shoulder at the card bearing down on him before he waved one last time. “G’night, baby. Don’t bring Sancho home with you!” he teased.
“Sancho, my ass,” she muttered. “Who’s he telling?” That’s when it hit her: He knew she’d be annoyed with him for going out without saying anything about it. That’s why he got some first. “Grrrrrrrr.” One-track mind. Jerk.
Ororo mentally cussed him out, jingling the whole way to her car as she fiddled with her keys and shoved small items into her purse. Her bracelets tinkled as she revved the ignition and pulled out, steering her tiny black Honda Civic down the dark street. The streetlights flickered on just as she reached the stop sign. She wasn’t turning back. The mice were already playing, she figured, so it was time to let the cat out, too.
“Booties, ahoy,” she sighed, fiddling with her CD player til she found her Brian McKnight disc and hit play. Ororo, Lorna, Allison and Anna automatically bust out in a fit when they saw each other’s outfits. All black, just like widows at a wake.
“Damn, this is pitiful,” Anna grimaced, shaking her head. “Jeannie’s gonna think we ain’t happy for her.”
“Are we really?” Allison pointed out.
“Yes, Bitcherella! Be nice,” Lorna hissed. “Don’t make me kick your scrawny butt.”
“It’s not scrawny,” she snarled. “Hmmmpph.” This only fed her usual insecurities and spurred a last minute turn in front of the full-length mirror in the hall. “Is not scrawny,” she muttered, craning her neck around to stare at it and plant her palms against her denim-clad rump.
“Made ya look,” Anna sniffed. She preened her hair in the mirror over the breakfront in the dining room before announcing “We’re runnin’ on lazy folks’ time. Let’s git while the gittin’ is good.”
“We’ve gotta run to Safeway. Jean forgot the spinach dip.”
“Sure she did. It’s her party, she’s got two maids of honor that haven’t done shit to help her plan it, and we’re running around at the last minute. AND we’ll be the ones buying all her drinks tonight. How’s that fair?” Anna demanded of Lorna, who was dusting her cleavage with the faintest hint of bronzing powder.
“You’ll want us to do the same thing for you when you get married,” Ororo reminded her.
“Fat chance with a capital ‘hell, no.’”
Now they were bundled into the back of Anna Marie’s Ford F150, crammed into the tiny excuse for space in the extended cab. Ororo got to sit up front in the passenger seat by token of having the longest legs. “Ya’ll know we’re takin’ a cab downtown, right?”
“Whatsamatter, don’t you feel like being the designated driver?”
“Nope. Gettin’ mah drink on, ya’ll kin carry mah butt home.” They made their way out of the parking lot in a flood of honking cars as they left Safeway’s parking lot, blinking in the glare of flashing high beams as college kids honked at each other and played in traffic, doing “keg walks” down the road and filing into nearby convenience stores.
“I don’t miss this shit,” Lorna admitted.
“Nope. It’s nice having a couch in the living room instead of on the front porch.”
“You had a COUCH during college? We got by on milk crates, one beat-up club chair, and ate breakfast at the kitchen counter everyday.”
“You guys actually ate BREAKFAST?” Ororo topped, grinning over her shoulder. Allison rolled her eyes.
“You guys remember college???” The one-upmanship continued for the rest of the ride. Ororo laughed out loud at the girl decorations strewn over the front lawn, howling at the male blow-up doll dressed in a top hat, sequined pasties, and a black G-string, rigged to sit upright on the porch swing.
“Gads. That’s bad,” Anna snickered.
“I want one of those for my next birthday,” Allison mused.
“Where are we gonna park?” Lorna considered, gazing up and down the street. Cars lined the entire cul-de-sac. Anna slowly rolled along, scanning for an open spot. They found one in front of a house with an old fashioned ceramic lawn jockey and a sunflower-painted mailbox announcing that the Darkholme-Adlers lived there, and that they loved cats, if the folksy knickknacks flanking their front door were any indication. The girls tumbled out, complaining about the faint breeze that kicked up, threatening to muss their hair.
“Feels like it’s gonna be chilly tonight,” Anna pointed out.
“And here I am, half-naked,” Ororo groused.
“Ain’t we all, shoog. Better get some booze ta warm us up, stat!”
“I’m gonna need some. I haven’t been to one of these in a while.” Allison wanted to drag her feet, but Lorna looped her arm through hers and pulled her along.
“It’ll be like old times.”
“Old times sucked ass.”
“You’re such a poop!”
Ororo knocked briskly on the front door, and was practically yanked inside before she pulled her fist away. Emma greeted them, giving her best impersonation of a leer. “So where are YOU ladies headed tonight?” She had a half-empty glass of wine in her already. Betsy craned her neck around from behind the kitchen counter and waved them in, just as she was stuffing a sushi roll into her mouth. Seventies funk music assailed their ears as they entered the foyer. None of them put their purses down; all of them wore tiny purses looped over their shoulder by microscopically thin straps, just big enough to hold an ATM, ID, a wad of singles and some lipstick. They’d walked this road before.
“Shit. You’d think you guys were going to my funeral. Bitches,” Jean jibed, taking in their appearance. Naturally, she was garbed in white, but she looked anything but virginal in the tiny white slip dress. Her red hair was teased to the hilt, hanging long and tousled over her shoulders. Betsy was scrunching it with her hands behind her, aiming an enormous can of hair spray at it and coaxing more volume into it.
“Dude…that’s what you’re wearing tonight?”
“Nope. I’ve got this, too,” she announced, holding up the strange necklace of small cardboard squares, each printed with a letter of the alphabet.
“Shit. Not a scavenger hunt,” Allison groaned.
“Are you kidding? Ah love those damned things!” Anna crowed. “Ya still ain’t throwin’ me one if Ah ever get married, mind ya, but still…Ah can’t wait!”
“What’s the drill?” Ororo sighed.
“Collect a kiss from a guy named with each letter of the alphabet. On the mouth. Then we’ve gotta get someone to sing her a song, preferably ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.’ She needs to bring home a pair of boxers after convincing the guy to take them off for her. The last item on the list is getting a guy to tell her a bedtime story and sit on his lap. And Emma gets to pick the guy,” Betsy teased, winking at Jean as she gave her hair one last foof.
“Don’t forget the piece de resistance.” Emma had tucked back into the cluttered bedroom and come back, holding out the veil.
“Aw, shit,” Anna breathed.
“Oh, my God,” Allison breathed, aghast.
“Nice,” Lorna mused.
“You all aren’t going anywhere with me, wearing that thing,” Ororo informed them pointedly. “That’s hideous.”
“Hey. I made that!” Betsy settled it atop Jean’s nest of hair, barely making it budge from all the spray. And oh, what a veil it was.
At least a yard of pink and white tulle streamed from the white satin headband it was glued onto, with tacky little silk daisies trimming the brim. Ororo had to look twice at the enormous white silk rose. Tiny plastic penises were sticking out of it, along with fake candy hearts that read “Eat Me.” The tulle was speckled with condom packets that said “Open in case of emergency!”
“Can’t have a bachelorette after party without the condom veil. It’s a rule,” Betsy shrugged. “Deal with it.”
“Gads. So scared now,” Ororo winced. She set the Safeway bags on the counter and set out the dip and bread shell. Anna let herself out onto the back patio.
“What’s this?” she inquired, nodding to the huge multi-gallon plastic garbage can full of suspicious liquid.
“Jungle juice. Give it a stir, I’ve gotta add more vodka,” Emma ordered, handing Anna the broomstick.
“Damn. Ah feel like one of the Weird Sisters,” she chuckled, doing as she was bid.
Double, double, toil and trouble…” Ororo cackled eerily, sending all of them into fits.
“Okay, Ororo, you don’t need any more alcohol tonight, it’s decided,” Allison quipped. Jean continued to preen and let in her party guests as they arrived. Emma and Betsy carefully dropped chopped fruit into the vat of juice and poured in a bottle of Southern Comfort. Ororo shivered. No one was escaping this party without being shitfaced. Anna rummaged in the freezer and whooped when she discovered the rack of Jell-O shots in…amusingly shaped molds.
“If you think those are bad…” Betsy lifted the dishtowel covering the platter of naughty cookies frosted in flesh-toned icing and pink sprinkles.
“I double dog dare you to eat one,” Emma drawled.
“You first,” Ororo challenged.
“Ask me again in an hour.” Within the next half hour, the living room was packed to the rafters. Retail princesses, cosmetologists, and Pilates instructors flooded the space, talking shop and reeking of perfume and hair spray. Jean was eventually nudged into a “victim’s chair” in the center of the room, chatting easily, but flushed with anticipation. She was in her element, the queen bee of the hive and loving every minute of it. From the looks of it, she had invited everyone that she worked with at the day spa. Ororo wandered over to the jar of clothespins by the kitchen counter and played with them for a while to occupy herself. They heard a knock on the door that was louder than any prior to it.
Here we go, Ororo braced herself. She heard Emma squeal as she tipped over to the door.
“The entertainment’s here,” she called unnecessarily. Jean’s green eyes widened, and her hands flew up to cover her mouth.
“Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?”
“Yer supposed ta ask that on yer wedding day, not tonight!” Anna called out. “Ororo, pass out the pins.” Ororo did the honors, giving each woman present a clothespin. Two men entered the foyer. Ororo smelled a hint of woodsy aftershave and enjoyed the faint draft of fresh air that followed them into the now-stuffy room. Lorna fiddled with the furniture in the corner, unfolding more chairs and moving a lamp. The taller of the two men made his speedy escape into the bathroom once the shorter one pried it out of two gaping guests where it was. He made himself as wide as possible to block the path of anyone attempting to preemptively sneak a peek. Ororo didn’t get a good look at him through the crowd of women, but at first glance he was built like a brick wall. Emma relieved the chaperone of his compact boombox and clip-on klieg light and set it up in the corner.
“Watch it with that, babe, ya break it, ya buy it,” he growled. Emma emitted a snort of annoyance and went on with her business, placing the equipment where she wanted it without his help. His dark eyes swept over her with no interest before assessing the gathered crowd. Then he began his spiel.
“Awright, listen up, ladies! We’re here from Show Me the Money Enterprises. My friend Remy will be your dancer tonight. You will treat him with respect. By respect, that means none of the following, with no exceptions, or we’re outta here, and you will NOT get a refund on your fee. Hitting, spanking, hair pulling, biting or any other abuse of the dancer are prohibited. You may purchase a party favor or body shot at any time during the night, but I’ll be passin’ out tickets before we get started. We’re here for two hours. The bride gets the first dance.” The women stared at him with their mouths open. Rather than applying any finesse, he’d barked out the way things were going to be without preamble or grace.
“What’s he mean, no hair pulling?” Anna joked, earning her a dirty look from the burly runt. “Just kiddin’ shoog,” she winked. He didn’t smile.
“That’s fine,” Ororo told him crisply. She turned away from him abruptly as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “Ladies, this is your opportunity to show Jean some support. Get her ready.” The women grinned wickedly, brandishing clothespins. “I suggest you get out your spare change,” Ororo reminded him, nodding to his fanny pack tucked under his weather-beaten leather jacket. Inwardly she rolled her eyes at the fanny pack, but she supposed it was practical, considering his profession. His eyes never left her face as he reached down and unzipped the pack, extracting an enormous roll of singles. Her eyes slid away from him quickly before she noticed the curiosity that shone there. “Line up!” The women stood in single file, wrapping around the room as they handed him their fives, tens and twenties. One by one, they began to “decorate” Jean, attaching dollar bills to her dress with the clothespins. Bills were rolled up and tucked into her cleavage, edged behind her ears, stuck into her hair, you name it. Ororo reached into her purse and added the last detail: A pale mint green satin garter, edged in black lace.
“Shit!” Jean snorted. “You wouldn’t!”
“You know you want me to,” Ororo sang.
“This is almost as good as watching the stripper,” Anna considered as Ororo shimmied the garter up onto Jean’s thigh as she clacked her heels against the hard wood floor, completely nervous and restless.
“Anyone who leaks a word of this to my parents answers to me!” Jean promised. A wave of giggles sailed up from the crowd. Emma watched for the chaperone’s nod before clicking on the music. Rick James’ “Superfreak” whined out from the speakers, and the women separated, glancing behind them as the dancer made his first appearance of the night. He was six feet, two inches of sin wrapped in snug navy blue polyester. A silver police badge gleamed from the pocket of his “uniform,” and handcuffs dangled from his fingertips. He strolled out casually, eyeing Jean with blatant interest.
“I’m afraid I’m gonna hafta detain ya, petite. Remy gonna hafta write ya a ticket,” he advised in a syrupy, deep voice. Anna’s ears pricked up, and she enjoyed the funny tingles that made their way into her stomach. She sipped her red plastic cup of jungle juice and played with a bit of melon floating in it. Suddenly, she was jealous of Jean’s place of honor, wanting to be close enough to smell his cologne, to feel the heat radiating out from that fit, lean body.
“What am I being arrested for, officer?” Jean squeaked, playing along.
“Fer sittin’ still!” The music blared, and Jean was yanked upright, pulled flush against the dancer’s chest, and rocked into the groove of his hips. Ororo thought she heard Jean mutter “Okay, why am I getting married again?” under her breath, but she dismissed it, enjoying the show. Yup, Jean was blushing like a raspberry. Homeboy had moves, she marveled. He dipped his head and snagged the first of many dollar bills from the crest of Jean’s cleavage, practically nuzzling her in the process.
“I’m telling Scott,” Allison sang.
“No, you’re not!” Emma threatened, helping herself to a penis-shaped Jell-O shot.
“That’s more of Jean than I ever wanted to see,” Lorna tsked, snickering mercilessly when Jean struggled to keep the straps of her dress up as Remy relieved her of more dollar bills.
“Gads,” Betsy chimed in. “You’re supposed to keep YOUR clothes on, duckie.”
“It’s…not for lack of trying, here!” Bodies swayed throughout the room to the music, voices rose, and dollar bills made their way back into the kitty, guarded carefully by the sullen chaperone. Occasionally he would shoot the women surrounding him something resembling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Ororo dipped a chunk of shredded sourdough bread into the dip, chewing it thoughtfully, then nearly choked on it as Remy lifted Jean up and wrapped her legs around her waist, playing a game of “ride ‘em cowboy” that exposed that damned garter again.
Then his clothes began flying off. Lord, have mercy. Every woman in the room suppressed drool. This wasn’t your average over-oiled, fake-and-bake tanned bodybuilder. He was lean and rippling, perfectly sculpted and putting Roman statues to shame. His body was devoid of any tattoos or nipple rings or any other form of fashionable abuse. His skin was smooth, except for a faint sprinkling of hair in a neat little “happy trail” below his navel and a fine layer of hair on his bare legs. Thankfully, he wasn’t decked out in sequins; he’d opted for a pair of black satin briefs that left…something to the imagination.
“Honey, hush,” Anna breathed. “He’s…beautiful.”
“Damn skippy,” Allison agreed. Then she peered askance at Anna, noting the look of rapture on her face. “What’s with you?”
“Nuthin’,” she chafed, waving her away. “Don’t bother me while Ah’m tryin’ t’enjoy mahself.” She wanted to savor the sight of him, guard that vision jealously and revisit it in her mind again throughout the night. She imagined it was her being pulled onto the floor. “Oh, Gawd, tell me he ain’t gonna do that!” Remy flipped the hem of Jean’s flirty nothing of a dress just high enough to spy the garter, and the five-dollar bill tucked underneath it. He undulated and edged his body up Jean’s legs, and skillfully captured the money in his teeth. His teeth barely even grazed her trembling flesh. He was good. Jean was collapsed in a helpless heap of giggles.
“You guys are supposed to be helping me, here!”
“I’m ready to help myself,” Lorna corrected her. “Bring on the body shots!” Betsy pulled out two cans of whipped cream from the refrigerator. Remy groaned inwardly, masking it with a smile. Great. They couldn’t have warmed it to room temperature. Tiny red heart-shaped tickets were purchased and snatched up as the chaperone explained the rules of body shots, “races” and other games in a grumbled monotone.
“Ya can take a shot off Remy, or ya can offer him one off you, it don’t matter. Just keep it clean, ladies,” he warned. Two of Jean’s friends, clearly hairdressers if their wildly teased hair with eye-catching highlights were any indication, opted for a race, nudging Remy onto his back. He smothered a sigh, reaching for the proffered can of whipped cream, and proceeded to draw a road map of froth running up each thigh, detouring up his happy trail to his navel, finally leading up over his nipples.
“Whoa.” Lorna was struck speechless.
“Dang.” Anna leaned forward and watched. It was surreal. Grown, educated, working women licking whipped cream off a stripper like they hadn’t eaten in days. Amazing. But if you had to lick cream off of somebody, why not Remy? She fanned herself with a Styrofoam plate to cool the flush of heat in her cheeks. Stray blobs of whipped cream were tissued off of the women’s clothes as they straightened up. Ororo didn’t envy Remy the task of showering off all that sticky stuff when he got home. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have given a damn. The songs revolved on a constant rotation of exotic dance standards; “777-9311” by the Time was next. Ororo found herself singing along to it as Allison approached Remy with the whipped cream, handed him a favor, then sprayed a stream of it down the side of her throat. Remy smiled, then obliged her by licking it off. She shivered and fanned herself, skipping off when he was done. She appraised Anna with mischief dancing across her face.
“C’mon, Anna, your turn!”
“Aw, hell no! Don’t ya dare, ya hear me?” Her protest was halfhearted. Allison bought a ticket from the chaperone who looked like he couldn’t care less. Remy winked at Anna, then handed her the whipped cream can when Allison dragged her out to the middle of the floor, practically shoving her at him. Anna licked her lips. “Uh…hi, shoog.”
“Hey, petite.” He nodded to the spray can. “Need any help wi’ dat?” She swallowed thickly.
“Naw. Think Ah kin manage.” Her green eyes gleamed at him and her hand tightened around the spray can. Ororo heard the swishing gurgle of the can as Anna shook it up, to charge the release of air. Uh-oh. “Ya betta lie down, kiddo. Yer gonna be here fer a while.” She knelt between his legs, looking at the can, then back at him. The funny thing about Anna was, she fancied herself an artist. Remy actually flinched and quivered as she dragged the spray of cream in curlicues leading from one nipple to the other, spiraling it in a neat figure eight. She drew a smiley face on his abdomen, using his navel for a nose. His eyes twinkled back up at her.
“Not too shabby, petite.”
“Thanks. Ah try.” She set down the can, and he played the gentleman, holding back her thick fall of auburn hair as she lapped up the product of her labors. She fought back the mad urge to linger at his nipple, uncovering the pert brown bud and watching it pebble from the rush of cool air once it was exposed. She felt him shudder in that moment of insanity, doubting that was his breath she heard catch in his throat as she followed the path she’d drawn with her tongue. He’s just working, girl; get on with it.
His skin tasted male and inviting beneath the sweet coating. She sucked off the last vestige of the smiling mouth she painted on him, delicately wiping off the corner of her lips. The rush of blood through her veins filled her ears, drowning out the music and making the noise of the room come to her in a dull roar. She pulled away from him, almost mourning the loss of his heat.
“Thanks, shoog,” she croaked.
“Any time, petite,” he murmured thoughtfully before Anna hurried away, handing the can to Emma. She recovered slowly, draining half her cup of jungle juice. Ororo took one look at her and reached over with another Styrofoam plate, fanning more air on her.
“Save some for later,” she advised. “That good, huh?”
“Phooooo…”
“Yup. That good.” She continued to flat the plate at her, wondering if it was futile. Anna took the short road instead, crossing to the freezer and grabbing a handful of loose ice, dragging it along her throat. Ororo chuckled, fanning her some more, then paused when she felt a pair of eyes on her, gobbling her up…
It was Mr. Drill Sergeant Chaperone, staring at her. What gives? She ran her tongue over her teeth. Have I got hunk of spinach there? Sushi? Fruit chunk from the jungle juice? She fought with herself, wondering whether to muster a smile. He looked away before she could make up her mind. That spared her a minute to look him over. This time, she had to decide if she liked what she saw. She knew she shouldn’t care.
But still…wow.
Startling, thick black brows framed deep-set, coffee brown eyes that flitted around the room and radiated disdain for the night’s activities. He showed none of the amusement she’d noted on most chaperones at parties like these, nor did he show that being one of only two men in a room full of women, most single, was any novelty to him. This guy was by the book. Beefy arms cross themselves over a chest that was broad and deep. Unruly waves of glossy black hair just dusted the back of his collar and fell carelessly over his brow. His ruddy olive skin was flushed with good health and surprisingly smooth, except for faint laugh lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth. She wouldn’t have guessed that he even knew how to laugh. His nose was long and straight, bordering on aquiline; it definitely didn’t belong on the face of a pretty boy. His square jaw and firm cheekbones were thrown into stark relief by a fine layer of five o’clock shadow, and Ororo could almost make out a wicked little cleft in his chin.
She didn’t dare look at his mouth. Not if she was smart.
Ororo distracted herself by taking a turn with Remy, shaking her money maker when a song by Mystikal drifted out from the speakers, begging her to burn off the wine she drank not too long ago. Her friends cheered her on with whoops and shrieks as she leaned back against his chest, flipping her hair over his shoulder and letting it sweep over his flesh. Yup. If Pietro were a fly on the wall…she suppressed another sigh. Oh, heck. You only lived once. She grinned at his whispered “Thanks for the dance, cher,” warming the crest of her ear before she moved away.
Only to bump smack dab into his grumpy partner two seconds later as she headed toward the hall to use the bathroom.
“OOOMPH!”
“Easy on the sauce, Legs. Watch where yer goin’, eh?”
“Please!” she snapped, brushing him away and stiffening beneath the grip of his hand around her upper arm. His hand was big enough to span it. Damn. Her mind was playing tricks on her; there was no way he smelled as delectable as her nose was telling her he did. No way.
She made use of the facilities and ran a cold, damp washrag over the nape of her neck, forgetting about her hair for a moment as soothed away the heat prickling her flesh. Strippers never affected her that way. Dancing, occasionally.
“Get it together, Munroe,” she muttered at her reflection. She touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair before she headed back out.
The night wouldn’t have been complete without at least one more awkward moment to top it off. This time, she collided with the nearly naked, sticky dancer as she made a beeline around the corner.
“ACK!”
“Merde! Y’alright, cher?” She planted her hands flat against his chest, not meaning to…but he was there, hello? She opened her eyes and managed a smile, backing away. He wasn’t so quick to let her go. “Y’tryin’ t’knock me off m’feet, petite?”
“Nope. I’m all out of singles,” she admitted, drawing her hands away from him and smoothing her palms over her legs self-consciously beneath his gaze.
“Take it easy t’night, eh? Headin’ out for a ladies night?”
“Yep.”
“Call a cab, petite. Yer listin’ a l’il t’the left already,” he observed. His eyes were dark and wicked, but she heard good will in his voice.
“I will,” she promised, her tone almost girlish. “Night-night!” she beamed.
“G’night, petite.” Dimly he wondered why she looked so familiar, but shook it off.
Grumpy Butt had already packed up the light and sound gear and loaded it into their car by the time Ororo made her way back into the kitchen. She felt slightly forlorn to see him missing until he came back in to make sure Remy left the house in the same condition he was in when he came in. A chorus of goodnight’s followed them out the door. The burly chaperone looked relieved as he pulled the door shut after him, but not before he swept the room with one final glance, as though he were checking to see if he forgot something. He didn’t pat his pockets or peer back at the table.
His eyes zeroed in on Ororo, stopping her mid-bite as she sampled one of the naughty cookies. His lips quirked up in a smile before the door clicked shut.
Ororo wanted to die.
Trippin’ by OriginalCeenote
Ororo did a quick mental count of the number of shots she’d had from the moment they stepped out of the cab, attempting to calculate if the two or three bites of sourdough bread dragged through the spinach dip, the anatomically incorrect frosted cookie with sprinkles in suggestive places, and the pieces of fruit floating in her jungle juice earlier qualified as enough food to sop up the alcohol she drank.
Not even likely. She eyed her reflection in the cracked vanity mirror of Harry’s Hideaway Bar and Grill, silently grateful that she’d made it this far. Her cheeks were flushed and her skin was dewy from the close quarters of her favorite watering hole, and she was still wound up from the cab ride over. Right about now, Jean was out on the floor, cutting a rug and turning the place out. She belonged out there with her, with her home girls. Not here, wondering who took her head when she wasn’t looking, filled it with steel wool and cotton balls, then tossed it haphazardly back onto her shoulders. She took inventory. Yup. Hair was a tousled mess. Eyeliner was holding up okay. Lipstick was half chewed off, barely a halo of color along the edges of her lips…time for a fresh coat. She uncapped the tube, rolling it up and barely skimming it over her bottom one when she had a random, foolish thought occur to her. She tapped her fingernail against her front teeth.
Couldn’t feel a thing. Yep. Pietro would never let her go out again. She giggled at the thought, then giggled even harder as she caught her expression in the mirror.
That grumpy assed bouncer barely cracked a smile until it had been at her expense. It was just a COOKIE, for crying out loud.
“Hmmph,” she hmmphed to her reflection, smacking her lips apart with a light pop, then running her fingers through her hair to it at least settled into waves that fell mostly in the same direction. It’d have to do. Not that she even had anyone to impress.
She made her way through a maze of people, doing her level best to ignore the brush of bodies against what bits of flesh that remained exposed by her tiny halter top. Several pairs of eyes sought contact with hers; she didn’t offer so much as a nod, hoping it was enough to send the message that she didn’t want to be stopped or waylaid on her path back to the dance floor.
Jean was in rare form. Ororo grinned when she noticed that there were a few letters of the alphabet missing from her necklace already. She vowed to ask Allison if she still thought of Jean as an uptight priss after tonight, enjoying her reactions as Jean mock-demonstrated how to wax the pole. Anna and Lorna were screaming with laughter as Emma and Betsy waved dollar bills at her, begging an encore of the show at the bachelorette. Jean was still decked out in her veil; the prophylactics gleamed as the rainbow slivers of strobe light hit them, lighting her auburn hair on fire. The pink and white layers of tulle made her look like a vamped out Glinda the Good Witch. Ororo snickered at the comparison.
“Come out, come out, wherever you aaarrrree!” she sang gaily, going her level best impersonation. The joke was lost on Anna Marie.
“Where ya been? Didja fall in?” Anna Marie slung her arm sloppily around her shoulders, half in affection, half for support.
“Arms to the side,” Lorna added. Her eyes were gleaming above pinkened cheeks. Yup, she was three sheets to the wind, too.
“And ya called my ass scrawny,” Allison accused.
“What ass?” Ororo mimed a shrug of her shoulders, throwing up her hands as she turned to glance at Allison’s posterior for emphasis, craning her neck around for a better glance.
“Jealous?” Allison’s palms skimmed their way up her thighs, and she undulated her hips to drive the point home. Ororo fell easily into the groove of the music in blatant challenge, after giving Allison’s butt a swift swat. Bodies pressed in around them, crowding onto the dance floor, and each woman took a turn outdoing the other. The alcohol continued to flow as the night wore on. Anna Marie’s “Showgirl” impersonation made Lorna laugh so hard she nearly squirted rum and Coke through her nose. Emma and Betsy, normally reserved, loosened up a bit toward the end of the night; they danced sinuously together by old habit. As usual, it worked. Each of them gradually welcomed new partners, whether separately or the occasional lucky man seeking a dance floor “sandwich.”
Ororo had vowed to be good at the night’s start. Just her and her girls. Harry’s was a meat market, but she wasn’t even window shopping. No, what she craved was the rush of being naughty. Yes, that was it, she craved. Just that thrill of not worrying what tomorrow held. That buzz and the ringing in her ears and the throb of the floor beneath the balls of her feet as she danced the spikes off her shoes. Letting her body’s internal clock tell her how close they were to closing time. She was bathed in sweat and the dying remnants of Pietro’s cologne still barely clung to her skin. She caught her own reflection in the club’s wall-to-wall mirror. She didn’t recognize the woman who stared back at her. She arched her back and swept her fingers through her hair, letting cool air fan across her sweat-drenched nape. Then for a moment, it wasn’t just her and the girls anymore. It was just her.
She danced and moved, pulled into the beat of the club’s house mix, which blurred into reggaeton, then into undiluted techno for the next dozen songs. She closed her eyes for a moment, falling into the blessed delusion that it was Pietro’s chest she felt against her back. She moved in that silent communion, synching her moves with his. That tiny voice of reason muttered to her that she’d had too much to drink. Phantom hands played at her waist, gripping her. She conjured his sweet breath at her throat. If she summoned everything in its place…she could almost feel the nip of his even teeth clamping down on the crest of her ear. She heard him growl something in deep, hungry tones:
“Easy on the sauce, Legs.”
Wait…where the hell did that come from?
Her eyes snapped open as though someone had dashed a glass of ice water in her face.
“Earth t’Ro? Ya still in there, sugah?” Anna waved her hand in front of her face, interrupting her view of her own reflection for a moment. “Thought we lost ya.” She felt herself jostled as Lorna snuck up on her, tucking her chin against her shoulder.
“That good, huh?”
“Good Lord…must’ve been the jungle juice,” Ororo slurred.
“Sure. Tell me another one,” Allison piped up. “Water break!” she bellowed. The girls linked hands and arms and made their way off the floor in a daisy chain, trying not to lose any of their number in the crowd. Jean was urged reluctantly up to the bar and practically stumbled her way up onto a stool.
“I wanna dance some more,” she whined. “It’s my last weekend as a single woman!”
“Ah don’t think that dress kin take much more, shoog,” Anna tsked, tugging her spaghetti strap back into place where it fallen down for about the umpteenth time. Jean was already in her cups, her fair skin rosy. She slumped ungracefully at the bar, her breasts propped up against it as she scraped her hair away from her face, blowing her tulle veil out from her mouth where it was stuck to her lipstick. “Yer lookin’ the worse fer wear.”
“Are you kidding? I feel like Miss Friggin’ America,” she announced loudly, banging her fist down on the bar to drive that point home.
“Shit, here she goes,” Allison warned under breath. Ororo giggled and rolled her eyes. She nudged in closer to Jean and met her reflection in the mirror as she scooped up Jean’s fall of thick hair and twisted it off her neck, fanning cool air against her with a cocktail napkin. Jean gave her a bleary smile and sagged against her with relief.
“I love you, ‘Ro! You’re my sister. You’re a lifelong friend. I always want you in my corner.”
“C’mon, you’re making me blush. Wouldn’t do to make Scott jealous.”
“Eh. He’s always suspected that of you an’ me, anyway!” Jean teased.
“Gads. Great. Now he won’t want me to come over anymore for our Scrabble tournaments.”
“Only if we let him watch.” Ororo snorted back a laugh, then played with the condiment tray of lime and lemon wedges, treating herself to a bit of lemon. She pursed her lips around it and sucked, welcoming the sharp tartness that felt fresh in her mouth.
“Is this the time for sloppy true confessions?” Lorna asked.
“If it is, I’ll just be going home, now,” Emma teased.
“I second that motion.”
“What motion?” Anna quirked.
“This motion,” Allison replied, doing her best popping and locking move with her arms. That just set everyone off. When the guffaws died down to giggles, they all took long pulls from their ice water and continued to fan each other.
“I’m getting too old for this.”
“Don’t say that. I’m older than you,” Ororo snapped, tugging Jean’s hair in umbrage.
“Nothing wrong with cutting loose every now and again.” Betsy toyed with the large, garish red plastic straw in her water glass, using it to chase after the bobbing ice chunks. “When else’ll we get the chance, duckie?”
“Scott and I don’t want kids right away,” Jean huffed, mopping away the film of sweat cooling beneath her eyes with her knuckle. Ororo knew better. Beneath the gleam in her eye the first day that she flashed them all the one and a half carat solitaire, Ororo saw the wheels turning in Jean’s head. The comfortable niche she carved herself at the day spa as the membership director wasn’t enough. She had the BMW. She had the doting fiancée and the posh house on a quiet, tree-lined street. All that was missing was a baby. Maybe two, plus a dog for good measure. The logical side of Ororo’s brain didn’t see why Jean couldn’t have it all.
Problem was, life wasn’t logical by any stretch. Ororo knew she was supposed to want those things. She’d learned long ago, through painful repetition, not to want what she didn’t have, let alone what it took too people to achieve.
This is not my beautiful house, this is NOT my beautiful wife… Words to a song she’d nearly forgot drove her back into the moody lull she’d fought to escape using a succession of tequila shooters. Don’t get moody, Munroe. She drank her water fast enough to give herself wicked brain freeze, seized by burning thirst. The music thudded through her body, dimming down to a dull roar.
On their way back down the stairs, Jean stumbled and tripped, nearly falling off of her Lucite-heeled mules. Anna and Ororo caught her by the arms before she could tumble, but her thudding footsteps drew the attention of the ID checker and a passing busboy, juggling a double handful of empty beer pitchers.
“I’d say you’ve been here long enough, Princess. You ladies have had your fun.” The ID checker was burly and huge, easily dwarfing Ororo at six and a half feet and built like a Mack truck. His forearms were thickly muscled and covered in a fine down of dark blond hair. A plastic nametag with a blue stamped label introduced him as Vic.
It wasn’t a long acquaintance.
“We were just…”
“Na, ya weren’t. Out!”
“Wait…”
“Uh-uh. Catch a cab, dry out, take a walk if ya have to. But don’t take up space and my time, tryin’ ta convince me that yer not wasted.” His slate gray eyes swept over Jean, taking in her outfit and lean curved outlined in the white satin slip dress, topped with her wild mane of hair and crumpled, floating veil. Ororo caught the quirk of his lips as he eyed the miniature penises and pink condom packets. He fought valiantly to keep a straight face, succeeding only when Anna tried again to argue.
“We just wanna head out to the patio, buddy. Ain’t like we wanna tear up the place.”
“She can barely walk. Hell, none of you can! Goodnight, ladies.” He gave a little bye-bye wave that looked ridiculous executed by his large, ham-like hands and pushed himself forward, invading their space. Ororo cut her eyes at him. He cocked his head as if to ask “What’re YOU gonna do about it?”
And so they were off.
“And, by the way, Princess? Congrats on your nuptials!”
“Fuck you very much,” Allison shot back, handily flipping the bird in their wake as Betsy hailed them a cab.
“This is SO illegal,” Lorna grumbled. She sat alarmingly close to the driver up front, squished between his tobacco-scented bulk and Allison. Jean, on the other hand, laid on her side across her friends’ laps, with her head nestled on Ororo’s. Ororo fiddled with the tulle of her veil, tsking at the condoms that were working their way loose.
“Scott’s gonna kill me if any of those are missing,” she murmured hoarsely.
“All except these two!” Emma crowed, snatching off the ones closest to her, earning her the sleepy, green-eyed ire of the bride.
“You’re such a brat.” Ororo rolled her eyes for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. They pulled into the lot at Denny’s, and the mood grew somber as soon as they dragged their way into the lobby.
The vinyl seats in their booth felt cool at their backs as they slid inside. Anna and Lorna played with the sugar packets. Emma idly spun the dessert and appetizer menu carousel as they ordered a round of ice waters and bottomless coffee.
“So, Jeannie…ya plan on havin’ a money dance?” Anna began, drawing their conversation immediately back to Jean’s favorite topic.
“I don’t know. They’re just so…tacky. My mom made me the cutest little card box shaped like a chapel.”
“You could do red envelopes. That’s what Yuriko did when she tied the knot.”
“That was traditional for her. Matched her dress.” Betsy’s face was dreamy. “All that red silk. It was beautiful.”
“Yours will be, too,” Emma assured her. “Just go with the card box.”
“Money dances are fun.” Allison stirred her coffee slowly. “Helps. At least the reception’ll be paid for.”
“It already is. Scott’s dad works for NASA.” She picked at her fingernails. “His stepmom and I get along okay.”
“What was her name again?”
“Hephzibah.”
“Weird.”
“She’s Slavic, I think. Her hair reminds me of yours, Ororo.”
“Ah still think a money dance couldn’t hurt.”
“Hey, I’m fine with pinning more dollars on you, Jean, but promise me, no Macarena!”
“Are you KIDDING! I LOVE the Macarena!”
“Mah all time favorite’s still the money dance!”
“Conga line!”
“Bunny hop!”
“The ELECTRIC SLIDE!” And it all deteriorated steadily from there. There was a brief hush once they tucked into their Grand Slams and skillet scrambles. The chatter swung toward the honeymoon.
“I’ve always wanted to go to the Vineyard,” Allison sighed.
“Vastly overraed. Skip the local beach, Jean, and just go to Edgartown, then straight on to Nantucket.” Emma pronounced, waving a forkful of fried potato at her assembled friends. Lorna looked amused at her voice of authority, shooting her a “la dee dah” expression as she turned away. Ororo did a spit-take with her coffee.
“What?” Emma implored, clueless.
“Nothing.”
“Whaaaaattt?” she whined.
“Nothing, nothing. Yum yum, eat ‘em up, here comes the choo-choo,” Allison encouraged by way of distraction. All of them exploded into giggles.
“I’ve always wanted to tour Italy if I got married and went on my holiday,” Betsy sighed.
“You’d be better off doin’ that yerself, before ya tie the knot, honey pie. Mah half-brother, Kurt an’ his l’il wife, Kymri, always planned a long honeymoon for when they could afford it. They’ve been married goin’ on eight years, and d’ya think that vacation t’Mallorca ever materialized? ‘Course not. On their last anniversary, they just took the kids to the Cape ta build sand castles and see a real lighthouse.”
“Big whoop,” Lorna agreed, brandishing her fork in disgust. “Might as well have had the anniversary at the city dump. Just as many seagulls. Damn birds are as big as turkeys.”
“No shit,” Allison agreed. “Better yet, too MUCH shit. That’s all those scavengers do. Screech, peck, and dive-bomb you with poop.”
“Eeeww.” Jean wrinkled her nose.
“S’true,” Emma offered. “My older brother worked as a lifeguard once. One of those nast buggers hopped up, dug into his duffle with his beak and stole his sandwich!”
“Not only am I gonna beat ya up, I’m gonna steal yer lunch!” Anna growled, urging more testosterone into her voice and mimicking the quintessential tough guy from the old-time Charles Atlas ads.
“Man. Bird sounds like my last boyfriend,” Ali quipped. Her expression was sour.
“Cain wasn’t that bad,” Jean hedged, lying through her teeth. Ali’s answering look was stony with disbelief. “Okay. Never mind. Shutting up now…”
“His ‘I’m your number one fan,’ overly possessive crap got old. Then it’s the possessive ones who cheat. The chick I found him with was built like a brick house. Found out that she answers to ‘Skeeter.’”
“Eek,” Ororo cringed. “Sounds like something you’d name your hunting hound.”
“He should’ve called her ‘Skeezer.’ Shoulda heard the mouth on her, God!’ Allison snorted. Ororo and Jean shared a silent look. Allison’s potty mouth was legendary. “I bitched her out and kicked them both out of my house, and she stood here in the street, all this and that-“ and Ororo smirked at her least favorite ‘buzz phrase’ “ “about what a bitch I was, my bleach job, scrawny ass, sloppy cunt “ LIKE SHE’D KNOW!! Hello? You name it, my neighbors all heard it.” Eyebrows shot up around the table.
“Ooooh. The ‘C’ word.” Lorna winced in sympathy.
“Ain’t cool t’be talkin’ smack about another woman’s winkie,” Anna pouted. “The nerve of her.”
“Ouch.” Ororo dug into her wedge of chocolate cream pie, defiantly eating dessert for breakfast. The cream melted decadently on her tongue.
“I’m never gonna get married,” Allison declared. “Carly Simon said it best. I haven’t got time for the pain… Her throaty alto rose loudly enough to draw curious looks from other patrons lolling over their coffee.
“Haven’t got forevah, either, sugah,” Anna pointed out.
They left a generous tip and called another cab using Ali’s mobile razor phone, stumbling blearily into its confines. This one’s aroma was cleverly masked (not really) with a pine scented tree dangling from the rearview mirror. They ambled up the front lawn to Jean and Scott’s house and groaned in unison at the spilled food and smell of warm, sticky liquor and fruit.
“Hope ya called Merry Maids,” Anna suggested.
“I am tomorrow.” She turned up her foot in horror as it tracked through something that made her shoe peel away from the floor with a nasty sounding rip. “Eeeeccchhh.” The girls took up various spots on the furniture wherever they managed to find uncluttered space and turned on the TV. Ororo pillaged the leftover spinach dip and bread in an attempt to sober up enough to go home.
“Stay,” Jean implored. “We’ll have a slumber party.”
“I didn’t pack for it,” she complained. “Sorry, baby. I’m headed out. Gotta go home to my man.”
“Wait, wait, don’t go yet, we need another picture!” Anna stopped her on her way out the door and fanned everyone together. She dug out her camera phone and nudged everyone into a tight ball on the couch. Bloodshot eyes and sleepy smiles beamed back at her as she clicked the photo, nearly blinding everyone with the flash. Then Emma took one with her in it.
“Drive safe!” Jean carped, waving after her as she trekked back to her little car.
“Lock up after me!” Ororo nagged back. She drove past the house with the cat stuff on the porch and tsked at it again. Everything was so suburban here. She got back on the freeway and took her time counting exits, changing the CD to some old Sade.
Is it a crime?
Is it a crime?
That I
Still want you.
And I want you to want me too.
Street lamps cast a bluish glow over her dashboard. She felt the shadows warp and float over her skin, now that her buzz was gone. She felt oversensitized and her nerves were raw. The remembered need and connection she’d felt in the shower earlier that night tugged at her. She missed ‘Tro.
This relationship was as stagnant as a gallon of milk someone left out on the counter all day, but she needed him. She loved him. You didn’t just throw away a good thing. You just moved a few things around on the top shelf of the fridge, put the milk back and hoped that you got to it soon enough, before the damage was done. Waste not, want not.
She can’t give you more than that.
Surely you want it back.
She did her level best to muffle her steps across the hardwood floor, kicking off her heels onto the doormat and locking up. No biggie. She was home. He was home. She was an adult.
She shed her clothes beside the hamper when she reached their room. Pietro had let his fall wherever he dropped them, and she tripped over his shoes. He was already snoring softly as she neared the bed. Moonlight shone in through the curtains, bathing his profile in silver and making his hair gleam. He stretched, then flung his arm over his head, Endymion personified, forever beautiful and fresh. His body was sculpted and nearly hairless. His skin felt cool where it slipped free from the covers as Ororo slid into bed beside him. Just as she settled in, his arms and lips sought her, and she thrilled to his warm embrace, hauled against his chest.
“Missed you,” he mumbled. He shucked off her boy-cut briefs and the tee shirt she’d covered herself in and let him warm her up again. The rhythm left from the music coursed through her again, and she bucked and writhed beneath him, trying harder with every touch to crawl inside him somehow. Dig deeper. Cling to him.
“Pietro.” His name was a benediction. “Need you,” she husked.
“You stayed out too damned long, made me wait,” he grumbled back. She fought for his affection, any clue of his desire for her. He slaked his thirst with a rough invasion of her body. The bedsprings creaked, and Ororo gasped beneath him, crying out above the slam of the headboard into the wall. She gripped him, holding onto any purchase she found on his sweat-slicked body as they made love. Her nipples tingled, and the rush of heat spread down her chest, her belly. She felt a drawing tightness inside that drove away all semblance of reason as she clenched reflexively around him.
“So…hot…damn it, ‘Roro, not supposed to…” he cried out a torrent of strained, garbled curses as he came, his body jerking as tight as a bowstring. His fingers dug into her thighs right before he collapsed, sated. Bliss was etched across his face. He smiled down at her in the dark, then kissed her forehead like she was a child of four.
“G’night.” He rolled over and stole the covers, folding his pillow in half and wedging it under his neck. No questions, no accusations. No pretending to frisk her for phone numbers or sniff for foreign cologne or…other substances.
Ororo lay awake in the dark, feeling strangely empty.
Elsewhere:
Logan woke with a layer of fuzz on his tongue that he could scrape with a knife. He surveyed his surroundings. On the couch. Test signal on the screen, leading into an infomercial. No scattered clothes on the floor that didn’t look like they were his.
Thank God.
He hauled himself back to his room, content with the night’s take. The bars of different songs from the bachelorette party droned in his ears as he turned in. The one image that he guarded carefully, even doggedly, was the look of raw embarrassment on that one pretty broad’s face when she gnoshed on that damned cookie. That image followed him into sleep.
Six Degrees by OriginalCeenote
“What about this one?”
“Nope. Kid’s mom seemed like a real prima donna. Hate working with stage parents on the set. Gives me an ulcer,” Sage reasoned, handing Peter back the eight by ten. “Too bad. She’s damned cute, too.” He slid it back into the manila envelope that the child’s talent agent sent over, sighing with regret. Sloe-eyes full of mischief peeked out at him from a chubby-cheeked face, framed by dark pigtails before he closed the sheaf.
“What else have we got?”
“Here’s a cutie. Kind of commercial, but pleasant to work with.” Sage eased the next black-and-white over to him. This one was named Elsie Dee.
“That’s her real name?”
“Yup.”
“Eh. Not much personality.” Her face was slightly freckled. Straight, shoulder-length blonde hair was held back from her face with butterfly clips, and her smile reminded him of a young Kirsten Dunst. “I’m still leaning toward Athena Galliano.”
“You haven’t worked with her mom, Selene on the set before, have you?”
“Next!” They perused the head shots, landing on one that made them both murmur in appreciation.
“Wow. Look at those eyes. They’re like crystal.”
“Wonder what color her hair is?”
“Strawberry blonde, I bet. That’ll look pretty on camera.” Sage peeked at the name. “Luna Maximoff. New client, from what it says on her bio. Did a stint last year playing Annie.”
“She can sing, too?” Peter’s voice was hopeful.
“Uh-huh.”
“I think we might have our next Princess Poppy girl,” he considered, tapping the glossy paper. “Call her agent, then give her mother a ring. I like her. I really like her.” His eyes skimmed the lines of contact information. Crystal Maximoff…why did that last name ring a bell?
“She almost reminds me of Illyana,” Sage pointed out.
“Just a little.” He tucked the glossy eight by ten back into its envelope and shook off the twinge of melancholy that shivered through him. Sage realized her error a moment too late.
“Piotr…I’m-“
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.” He dismissed it lightly, recovering himself. “Don’t think I wouldn’t have brought her photo in with me if I thought she’d have had a chance, once upon a time.” Sage patted his shoulder affectionately. He radiated warmth and strength, and she pried her hand away before it could linger too long. Soft, clear blue eyes with faint laugh lines etched at the corners peered at her quizzically before he smiled.
He’s your coworker. He’s your coworker. Stop picturing him naked on a bed strewn with rose petals…Down, girl!
It never failed. Piotr got up from the table and stretched, letting various joints pop from being cooped up at the tiny light table in the studio. He unfolded himself to his full height, towering over Sage as he laced his fingers together and flexed them, palm out. Cords of muscles rippled in his neck with the motion. “Boszhe moi, that feels so good right now.”
“Have I kept you too long?” Her tone was apologetic and teasing at the same time. She peeked at the clock; they had only let their meeting lag for ten minutes longer than planned.
“Nyet, nyet. I’m late for my lunch workout. I hate missing it.” She didn’t doubt it. He turned away from her, granting her a perfect view of his broad back and tight, round glutes as he shrugged into his thick leather jacket.
“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll send the rest of these back to the agencies with the next courier run,” she assured him. She tucked the Maximoff girl’s photo into her brown leather folio. “Think we’ve got a winner.”
“Set up the shoot for Friday. If the first spot looks good, we can use her for the whole ad campaign.” Piotr gathered up his laptop case and slung his satchel over his shoulder, looking every inch the creative director that he was, if the typical mold for that occupation was to be built like a linebacker and boyishly handsome to boot. “Dosvydanya.”
“See you later, Piotr.” She waved him out the door, mentally kicking herself and only letting her smile drop once he was gone.
Great. After shuffling a week’s worth of appointments and meetings, convincing Piotr that they didn’t need to call in the full staff to go over the photos, and “nudging” him to accommodate it so close to when he went to lunch, all she’d managed to do was bring up a sore subject and look like an ass.
“Nice going, genius,” she muttered. She gathered up the photos and called downstairs to the receptionist that she’d be dropping the envelopes into her in-basket for the next delivery.
Roughly an hour later:
Piotr toweled off his shining waves of damp black hair, letting it spatter droplets over his shoulders and the rough track carpeting in the men’s locker room.
It wasn’t Sage’s fault.
Remembering how Illyana looked the last time he’d seen her in the hospital tugged at him. It was going to be hard to return to work for the rest of the afternoon, but he still had to go over the ad campaign with Charles, including the budget for the next string of commercials. When Nova Toys threw you a bone, namely a two-year contract to handle their advertising for it’s new line of high-end fashion dolls, you didn’t wait around for the competition to write something bigger and better and plaster their pictures across the city’s billboards, buses, and subway tunnels.
Work was all he’d had when they’d lowered his sister’s casket into the ground. Dimly he recalled the scent of lilacs in the flower arrangement that they removed from it before he took his place at the front left corner as pallbearer. He hadn’t stumbled. He couldn’t afford to. He avoided meeting his father’s eyes across the polished wood as they lowered the coffin into the back of the hearse. He knew the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He felt his brother Mikhail clap his palm soundly over his shoulder when it was time to close the gate, but he shrank away from his touch, feeling it was too soon; that things were still too raw. His brother’s presence at his back drifted away, taking away his protective bulwark from the frosty November air. The pall of anguish was so thick, sending a hush of mourning over the assembly that Piotr hardly even felt the cold.
He shook himself, dispelling the memory and pulling on his clothes. He made use of his sports stick and the gym’s supply of hair gel by the sink. A familiar pair of eyes caught his in his reflection as he finished up, nodding into the steamed mirror.
“Long time, no see, LeBeau.”
“Hey, mec. Where y’been hidin’ yaself, eh?”
“Nowhere new. Same old hiding place.” They clasped hands in a high-five bordering on an arm wrestling hold out of old habit. Gambit’s grip was strong despite long, slender hands that belonged easily to someone who played piano for years. Piotr dwarfed him, even though he stood slightly over six feet and was athletically built. “Still breaking hearts?”
“Sure, mon ami. Call it whatcha like.” Remy’s lips twisted in a slight grimace. “It’s a living. Gotta make my rent.”
“Mail room’s got an opening on the night shift,” Piotr offered, as he often did.
“Fo’ the minimum wage. Might as well just get me a McJob.” Piotr chuckled and shook his head.
“At least it’s a regular check to take to the bank. Beats hauling in a pocket full of singles.”
“A pocket, he says!” Remy scoffed. He tossed his gym bag down and yanked open his locker, shucking his guayabera shirt and hanging it neatly on the hook. “Logan’s practically my accountant. Last week’s take was my car payment. Did a bachelorette packed to the rafters with retail princesses and trophy girlfriends.”
“Logan hated it, didn’t he?” Piotr still didn’t know why Logan continued on. He’d known him for years. Still stoic as a judge, and Logan still had an axe to grind.
“No shit. Don’t he always, mec?” Remy strutted over to the scale in the men’s room suite and checked his weight on the digital scale while he was still in his boxers. Piotr smirked at his shamelessness. Some people just had no problem with running around with no clothes…he looked away and made sure his toiletries were tucked away into his satchel. He zipped it shut and prepared to duck out.
“Hey, Petey! Don’t fo’get, mec, we’ve gotta li’l gig tomorrow night at Harry’s out on the back patio. Lila’s gonna be wailing with us for a few numbers.”
“It’s been a long time. I’ve missed watching her perform.” Piotr smiled as he remembered a random appearance she’d made last Christmas on Good Morning America while people on the street were being interviewed at random in Times Square. She’d jumped in front of the cameras and belted out a few bars of “Joy to the World,” whipping the crowd into a singalong before they panned to the lighting of the tree. A night of live entertainment might just fit the bill, after all.
“Save me a seat up front,” Piotr suggested. “Text me.”
“Will do, mon ami. Later, gator!” Remy cocked his finger at him like a gun as Piotr took his leave, catching Remy’s wink.
Peering out at the sea of power-lunching occupants taking up the stair climbers and treadmills, Piotr was thankful that he’d purchased a two-year membership here instead of the luxury day spa that Laynia had tried to talk him into. The clientele didn’t make him feel out of place. No women in jewelry, makeup and big hair, wearing couture track suits with brand names emblazoned across the rear. The men lifted weights, jockeyed for a spot in the boxing suite or signed in to play basketball. Old-fashioned weight benches and barbells lined the walls while Nautilus machines and assisted lifts occupied the middle. A man could sweat here without his ego suffering from gym fluffery.
A familiar, guttural grunt off to his left roused him from his reverie.
Victor’s skin gleamed with sweat, plastering the fine down of hair on his arms and matting his thick blonde hair, clubbed back in its sloppy ponytail. St. John was spotting him, urging him to do a couple more.
“That’s it, come in, ya know ya want this one, just a little more,” he chanted, barely supporting the bar. Victor was hoisting his weight, or possibly more over his chest. He’d been making his rotation around the free weights and had been there for a while before Piotr even came in an hour ago. “C’mon, pussy!” he muttered, risking Vic’s wrath but not giving a damn. He wasn’t the one pinned beneath the barbell, pressing nearly a quarter of a ton. Victor’s veins stood out in stark relief along his jaw and throat. If he had to guess, Piotr figured he’d been dipping into the steroids again.
“Fuck…you…Ray!” he huffed, eyes blazing silver fire. “What’s…up…Fancy…Boyyyy,” he drawled, managing a shaky nod at Piotr. “YeeeeaaRRRGGGHHHH…” The barbell levitated up, up, up until his elbows practically locked, before he painstakingly lowered back onto its rest. Ray backed up, preferring to get out of his way. Spotting Vic was like that. Piotr paused long enough to offer him a hand up. Vic waved it away and sat up, grabbing the towel and swabbing his ruddy face. “Hoo. Shit. Gonna feel that one tomorrow. So whose dick do they have ya sucking in the office this week, Rasputin?”
“No one’s. That’s not what they pay me for,” he reminded him gently, shrugging.
“Writing ads. Making folks buy shit they don’t need. Sucking dick. It’s all the same thing,” Victor reasoned. This was a talk they’d had before. “Ya oughta go ta work for something like Sports Illustrated or some other shit. What’re ya working on now?”
“A toy campaign. Girls’ fashion dolls.” Piotr cringed silently. Wait for it…
“Doll babies! That’s some pansy-assed shit, Rasputin! Niiice! He’d advertising for dollies! Friggin’ Barbies!” He elbowed Ray, who managed to grin along with him but wisely remained silent. He mimed a little girl holding a tea cup and saucer. “Oooo-wooooo! I feel so pretty in my widdle Barbie dress!” His grin was positively feral.
On the other hand, Piotr decided, at least he hadn’t chosen Remy’s “profession.” Lord only knew what kind of verbal punishment Vic dished out to him on his way in.
“Logan’s on the court, sinking a few,” Ray offered.
“Thanks,” Piotr accepted, relieved for the save. Like owning a boxing studio and doing a side job as a bouncer was so great… Victor had to build himself up by putting Piotr down, or anyone else who made a living working for other people instead of for themselves. Piotr reminded himself at least he was the only one of his friends who managed to make enough money working only ONE job instead of two, living in the city like he did. He had his master’s in fine art and public relations to thank for that.
He loped off to the court and the sounds of thundering feet and bodies slamming up against the boards greeted him within a few feet of the glass doors. Logan was steadily mopping the floor with his competition, two young men who looked like college freshmen. The leaner blond one towered over him; the dark-skinned one was about medium height and had a wiry, compact build but he wasn’t as brawny as Logan, nor as fast. Logan faked and lunged, driving down the court and sinking a lay-up that he made look easy.
Piotr chuckled. He hoped they weren’t playing for beer money. Logan would drink their pockets dry.
It was over fast. Despite both boys’ defense covering him like white on rice, Logan let a sweet three-pointed swish into the hoop. Piotr caught muttered curses and looks of disbelief, soon replaced by grudging respect from both young men before they both clapped him on the back.
“Good game, old man,” the dark-skinned youth proclaimed.
“Harry’s tomorra night?” the blond suggested.
“Yep. Sounds good.” They tapped fists in a soul-brother handshake and parted ways. Piotr met Logan with a towel that was wadded up on top of Logan’s gym duffel. “Thanks, bub.”
“Sure. Harry’s?”
“Yep.”
“Lila’s singing with Gambit tomorrow night.”
“Nice. They’ve been needing a songbird since Ali quit.”
“I still miss her up front. I liked her style.”
“Ain’t no one like Ali.”
“I’m headed back to work. Might pick up a sandwich on my way back to the office.”
“I ain’t gonna be done that quick. Gotta NOC shift at the E/R tonight. College kids are back in town. We’ll have a full house,” he muttered, nodding at his two competitors as they waved their way off-court. “Kids get away from home for the first time, they wanna get good and liquored up. Never fails. Even money says we’ll pump at least three stomachs before the night is over.” He raked his fingers through his sweaty black hair, rumpling it hopelessly but not giving a damn. “I just need time ta myself before all hell breaks loose. And that means I can’t just stay home and stare at the TV or four walls.”
“I know what you mean, tovarisch,” Piotr admitted softly. He avoided spending much time at home. His mother left him voice mail at least once a week. He returned it about once a month, and she’d inevitably keep him on the phone at least an hour.
“Harry’s,” Logan declared.
“Harry’s,” Peter agreed. They nodded at each other and he departed the funk of sweat hanging on the court, craving the cool autumn air outside.
Logan shot a few more baskets by himself, relishing the solitude and the hollow bounce of the ball against the shiny floor. Bounce. Shoot. Swish. Bounce. Shoot. Swish.
Yup. A sweaty basketball court beat staring at four walls and reruns any damned day. At least Pete was good company, even if he hadn’t smiled much since last fall. Still…it beat Vic running off at the mouth about his night job or his next bodybuilding competition. Everyone knew his supplements weren’t legal, but if he had the looks, the moves, and could pull his weight…no, press his own weight, well, who was he to make a stink about it?
Logan considered his options; Harry’s was the safest one. Laynia was back in Russia, having grown tired of waiting for Piotr to get off his ass and propose, so Logan wouldn’t be a third wheel. Being “alone” and being “lonely” were two different things in the long run. He could manage “alone” just fine. So could Piotr.
Twenty minutes later, he exchanged the usual battery of shit-shooting and insults with Vic and Ray and made his way out, dressed in his scrubs and name badge, covered by his worn out leather motorcycle jacket. He dug his helmet out of his duffle and jerked it on, looping the handles of his bag over the pegs on his seat. The hog’s black enamel winked in the fading sunlight as he gunned the engine, letting it thrum to life between his legs. Yeah, now he was awake. He turned into the tide of midday traffic and headed to Westchester General to begin the first half of a double shift that he wasn’t looking forward to, but it beat standing in as Remy’s chaperone at another twenty-first birthday shindig, basement party or bachelorette. Stand-up guy, but geez…you wouldn’t get him oiled up in front of a bunch of screaming women waving singles at him and leaving him sticky with whipped cream and God knew what else. Thanks, but hell no.
He parked his bike in the rear lot and pocketed his keys, heading straight to the hospital’s cafeteria. He pondered the salad bar and decided against it, peering at the sandwich items instead. He piled roast beef onto two slices of rye and slathered it with spicy mustard and mayo, throwing on some hefty slice of tomato and selecting a garlic dill pickle spear. He approached the cashier, winking at the attractive blonde as she retrieved his plate from him, weighing it before she rang it up. He winced that a few cold cuts ended up costing six dollars. “Prices go up?”
“Yup. America’s insurance dollars at work. More people come in to the hospital that don’t need to, don’t pay what their plan doesn’t pick up, and we end up writing it off and running up our operating costs.”
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Yeah,” she sighed, smiling at him.
“Working the NOC tonight?”
“Yup. Laundry. My favorite,” Carol grimaced. “Get to take off my apron and shower cap and put on my scrubs and gloves instead. Fun stuff.”
“Can’t say I envy you, kid.” Logan didn’t envy anyone laundry shift. The smell alone of the bins was enough to wake the dead.
“Still beats glowing in the dark,” she jibed.
“Har-de-har,” he replied. He grabbed his sandwich and a bag of Lays that was included in the cost.
“Grab a soda, too. It was part of the special last week, but you forgot that when I rang you up the last time. Take one today.”
“Yer a peach, kiddo.”
“I know.” He snagged a can of Pepsi and seated himself at the cafeteria table, perusing a dog-eared copy of People that had to be at least three months old. Britney was on the cover and pregnant. Whether it was with her first child or her second, he would never know, and again, couldn’t give two shits.
He wolfed down his meal and took the second half of his soda with him before he stashed his things in his locker. His hair was slightly crushed from his helmet; he eased a small black comb through it and stashed that, too, before scrubbing down. He peered at his reflection and grunted in resignation. His eyes were still…poochy. That was new. Working with Rem these past few weeks to take in some extra change was kicking his ass, even though he wasn’t even doing much.
It was just …draining. Even though Remy was the one taking his clothes off, he still felt like he was the one under scrutiny. Ever since Mariko left, all he wanted to do was fade into the wallpaper.
Having a job where people constantly needed him didn’t make that effort any easier. But he never regretted it for one minute. He’d had an epiphany that day when he found himself staring into the face of a paramedic leaning over him, so close he could count his pores as he shined a penlight into his eyes and asked him his name. He’d bargained with God that day, promising that if he let him live through this mess, just this once, he’d do something more meaningful with his life. While he was recovering at home, cooped up in his apartment and drawing disability checks, he’d Web-surfed the pages of his local community college and found their radiology technician and vocational nursing programs. After a few short terms, he’d aced them both and earned his piece of paper.
Problem was, no one ever knew what to call him. Every now and again, it was “hey, you,” “Doctor,” or “Orderly!” Or, to his everlasting chagrin, “Housekeeper!” No one ever took the frigging time to just read his badge that actually ”Logan H., LVN/Radiology Technician.” Sure, they were patients, and probably didn’t feel good enough to make out the words. But he’d pay the next person who met him and actually identified him correctly five bucks if they did it the first time out of the chute.
His shift went calmly enough. The E/R was half-empty for a change, and the number of worried parents bouncing howling babies on their laps was at a minimum. Those usually came roaring in after one A.M., everyone still in their jammies. Logan assisted one of the RN’s on duty with stitching up a kid whose septum ring had pulled all the way through the flesh during a fight that broke out at the bowling alley. The boy shot him a dazed look when Logan had him sign off on his condition of treatment form and handed him a copy of the insurance slip to take home to his parents, since he was underage. Long chains dangling from the belt loops of his baggy black pants jingled as he staggered out, supported by two of his surly friends. All of them sported black Goth eyeliners and lip rings. Logan just shook his head. Back in his day, it was a sign of rebellion to wear his hair past his shirt collar. These changing times, he mused.
The night wore on. One of the flight care paramedics ambled in and turned on a radio at low volume at the nurse’s station. Logan hummed along to Brad Paisley as he prepped the suite for a six-year-old who’d managed to hurt his hand wrestling on the living room floor with his older brother, who looked pitiful and guilty. The top of his hand was puffy; Logan figured he’d chipped the bone. A half and hour later, after Scott reviewed the films, he was proven right.
“Sorry I missed yer stag party, Summers.” He wasn’t.
“No harm, no foul, man.” It wasn’t.
“Stay out late?”
“Yup.”
“Full house?”
“Yup.”
“Good. Good.” Logan avoided the temptation of mentioning “It wasn’t like I missed out on hanging out in a roomful of wild women that night, anyway, bub,” since he hated talking about his side job. He knew Summers was getting married. He’d even gotten what he figured was a sympathy invitation to the wedding, since the whole ICU, pedes wing, the paramedics and half the docs on the second floor had gotten one. Logan had overheard Scott talking to Nate one day about how Jean had nagged him to invite “as many of your friends as I am from mine” so they would have an even number of people on each side of the church. Logan had never met his fiancée, since she apparently wasn’t one of the wives that always showed up for the heck of it or to get the employee lunch discount in the cafeteria. He just knew that she sounded high-maintenance.
Logan just didn’t have the energy for high-maintenance anymore.
The setting sun threw an orange haze of light as it streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby. The admitting clerks who had chatted with each other in perky fashion toward the beginning of the shift gradually grew more frantic and aggressive as night fell, hurrying to scan in insurance cards and to verify current addresses of people entering the E/R in progressively worse shape. The NYPD brought in two men in cuffs, hands still bleeding from punching in the window of a car they tried to steal. They’d smirked at Logan’s scrubs and badge announcing what he was as he propped the first man’s hand on the foam cushion to position it correctly for the first set of films. The temptation was always there to bend the knuckles just a little too far for comfort when he was saddled with comedians like these two, but he mastered it. Just like he always did.
It was drawing closer to nine o’clock, when his first shift officially ended and his next one began. Logan restlessly prowled the nurses’ station, looting it of a battered copy of Maxim with Jessica Alba on the cover and a fresh-baked icebox cookie that someone had thoughtfully brought in for the night’s treat. He knew on some level that he should be grateful to be bored. That meant people weren’t out there, getting hurt.
After his break, he made rounds, taking vitals and making notes for the charts before Nate performed exams, filling in when Scott’s shift was over. He gave words of encouragement as he took pulses and offered emesis basins, and narrowly jumped out of the way when one old man who’d overindulged at happy hour missed the basin altogether. Logan cleaned him up and moved on after he made him more comfortable.
Incoming patients gradually filed and stumbled into the waiting room and slumped over the admitting desks. Logan felt his customary quiver in his gut at having more to do. So far, no one else was bleeding. Mentally he did a count, letting his gaze sweep the room: Infant ear infection. Fractured hand. Oven burn. Scalding burn. Allergic reaction…okay, he’d probably make it behind the security doors sooner than the last three that came in before him.
The double sliding doors swished open as a tall, slender man with platinum hair, so blond it looked white, rushed inside, carrying a dark-skinned woman in his arms. She was groggy and faint, and, Logan realized, stunningly familiar.
To his horror, he realized she was bleeding.
“Sir? You need to check in,” the admitting rep advised.
“I don’t care. I’ll check her in. Just, take her, treat her, goddamn it!” Blood from a deep gash trickled and soaked the now-ruined washcloth that was pressed between her forehead and his black wool peacoat. “Find me somewhere for her to lie down!” he snapped.
“It’s okay. We’ll bring her a wheelchair in a moment,” the rep insisted, nodding to Logan to hustle. Logan was already halfway back into the suite, grabbing the first set of wheels that came to hand and pushing it back out. The man regarded him with a mixture of impatience and relief as he set her into it gently, locking the brakes and cradling her head in his hands. “It’s okay, ‘Ro. You’re going to be okay, baby, all right?”
“Hurts,” she moaned. Then she began trembling. “Cold,” she complained. That caused a fresh wave of panic as Logan reached for a digital thermometer and slid a sterile plastic cover onto the tip.
“Open up if you can, miss,” he pleaded soothingly, his voice a low rumble of concern.
Soft, sapphire blue eyes squinted at him, trying to place his face. “M’kay.” He tucked the thermometer carefully under her tongue, and her lips closed over it limply. She winced at the effort it took to sit up in the chair. The thermometer beeped, and Logan recorded her temperature. “I’ll get ya a blanket, miss, okay?” She nodded, even though it was painful. Logan hurried back again with a blanket straight out of the warmer, and informed Scott that they had a head wound that would need a quick film and stitches, coming in quick. Nate greeted the new patient in the lobby as Logan was taking her pulse, which was slightly rapid. He warmed his stethoscope against his palm as he regarded her with a solemn dark gaze.
“How did this happen?”
“She fell in the kitchen while she was making dinner; one moment, she was fine, and the next I heard this huge thump and found her lying on the floor. She hit her head on the counter on the way down. Thank God we have linoleum, not tile,” her boyfriend babbled.
“I was…dizzy. Still am,” she complained on a whimper.
“Was it a quick rush of dizziness? Did you have anything to drink? Taking any prescriptions?”
“No drinks,” she rasped. “Just one…pill. Every day. Di…zox…” Her voice was fading, and her lids were droopier than they had been a minute ago.
“What did she say?” Nate probed.
“Diazoxide,” her boyfriend explained.
“Low blood sugar?”
“She’s been stressed,” he offered. “But she seemed fine today. Had a good workout at the gym.” He stroked her hair, which nearly matched his. It was long, thick, and a pure, blazing white.
“Ate…too late,” she countered.
“Have you eaten anything?” Nate pressed, feeling her glands and peering under her lid.
“Not yet. Waiting…for ‘Tro…get home.”
“Good enough for me. Let’s take her back.” Nate led the way as Logan wheeled her into the suite after punching in the door code. They settled her into exam room two, and Logan rummaged through the small refrigerator behind the nurse’s station, reaching for a 7-Up. He heard Scott’s standard battery of questions suddenly interrupted by her boyfriend’s shout, and he quickened his steps.
“Logan! Get me a glucagon kit!”
“Got a soda…” he offered. His eyes fell on her and he realized that she was in no condition to take it. She’d passed out, and her breathing was stertorous. The tall man who brought her in was slapping her hand lightly, clinging to it.
“Ro? Wake up, Ororo, please! C’mon, wake up now!” he groaned. Logan dropped the soda can onto the counter and rushed back out for the glucagon kit. His brain played out the next few courses of action as he brought it back. Scott was already snapping on a pair of gloves and scrubbing down her upper arm with a gauze pad soaked in alcohol. Logan snapped open the kit and withdrew the medicine and dispensed a syringe from the blue box hanging on the wall. Nate drew up the dose and held it up to the light, tapping out the air bubbles before he apologized to his patient, even though she wasn’t listening.
“Sorry about this, kiddo,” he murmured. “You’ll be up and around and ready to party in a minute, okay?” He plunged the needle into her tender flesh. Logan reached around and tucked the blanket more snugly around her to ward off the chill, since her skin was still slightly clammy and she’d already complained of chills. He tried to ignore how soft she felt.
When Ororo finally came around, she winced at the sting of antibacterial rinse being daubed onto her cut with a long swab. “Quit it,” she crabbed. “Hurts…when you do that.”
“Sorry,” Nate repeated. “This actually isn’t deep enough to need stitches. You’re a lucky young lady.”
“Sure. Tell me that again…when I get my bill. Hi, ‘Tro.” He gazed down at her and stroked her hair.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes were slightly damp, and she sniffled slightly, but suppressed it when he gripped her hand. Logan felt awkward witnessing that moment between them. He didn’t know why he also felt some glimmer of hope inside of him strangely dashed.
Then he figured it out: The knockout from the bachelorette party had a man. A live-in lover, obviously, since she was waiting for him to come home for dinner. Well, there ya go. Logan handed Nate a Band-Aid after he unwrapped it, and Logan grinned when he noticed it was green had Daffy Duck on it.
“There. All pretty,” Nate pronounced as he smoothed it on.
“Let’s get you checked out, now,” Logan urged, reluctant to watch them exchange anymore tender looks, even though his eyes were locked on her, drinking in her supple skin and exotic features. She peeled away the blanket and slowly swung her legs from the exam table.
“Want a ride out to the parking lot?” Logan suggested.
“She’ll be fine,” Pietro assured him arrogantly, wrapping his arm around her waist. “I can handle it from here.” She walked gingerly and limply, leaning against him and bidding the nurses at the desk goodnight in querulous tones.
Logan took her chart to the desk and handed it off to the admin, peering at her demographic information. “Munroe, Ororo N.” From her birthdate, he could tell she was about ten years younger than he was, and a Scorpio. He didn’t ponder it any further, other than to note that she lived on the north side of town in a neighborhood that he knew he couldn’t afford. That was the last glimpse he allowed himself into her life before he handed off her file to be locked up with the Medical Records desk.
Logan figured that tonight was a fluke. There was no way he’d ever see her again, and dismissed the notion as out of hand, in light of her current relationship.
He figured wrong.
Awkward by OriginalCeenote
Pietro’s grip on Ororo was solicitous and insistent as he poked his key into the lock and let them inside.
“Get straight into bed. I’ll fix you something in a minute,” he grumbled without preamble.
“I want to watch TV,” she griped.
“Bed,” he demanded, kicking the door shut behind him and securing the dead bolts. He turned her carefully and pulled her against him, studying her with concern, mixed with a hint of irritation. “Why would you wait so late to eat something?”
“I didn’t know you were coming home so late,” she offered. “I like eating with you.”
“That’s no excuse. Damn it, don’t do that again!” He gave her a hard kiss on the mouth before drawing away from her. “We had Tang in the cupboard.”
“I know. I didn’t mix it fast enough,” she retorted, nodding to the lukewarm glass of water sitting on the counter with a clump of unstirred orange powder settled in the bottom, coloring the water itself a transparent peach. “I just got dizzy. I remember you asking me what I was cooking, right before everything went black.” She heard his last few words as though she were underwater, too. That much she remembered.
“I turned off the stove before we left. Otherwise we wouldn’t have had a house to come home to,” he shrugged. Ororo followed him into the kitchen, then gave a small cry as she discovered the stark red smears of blood on the counter that had dripped down the cupboard, staining her linoleum.
“Oh, Lord,” she cringed, covering her mouth.
“Go sit down, baby. I’ll clean it up. Don’t look at it. You’ll feel worse. Here, I’ll get some ice for this. Have your Tang.” He led her to the couch and squatted down to remove her sandals, the only pair of shoes he’d managed to grab on his way out the door before they left. Her toes were still chilled, and he rubbed them to warm them up.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Sure. Sit back.” He propped sofa cushions around her and levered one under her feet. She reclined and listened to the dim clink of ice cubes as he fixed her drink. She sipped it while he made her a sandwich out of one of the chicken breasts she’d broiled earlier, tucking it between two slices of wheat bread with some lettuce and ranch dressing. He cut it in half and helped himself to some after he set the plate on her lap.
“I missed Smallville. I didn’t Tivo it,” she complained.
“We’ll buy the season DVD when it comes out,” he promised. Pietro settled himself on the couch beside her, encouraging her to lie across his lap. He commandeered the remote and as usual, flipped through the channels too fast for her to give an opinion. He finally settled on Comedy Central, grinning as he realized it was a Chappelle Show rerun.
“This is the one where’s he’s Rick James!” he crowed.
“I’m Rick James, BITCH!” Ororo mimicked weakly from his lap, giggling. “Ow,” she moaned, touching her throbbing head. Her fingertips scraped against the Band-Aid. Mutely, she remembered: He gave me Daffy Duck?
They woke up the next morning in a tangle of limbs. Ororo’s backside was chilled from where he’d yanked away half of her covers and left her bare. She reached for some and burrowed further beneath the warmth of the comforter, and Pietro stirred, sighing and reaching for her before he even opened his eyes.
“Mmm. Hmmm. Cold,” he remarked, groping her butt under the covers.
“That’s your fault,” she pointed out.
“Is not.”
“You swiped my covers.”
“Me, me, me, it’s all about meeee…” he crooned back at her in a sing-song falsetto, even though his voice was still full of sleep. He cracked his eyes open at her. “What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I figured we’d go to Dad’s for breakfast.”
“What time?”
“I told him we’d meet him at eight-thirty.”
“Well, gee..’Tro, you could have told me at some point that this was your plan.”
“Plan? What plan? We’re just meeting Dad for breakfast. That’s hardly a ‘plan.’ It’s a meal. You don’t want to cook, do you?”
“No,” she admitted. ‘Tro’s appetite was a thing of legend. Any other morning of the week, he was content with protein shakes with a raw egg and a banana whirled around in the blender. She winced; she hated banana, and hated cleaning the blender when he was done. Men sucked at cleaning out the blender…
But on weekends, Ororo knew the score: Pietro ate like a lumberjack on Saturdays and Sundays. Only the most grease-smeared breakfast of hash browns, eggs over-easy, bacon, pancakes and fried ham would fit the bill. She didn’t know where he put it. Ororo only joined him in that kind of indulgence about once a month. Any more often than that, and she’d be looking at type one diabetes instead. She’d always hated watching her dad take his insulin shots at the dinner table.
And so she went to the gym. Even on nights when she was dog-tired from work, she hit the treadmill running, racking up about fifteen to twenty miles a week. Cardio was her thing; even Pietro didn’t lift more often than three times a week, which suited her fine. Physically they were a perfect fit. Her arm was always nestled snugly into the small of his waist when they spooned at night, her breath caressing the nape of his neck, breasts mashed against his back.
It wasn’t the breakfast itself that was the problem. It was the dishes.
There were only two of them in the house, but by the time ‘Tro was finished “helping her” fix breakfast, there was a towering, K-12 avalanche of frying pans, dirty glasses with fruit smoothie residue or orange juice pulp swimming in the bottoms, egg-studded forks, mixing bowls with coagulated pancake batter, and egg and ketchup speckled plates. Yuck. That, she could do without.
Then again, sometimes making breakfast for the two of them was the least of two evils.
Pietro loved to bicker with her from the moment that he hung up the handset from talking with his father. Eric Lensherr was a well-meaning enough man, but Ororo remembered reading somewhere about the proverbial road to Hell being paved with…well, you get the point. Her future father-in-law, as Ororo liked to think of him, liked everything a certain way. His way, or the highway. His house was furnished like a palace thanks to his first wife, Magda. Since her death, he’d been married and divorced three more times. Clever lawyers saw to it that his estate was protected for his children’s inheritance, reinforced by a wall of prenuptial agreements and codicils ensuring how the money would be spent after his death. His lawn and gardens were impeccably maintained. His shoes were Italian, cost as much as Ororo’s mortgage payment and always sported a high shine.
Eric surprised Ororo and Pietro both when he turned out to be exceedingly fond of her from their first meeting. She’d first met him for dinner after she and Pietro had been together for nearly six months.
~0~
“She’s a production artist,” Pietro explained.
“I design Web pages,” Ororo qualified.
“Lovely, well-spoken, intelligent,” Eric listed. “Who could ask for more.” Ororo shivered. It sounded more like a challenge than a statement, but she pushed aside her misgivings when he leaned forward and clasped her upper arms, kissing her cheek. Pietro looked at her funny, making her smile falter a bit when she noticed the odd light in his eyes.
~0~
Pietro cuddled her and slowly began his morning ritual of “accidentally” tickling and tweaking her in naughty places. “Uh-oh, look at that, you want me.”
“Tro, let’s take a shower!”
“Can’t. Your nipples are standing up at attention. You want me,” he announced, stroking his chin. He wrestled her onto her back, nuzzling her nipple through the thin cotton camisole.
“TRO! Knock it off! Let’s get ready!”
“We’ll get ready in a minute,” he cajoled. “Let’s get naked first. You would’ve had to take this off eventually, anyway!” He urged her top of over her belly, but her arms crossed over her breasts, blocking him from sliding it all the way up.
“You always do this,” she hissed. “You rush me out of a good sleep, then want a roll in the hay, then rush me again through getting ready. I need to figure out what to wear.”
“I’ll help you pick it out. Right now, just wear me.
“Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.”
“Oh, it’ll happen…whoops, there goes the shirt, up, up…nooooooooo. C’mon, ‘Roooo…” he whined. She clamped her arms against her torso, eyeing him with clear warning.
“You will call your dad. You will tell him we’re running late,” she ordered.
“We won’t be late,” he coaxed, giving her Eskimo kisses with his nose.
“Tro…”
“I promise. Pretty please, with sugar on top. I’ll be a good boy. Pinky swear.”
“Baloney.”
“I’ll slip you some salami instead!”
“TRO!”
She couldn’t resist him, and eventually stopped trying. Every inch of her body woke up the more he rocked his pelvis against hers. Her hands skimmed their way up his chest, tracing the shape of his muscles and feathering over his sleep-warmed skin. Her protests died a whimpering death on her lips as she gave into his kiss. They were both naked within seconds, but instead of stretching himself over her, Pietro gripped her legs and flipped her over like a pancake so she laid on her belly.
“Pietro…noooooo! You know I like it when we-“
“I know how you like it,” he boasted, and his tongue ran a wicked path down her back. She trembled and bit back a cry.
“Oh…’Tro. Please.”
“Oh, I will.” The covers were thrown aside, and the rapidly cooling sheets were twisted in her fists as he took her. She was slick for him, and her cries swelled and grew wild, filling the room. His hands gripped her hips as he rode her. She craved the sight of his face as he reached his pleasure. She settled instead for his hot breath against the crown of her cheek as he nipped the crest of her ear. He closed in on her at first, stroking every inch of her that he could reach, but eventually he reared back, pulling her back against him and rocking the mattress with his thrusts, giving her knees sheet-burn. She felt her womb clench with exquisite pleasure and a quivery little thrill, she was so close…she could almost feel herself…falling…over the…edg-
“Holy!” His body jerked and rippled sinuously as he came. He throbbed within her, and she writhed beneath the aftershocks, wanting to steal some of his climax for herself, and she nearly succeeded. Nearly. Her body was still tingling as he fell against her, knocking them both into a limp sprawl.
“Shower,” Ororo murmured weakly.
“I’ll go warm it up.” He kissed her shoulder one last time before getting up, then lightly smacked her butt, making her flinch.
“Eergh.” She got up, stretched, then rummaged around for dry towels in the linen closet, not caring about her nudity as she made her way down the hall. Pietro was already in the shower, and she pondered the offerings on her side of the closet briefly before choosing her khaki boot-cut jeans and a brown flutter-sleeve blouse of burnout velvet with a satin ribbon that tied beneath her breasts. She fished out her black ankle boots and dug in her underwear drawer for her little woven beanie cap, not wanting to go through their usual ritual of Pietro micromanaging her choices, when he couldn’t even make up his mind about his own clothes half the time.
She eventually joined him in the shower and ducked out of the way (again) as he scrubbed his hair, flicking shampoo foam every which way. He made room for her in the spray, however, and began soaping her back. She sighed beneath the caress.
“Gotta shave,” he excused himself, yanking open the shower door and letting the chill sweep in as he took his leave. Once again, she washed her own hair. He’d used up most of the conditioner. She made a mental note to buy more.
She heard him bellowing at her over the spray and the buzzing of his electric razor. “That’s what you’re wearing, baby?”
“Yes,” she called back.
“Why this pair of pants? Don’t you have a skirt?”
“Yes.”
“So wear a skirt.”
“I’m wearing the pants,” she carped.
“No,” he insisted. “You’re not wearing this funky looking hat, either.”
Ororo turned off the spray and swaddled herself in a towel. She leaned out of the door frame, narrowing her eyes at him. “My outfit’s fine. I like the hat. Deal with it.”
“No. You don’t have to go to breakfast with me if you’re going to wear that.”
“I don’t.”
“No. You don’t.”
“Pietro…this is silly. Why are you being so hardheaded about what I want to wear?”
“Because I hate that outfit. Just wear something else. You have other clothes, you go shopping often enough,” he accused, not looking at her. He peered at his reflection, cleaning up his jaw with his Schick blade.
“I like that outfit. I already picked it out. You haven’t even picked out your own clothes yet, and you’ll strut around in your underwear reading the sports page and giving me crap to do like ironing your pants, and finding your socks and your missing shoe…”
“Don’t start that shit.”
“I didn’t. You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’ll be the judge of whether you started something, not you.”
“You’ll be the judge…fine. Stay home. Go out with Anna and Lorna and all of your other girlfriends that don’t have lives of their own for breakfast, then.” He turned away from the mirror and leaned his face toward hers, holding his hands out in a gesture of mock defeat. “I don’t care. Really. I don’t give a damn at all. Eat. Starve. Stay. But don’t embarrass me by going out in that outfit.”
“Don’t. Embarrass. You.” Ororo heard the fiddles from “Psycho” whining in the back of her brain for two seconds, and the air between them grew discernibly thicker. Time stood still. She saw the faint flare of Pietro’s nostrils as he took up his defensive stance.
“What’s with you? You change the outfit, we can get on the road. How hard is that?”
“How hard is letting me put on my clothes and go outside to start the car? Sounds pretty easy to me. If you’ll get out of my way and quit hogging the sink, I can do my hair.”
“You’re planning on wearing that ugly ass hat, and now you want to do your hair? Why bother? Go out the door looking like Miss Freaky Deaky Hippie. Don’t shave your pits. Peace, man!” He held up his two fingers in a V, inches from her face, crossing his eyes.
“Hold up. What’s this shit all about? Why are you giving me such a hard time?”
“I’m not. I want to help you pick out something else to wear.” Pietro picked up Ororo’s pants and made a move to hang them back up.
“Put those down.”
“Uh-uh.” They tussled over the pants. Tussled. She prized them away from him, frowning over how crumpled they became from his twisting grip.
“Thanks bunches,” she snarled.
“Fine. You’re gonna wear them anyway. Ooh, that’ll show me.”
“Someone needs to show you,” she huffed. The warm glow of waking up in each other’s arms evaporated with the last of the steam from the shower. “Punk. Ass. Fucker.” She grabbed up her clothes and trotted down the hall to the second bath. She yanked them on over her favorite pale blue satin bra and bikini brief set from Victoria’s Secret and squirted a spritz of Liz Claiborne Curve onto her pulse. The fresh, flowery scent calmed her for a moment. She leaned her hands against the vanity and stared at herself in the mirror.
Pietro was trying to run the show. He was riding her butt. And she was knocking herself out, trying to figure him out. If she hadn’t figured him out after five years, when would she? She tugged on her clothes and continued with her grooming, slathering it with Biosilk oil moisturizer and yanking her wide-toothed comb through it, letting it fall into its natural waves that would spring into curls as the day progressed. She painted a slash of lipstick across her pout and frowned at herself.
“This’ll just have to do.” She steeled herself before walking out to grab her boots. She brushed past Pietro as she grabbed her beanie.
“You’re not wearing that hat, I said.”
“I’m supposedly not going with you, remember?”
“Oh, NOW you’re not going with me.”
“You said it first.” She pulled on her beanie and stepped into her boots. She watched him with undiluted defiance. “Have fun at your dad’s. Maybe you can call him and tell him I couldn’t make it.”
“Why would I do that, if you’re going?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not changing.”
“Fine. Then don’t.” Pietro took umbrage by flinging half of his shirts from the closet and trying them on, one by one until he found one that suited him. Ororo eyed the pile of previously clean, pressed shirts with disgust; each one now bore the smell of his aftershave and smears of deodorant on them. Nice. The male equivalent of the “I look fat in that” pile.
And into the car they climbed, bickering and snapping the whole way down the expressway. They fought over radio stations before fighting over CDs. They fought over where to stop for gas. They held a glaring contest over the console over who got the armrest. They were still snarling at each other when they finally reached the Lensherrs’ fine home. Pietro purposely backed the car into the driveway and gave Ororo mere inches to get out on the passenger side, forcing her into the hedge.
“Bitch ass,” she bitched.
“Who’s the bitch?” Then Pietro suddenly chuckled.
“What’re you laughing at?”
“Take this thing off!” He peeled away the Daffy Duck bandage with a none-too-gentle rip.
“OW!” Ororo heard Eric’s footsteps before she could even knock, and she was still rubbing the sore spot when he flung open the door.
“Ooh. Sorry.”
“Sure you are,” she hissed. “Hmmph.” She rubbed at the slightly tacky residue left on her skin from the bandage strip, wincing at the still tender spot. She eased her cap slightly lower in an effort to cover the bruise and thick scab. She looked up and met Eric’s smiling, pale blue eyes and broad smile.
“It’s about time! I didn’t think you two would get here until the cows came home!” Eric waved them in, stepping aside to let them enter the foyer. The house already smelled like breakfast, and Ororo’s mouth watered at the scent of cinnamon and butter in the air. “Eloise made her sweet buns, but we have other things for you this morning, Rory.”
“I can split one with ‘Tro,” she whined petulantly, leaning into a peck on the cheek that he offered her. He shooed them into the living room and deftly tossed Pietro the remote control to his 42-inch plasma screen TV.
“Where’s Lee?” Pietro inquired.
“She had bridge club. She might come join us for lunch.”
“We’ll be back on the road by then,” Ororo suggested plaintively. She hadn’t planned on being there all day. She had to go over her proposal for a new Web shopping portal she’d been contracted to upgrade and design the new banners for three different clients’ sites, and she wanted to get a head start on it. Her Photoshop suite was calling her name. Pietro, she knew, would nag her off the PC or distract her in the background with his phone calls to his friends or family, or his football and boxing matches blaring at top volume, driving her to escape with her laptop to a cyber café for some hard-won peace. She didn’t have Photoshop on the laptop, but least she could answer her email and manage her expenses from it. Jean had also tentatively suggested perusing the bridal shops again to see if they could find all of the bridesmaids matching earrings this time that wouldn’t make them look like game show hostesses or pageant contestants.
Pietro’s grip on her hand tightened as he recovered, still flipping channels with his free hand. “We might stay a while, Dad.”
“Wanda was considering coming over for dinner,” Eric announced cheerfully. “She’s bringing Thomas and Phinnaeus with her to visit their grandfather.” There was a note of pride in his tone, and he seemed to puff up before their eyes. He fixed his gaze on his son and his girlfriend unabashedly. “Having two little boys running around is nice, but I wouldn’t mind a granddaughter one day. Of course, Wanda can’t have all the children in the family…” He cocked on silvery brow.
“Yeah. Good luck on that,” Pietro muttered, continuing to flip channels idly. Ororo felt an odd little lump in her throat and craved a drink of orange juice. She pried her fingers loose from Pietro, whose grip she had to wrestle herself from before she stood.
“I’ll go see if Eloise needs help setting the table,” she began.
“She’s already taken care of it. But come on, Rory, you can peek at the new china Lee bought for us at a steal last week from Noritake! We’re not eating off of it until dinner,” he winked. Ororo smothered a sigh and allowed herself to be led into the dining room. Eric opened the breakfront and held up a beautiful gold-rimmed dinner plate with a subtle, swirled motif dancing around the border. Ororo ooh’ed and ah’ed and agreed that yes, Lee did have exquisite taste. And yes, they could only have things like these after their children were grown, of course, once they had children…well, she agreed. Eric did all the talking and continued to interrogate her good-naturedly about her job.
“When is that lazy son of mine going to renovate your house like he promised? You said you were planning on redoing the bathroom the last time you were here?” That had been a month ago.
“Pfft.” Pietro snorted from the couch as he speed-watched every sports channel he could find, then skipped back and forth among them during the commercials.
“We were going to wait until summer. So we can paint and put down new vinyl.”
“The weather’s still warm enough.” It was early October. “Why wait the better part of a year? Don’t put it off, Rory. It’s important to have a nice home. Let my son give it to you, that’s his job. You take care of him, he builds you a home that you and the children deserve. Don’t let this guy keep putting if off. Just say the word, and I’ll come over and whip the place into shape.” It was a common threat. The silent threat of “I’ll whip him into shape, too” hung in the air. Lensherr Quality Homes took over twenty years of blood, sweat and tears to grow into the largest construction and contracting firm in the borough. Eric Lensherr started his business with a beat-up truck, a box of tools and his own two hands when he was barely eighteen, a fact that he never let Pietro forget.
“I want to help build the home we have, too.” Especially since it was Ororo’s home, anyway. Two people couldn’t live as affordably as one, but Pietro split rent and utilities, and they both bought food whenever the pantry was down to bare crumbs. But she had signed the house note, using a down payment from her parents’ estate and a nest egg that she’d been saving ever since she paid off her student loans. The ink was dried on the mortgage way before Pietro stepped into her life and kissed her silly.
“Don’t let him get away with letting you work your fingers off. Make him treat you like a princess!” Eric walked up and yanked Pietro’s ear heartily, making his son grimace and bat his hand away.
“Get off, get off!”
“Wanda’s husband knows how to take care of her.”
“Isn’t that nice for her,” he spat, smirking his way back to his game. Ororo tiptoed into the kitchen and peered into the chrome refrigerator, searching for juice. She found a huge, frosty pitcher of some that looked fresh squeezed and still had pulp floating on the top. She poured herself half a glass and drank it over the sink, nearly jumping out of her skin when Eloise came back into the kitchen as the oven timer went off.
“Rory! I didn’t even hear you two come in!” Ororo grinned at Eric’s housekeeper, who always reminded her of an older, plumper Betty Crocker. “Sit, sit. Pull up a chair.”
“I need something to do. What do you need help with?”
“Taste this for me and tell me if it’s any good,” she beckoned, pulling a pan of caramel pecan rolls from the oven.
“Oooooh. Yummy. Maybe just give me the corner off of one…mmmmm. Mmmmm. Heaven. That’s fabulous.” Ororo savored the proffered tidbit of sinfully rich bread after blowing on it to cool it off. She licked the glaze from her fingers and tweaked off a lump of pecan that fell off as Eloise lifted the rolls from the pan and slid them onto the serving dish.
“What happened to your head, Rory?”
“Oh. I just had a little accident last night while I was making dinner. I’m fine,” she hedged.
“An accident?”
“I was dizzy. I bumped my head on the kitchen counter.”
“Oh, Rory! Are you all right?” Her face was the picture of worry, and the rise in her voice caught Eric’s attention. He strode in just as Eloise was pulling off Ororo’s beanie and prodding her wound with gentle fingertips. Ororo blushed.
Here we go again…
“What on earth did you do to yourself? Where was Pietro when this happened?”
“He was right where he needed to be. He took me to the E/R last night. They gave me a little shot of glucose. I’m good as new.”
“You’re working too hard. You need to take better care of yourself, Rory.”
“That’s what I told her, Dad.” Ororo narrowed her eyes at him across the room before she carefully retrieved her hat from Eloise and hung it up on the hook. She ran her fingers through her hair uneasily, trying to smooth it and come up with a different topic.
“I had a long day. I missed my snack. Pietro took good care of me.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Eric rumpled his forehead at the cut, tsking at the purple bruising that still hadn’t faded. “All right. Let’s eat.” Eloise served them in the dining room on the regular china and left them to their meal. Ororo helped herself to half of the roll she’d already sampled and ladled a modest amount of scrambled eggs onto her plate, along with two turkey sausage links. She found herself toying with the food as Eric plied them with more questions that made Ororo watch the wall clock more anxiously than usual.
“Does anyone else in your family have the same problem with their blood sugar, Rory?”
“My dad did. He was type one.”
“How did he handle it?”
“Insulin injections.”
“Hmmm. They have pumps now. It’s too bad he never had the chance to try that kind of treatment.”
“Sure. He managed himself as well as he could.” Ororo had a dim memory of her mother telling him to quit guzzling all the juice in the house, or they wouldn’t have any left for when he had an emergency. She’d taken to hoarding a stash of hard candies in the back of the cupboard and ordering Ororo and her brothers away from it under penalty of butt whuppings.
“So it’s hereditary?”
“Who can tell?” Pietro interjected, stealing a sausage link from Ororo’s plate. “She’ll be fine.”
“Magda’s sugar was all over the place when she carried you and Wanda, but she was fine afterward, by the grace of God.” Eric bit into his caramel roll with relish, licking up a stray hint of glaze that escaped into the corner of his mouth. “I’m depending on you for healthy grandchildren, young lady.”
“Aye, aye!” Ororo saluted him.
“Stop it,” Pietro hissed at her between his teeth. She looked askance at him and pinched his arm in his least favorite spot. He growled at her. She stuck out her tongue when his dad was cutting his steak.
The next two hours passed uneasily as their post-brunch drowsiness set in. Pietro stayed glued to the couch, flipping channels while he argued with his father about their picks for Fantasy Football and where to watch the boxing match for the following weekend. Ororo wandered into the den to find herself a book to read, ignoring Pietro’s advice to sit with him and just “hang out.” She was restless and bored. She didn’t want to dig out her razor phone and just call Jean up out of the blue; it would be rude.
Inevitably, though, Pietro just had to stir the pot. He found her in the den. “What’re you doing back here, moping around for?”
“I’m not moping. I’m reading.”
“You could go hang out with Eloise and help her start lunch.”
“Or we could go home,” she sang.
“You don’t want to go already, do you? Come on, don’t be like that. My sister’s coming for dinner.”
“Can’t we do something to entertain ourselves til she gets here?”
“Sure. We can hit the mall or pick up something to go with dinner?” It was a decent suggestion. But it didn’t come to full fruition until about an hour and a half later of occasional nudges from Ororo during a golf tournament, college basketball game, and an NFL playoff between two teams Pietro didn’t even follow. Ororo managed to pry him away from the Best Damned Sports Show long enough yank him out the door.
“Way to be rude,” Pietro grumped.
“Pull the car up so I can get in,” she shot back.
“Hold your horses.” The gloss of getting along wore off in the light of day, and with the first blast of cool air on Ororo’s cheeks. Eric and Aleytys were lovable enough. But when things between her and ‘Tro reached this funny, toxic little fever pitch…God help her. It was like beating her wings against a gilded cage.
Five years hadn’t brought a ring on her finger. Excuses, conditions, “quirks,” squabbles, and straight-up bullshit were leaking from the strained seams of what they had, like that beady stuffing of a bean bag that someone kept jumping on.
Pietro pulled the car out of the driveway, then made a play of jerking the car forward every time she tried to open the passenger door. “You think you’re cute,” she harped at him as she hopped in and slammed the door. She was pulling balls of lint off her cap and pulled it back on when Pietro pressed the button to open both windows, even though it made her hair blow around.
“So what’s your deal? Am I taking you all the way home?” Caution rippled up her nape, making the hairs stand on end.
“Are you?” She stared straight ahead. “We could have taken separate cars.”
“I didn’t know you were going to desert me.”
“You didn’t tell me we were staying all day long.” It was assumed though, since breakfast with Eric and Aleytys sometimes became an all-day affair.
“You act like I dragged you along. You didn’t have to come.”
“Don’t keep going back to that!”
“You didn’t.”
“Fine. I didn’t. This wasn’t a good idea.”
“You were waiting all day to say that, weren’t you? Nice of you to wait that long, ‘Ro.”
“Shut up.” Her voice was hard.
“Why? I can’t be honest? I wanted us to spend some time together. I brought you here so we could have a nice breakfast. I wanted to hang out and spend time with my sister and my nephews. And now you’re going to just sit around and sulk.”
“If Lee was here, I would have someone to talk to. Or if Wanda had showed up for breakfast, but she didn’t. It sounds like she isn’t going to be here for a few hours.”
“So I’ll take you home, then. Go on your PC. Call Jean and your other lonely little friends and bitch all about me and how I drag you along to my dad’s.”
“I don’t bitch about that.” Not all the time, anyway. “Stop giving me reason to start.”
“I’m not.”
“Like you’d know.”
“Fine. I’m an asshole.”
“You said it. Not me.” Ororo tried to change the radio station, but Pietro swatted her hand away from the dial and turned it to a hard rock station she hated, cranking it up needlessly when a Godsmack song blared its way out of the speakers. She was thankful to be left alone with her own angry thoughts for a few minutes.
She practically leapt from the car as soon as they pulled into their driveway, unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the door before he even put on the parking break. She slammed the car door shut, evoking a threatening bellow from him to quit it as she rammed her key into the front lock.
“So you’re staying here?”
“Go to the store. Tell him I had cramps.”
“Sure. I’ll just tell him the truth, that you didn’t feel like gracing us with your presence. Go ahead, be a bitch all afternoon.”
“Fine. I will.” She was already pressing the page button on the cordless in the kitchen, looking for the handset when it began to beep. She undug it from the couch cushions and pressed memory for Jean’s number that she had on speed dial.
“So that’s it.”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” He was still glaring at her. “I can’t believe you made me bring you back already. You could have just stayed here…”
“No shit, Sherlock!” She faced him down. His pupils were dilated, and he had that funny little tightness around his mouth.
“Why do you have to be this way?”
“I’m not any different than I was the day that we met.”
“Like hell. That’s your excuse. You used to be fun. You used to at least be nice about going to see my family.”
“I enjoy them. But you plan everything with them with only a minute’s notice. You count me out whenever you count them in. And that little line about how you always tell me to take care of myself was nice; you just had to throw that in for good measure.”
“I’m going, already. Give me a kiss.” He tried to pry the phone from her, but she held fast to it. They struggled, and she kept blunting his attempt at a kiss with the palm of her hand, covering every spot on her face that he lunged to peck. “Come on, give me one already.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“Just give me one, and I’ll leave.”
“No. Just leave.” And on, and on, and on…Ororo was gradually wrestled to the couch, and tickled, poked, and crowded into submission.
“I love you.” He nudged the tip of her nose with his.
“Sure you do.” He always said that when she was sick of him.
“You love me, too.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” She did. Even though wrapping her favorite frying pan around the back of his head was tempting…he kissed her, and she felt him grow hard.
“Gonna give me some when I get home?”
“Not even.”
“Why not?”
Gads…
“Just go!”
“Bye!” He helped her up, then gave her one final, retaliatory smack on the butt before he left. Ororo released a ragged sigh and called Jean.
“If you love me, get me out of here for the next couple of hours!” Ororo watched Pietro drive off and put her hair back on. She finished straightening up her lipstick before Jean pulled into her driveway.
“Is he being a dickhead again?”
“I need a decaf mocha. Then we’ll talk.”
They piled into Jean’s BMW. “I like your hat,” Jean remarked. “It’s cute on you.”
“Good. Now I feel validated.” Ororo leaned her chin on her hand as she stared out the passenger window. “SO want to kill him.”
“So, let’s chill out and do girl stuff! Better yet, let’s have another girl’s night out. They’ve got a live band tonight that’s supposedly pretty good. Lila Cheney’s singing with them, too.”
“Ooh. That wouldn’t be too bad.”
“Nope. Should be pretty good. What time’s ‘Tro going to be home?”
“Late. Wanda’s coming for dinner.”
“Why didn’t you stay?”
“The usual reasons. I can’t make myself at home at someone else’s home all day with nothing to do. Wasn’t like I could bring my laptop with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got nagged to death the last time.”
“Ah. Never mind, then.”
“I don’t play bridge or knit or do any of that other domestic crap. I’m not in a red hat club. That’s not me.”
“It could be.” Jean belonged to Westchester County Soroptimist’s Society and Toastmasters.
“Eh.”
“Eh?”
“Eh.”
“Right. Moving on. I need you to help me pick out earrings.”
“The last ones aren’t bad.”
“I looked at them again today, and I hate them.”
“Right. Hate them. Got it. Let’s go.” They stopped at a Java Detour drive-thru café and picked up iced mochas.
“What happened to your head?”
“Didn’t eat soon enough. Blacked out. It hit me hard. Put a dent in the kitchen counter on the way down.”
“Ouch!”
“Yeah.”
“Seems like you’ve been getting those episodes more often lately, Ororo.”
“I’m fine,” she qualified.
“You have to promise me you won’t go passing out at the wedding!”
“I won’t!” She lipped up the whipped cream from her straw. “It’s just all about you…” she accused.
“Of course it is.” Jean’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Was ‘Tro there when it happened?”
“Yup. Scared the crap out of him.” She’d waited for him. She’d eaten crappy take-out for lunch and regretted it. Pietro called her at five to let her know he was working late, figuring to be home at six-ish. Seven-fifteen rolled around, and Ororo had already finished making the salad and chicken. Her stomach had growled, but she didn’t want to fill up on Triscuits and cheese and have him catch her munching when he came in through the door. She hated those lectures. Eight o’clock found her contemplating the rapidly cooling food when a wave of dizzy chills hit her. She fumbled in the cabinets for the Tang, her TicTacs, a Triscuit, anything…
It hadn’t been the first time he’d been that late.
“Poor guy. Poor you,” Jean sympathized.
Gonna be okay. Just need a drink. Just…a drink. Too hot. Can’t breathe…can’t…think…
The tile counter felt cool beneath her palms as she retrieved a spoon, yanking off the paper filter from the jar of Tang. She managed to scoop two spoonfuls into the water, which sloshed in the glass after she poured it. She paused long enough to fan herself, just before she heard ‘Tro’s key turn in the lock…
“What are you fixing, ‘Ro?” His voice trailed off, the room spun, and she felt a sharp pain and heard the thud before she tumbled.
She never got to tell him that all she’d found in the freezer to fix were the chicken breasts, they didn’t have any potatoes left to put with them.
“It’s just something I deal with. He knows that. He knew that going in.”
“It scares him. Make sure he knows what to do.”
“He’s learning.”
“Make sure he knows what it means in the long run,” Jean cautioned.
“He will.” Ororo’s voice was uncertain. “So…what time for Harry’s?”
Butterflies by OriginalCeenote
“Bet I could have stayed on another thirty seconds if you let me go again,” Jean complained.
“If I let you stay long enough to break your leg, you never would have forgiven me. Three rounds was enough. The strobe lights in that place were giving me a headache,” Ororo reasoned. “Harry’s. Before you talk me into karaoke.” Ororo still hadn’t worked up the nerve for the mechanical bull, despite repeated trips to Crazy Horse Saloon. She didn’t know if that made her a wimp or just sensible…
“You love karaoke.”
“No. YOU love karaoke and trying to talk me into joining you for songs like ‘Summer Lovin’ and ‘Burning Down the House.’”
“You’re no fun.”
“Nope. Not falling for it.”
“Hmmph.” Jean was distracted by a mobile hot dog cart. “Ooooh. Scrappy Dogs. Remember those?”
“I don’t miss them.”
“I used to live on them,” Jean sighed.
“Yeah, back when we didn’t have the money to afford anything better. That, ramen, generic mac and cheese out of the box, and Froot Rings.”
“Yeah, Froot Rings! Damn, I miss those.” Jean sighed. “They’re so high in bad carbs, though,” she reminded her. Ororo rolled her eyes. “Well, they are.”
“Big whoop. Carbs, schmarbs.”
“You should be watching yours more carefully now, you know.”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda. I’ve got an excuse. It’s comfort food.”
“Why do you need comfort?” Jean broke the ice, knowing full on that it could knock down the dam and open the flood gates.
“When don’t I need comfort? He doesn’t want to marry me.”
“You’ve talked about it long enough. You’ve peeked at rings,” Jean prodded helpfully. “His dad and stepmom love you. That’s a good sign. Shit, it took Scott a year to even introduce me to his parents!”
“He walked out of the store before I could even try one on. As I recall, he just mumbled, said ‘That’s nice,’ and took off like a shot to browse at the sports shop across the mall. Left me standing there in the wake of his smoke trail, smoothie in my hand.”
“Okay. So that wasn’t so smooth,” Jean admitted guiltily. “But hey, the sex is great, right?” This was greeted by a heavy sigh. “Er…right?”
“Suuuuuuure. Tell me another one.” Ororo met Jean’s bemused gaze. “The sex is good when he’ll let me bust a nut!” Jean nearly choked on the stick of Wrigley’s she had just folded into her mouth. Ororo knew she crossed that line into “TMI” but didn’t care. It felt too good to vent.
“Holy…don’t DO that! I almost needed the Heimlich! You mean he doesn’t-“
“No.” Ororo reflected on it for another moment. “Not lately.” Then, “Not for a while.”
“Like, how long?”
“I don’t know…” Ororo ticked off silent figures on her fingers, making a rumbling sound in her throat. “Two, three…six…hmmm. Wow. Like, ten months.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, shit.”
“Well,” Ororo hedged. “Yeah,” she finished weakly. “About that long.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are you guys getting along other than that?”
“We’re kinda not.”
“Wow. Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. I still love him. But that’s when I don’t want to kill him. It wouldn’t be so hard if he weren’t making me jump through so many hoops.”
“What kind?”
“He blows hot and cold. Like yesterday. We went to his parents, after arguing for almost an hour of whether he really wanted me to go with him or not. He was like that the night that I went to your bachelorette, too. He’s been funky about my job. It’s not my fault that I have one where I can work from home once in a while and he doesn’t, or that he has to travel so often. I didn’t shove him kicking and screaming into working at his brokerage firm.”
“Good money, though.”
“You’re telling me. He gets paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour just to tell people if they get a better tax savings with a Roth IRA or whether they should enroll in term life.”
“So you two could buy a new house if you wanted to.” Jean sounded hopeful.
“Only if he actually wanted to. Shit, he pretty much tells his dad to put a sock in it whenever he mentions lending us the money to buy a few acres to build one brand new. I like my own house well enough.” And Ororo did. Her little condo suited her, just big enough to have some space, but not so huge that she couldn’t clean it herself or mow her own lawn. Especially since Pietro always promised her he’d do it before laying around another hour in front of Ultimate Fighting Challenge or going out with Scott for drinks.
“Then you two should just fix up your place and add on to it. It’d be nice for when you have kids.”
“Tell me another one. He doesn’t even know if he wants any.”
“Seems like he’d better figure it out.”
“I think he has. Jean, I think I’m the one who’s got to figure it out.”
“What?” Jean felt uncomfortable. She was satisfied with her life, and with her friends. She enjoyed the easy, cozy foursome that she, Ororo, Scott and Pietro made when they played Scrabble, went to the movies together, or got together for nights at the farmer’s market or bunko. Ororo’s confessions made her afraid that their little bond was in danger of unraveling at the fringes. She grasped at straws. “Honey, you and Pietro have a good thing going. You love him.”
“I know. I do. God, Jean, I do.” Ororo’s voice was strained as they took their place in the growing line outside of Harry’s, roughly thirty people back from the door. It was just starting to wrap itself around the block the way it always did when they had a live band. “I don’t want to rock the boat…but shit, why can’t I? Why do I have to settle for him setting all these conditions? After we both finished our degrees and got our piece of paper, he said he wanted to finish grad school first. So I waited. Then he wanted to tour Europe. I said, okay, fine. I didn’t even give him any crap when he decided he needed to do that with the guys.”
“You gave him a little crap.”
“Fine, then,” Ororo pouted. “I gave him a ton of crap about it. Can you blame me? I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”
“Now you can see it on your honeymoon. There you go, something to look forward to.”
“Then he wanted to get a job in the city. And of course, I had to get a job there, too, and get one where I was earning at least as much as he was, so he wouldn’t feel like I was along for the free ride.”
“That was back when you guys were renting that crappy little apartment in Queens.”
“Sure. He was on the lease and let me move in. I even sold him the furniture back when I moved out.” Ororo shuddered. It had been the bleakest day of her life.
~*~
Two years into their relationship, after settling into a comfortable, domestic little routine, Pietro grew restless. “I think we need some space. I don’t know where we’re going with this.”
“Wait…you don’t know where we’re going with what? What’s not to know? I thought we were fine.” Cold prickles raced across Ororo’s flesh as they stood facing each other across the dividing counter of the kitchen. Pietro was shuffling a Bicycle deck on the coffee table, dealing out cards for a game of solitaire. She was just drying the last dinner plate before setting it into the rack.
“Ro…we’re not fine. We haven’t been for a while,” he deadpanned, as though he were trying to explain things slowly for her. She knotted the dishtowel so tightly in her hands that her knuckles ached.
“You can’t be serious. I love you. We’ve been together for a long time. What’s the problem?”
“We’re the problem,” he pronounced. “This is getting stale. We don’t have fun anymore.”
“It’s called working for a living. And paying bills. Oh, let’s not forget the car note. And having someone to wake up to the in the morning who doesn’t ask ‘So, can you give me a ride back to my place?’ and do the walk of shame out the door.”
“Walk of shame…shit. That’s cute. Really cute, Ororo. I never treated any woman like that…”
“Really. Goodie for you. You act like you wish you had. Or like you could.” She lifted her eyebrow in wary challenge. “Getting tired of the same old pussy?”
“Don’t make this about that.”
“Why not? What’s it all about, then? We’ve been with each other for a while. I’ve been putting you first.”
“Where else would you put me?” he scoffed.
“Hoo. Listen to you, Mister Man.” The air grew thicker. Ororo fought not to choke on it, but she felt her heart skip a beat or two.
“You used to be spontaneous. You surprised me all the time; I never thought things between us would become so…predictable. I just figured you would keep me guessing and on my toes. But look at us. We’re in a ‘routine.’ It feels a lot like a rut. Ororo…I think I’m done.”
“You think you’re done?”
“Yes.”
The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet.
“I think we should break up.”
BANG. Ororo stared at him as though he were speaking Greek, and her fingers became nerveless. She didn’t notice when she dropped the dishtowel. Suddenly she was gripping the cheap, cracked Formica countertop for support and exhaling hard through her nose.
“Ororo…”
“Uhm-uhm. No. Just…don’t,” she rasped. She shook her head, closing her eyes against the sight of his lean, beautiful face, beseeching her. Wooing her away from the tide of outrage percolating in her stomach.
“Baby, listen to me, I know you don’t-“
“No! No, you don’t know. What do you know, Pietro? Huh? You KNOW,” she sneered, still trying to suck air into her lungs and waving him away as he rose from his recliner, looking as though he would join her in the kitchen. She was shaking like a leaf. The shudders wouldn’t stop coming. “What do you know?” she pressed again. “What’s this about?” she croaked.
“Nothing. It’s not about you. I just need some alone time.”
“You do. Alone time,” she parroted, practically robotic.
“Yeah. Just…time. A little. Just for a while. We took things too fast. Once we got together, it’s just like…everything else just went away. There was no ‘you and me’ anymore, just ‘us.’ I feel like I’m always reporting to you.”
“It’s bad that I think of you? That I want to know what you’re doing? Or how you’re doing? Or what’s on your mind?”
“You’re smothering me.” BANG. Before she could stop her hands, Ororo was shoving him back, full force, slapping him in the chest so hard that her palms stung.
“Don’t, ‘Ro! Jesus, this is what I’m talking about, you take everything like it’s all about what you want, and overreact-“
“You think I’m OVERREACTING?!?!?” She flung her hands up in the air, even as she backed away from him. “You weren’t counting on me ‘overreacting’ when you decided to break up with me?” It grew progressively uglier over the next half hour. Ororo screamed herself hoarse, crying half the time and cursing him the other half. Pietro shouted back everything that was wrong with them staying together. Wrong with her. The name-calling never seemed to end. The night ended with Ororo sinking down against the bedroom wall after slamming herself behind the door. She leafed through the yellow pages, making a list of apartment complexes and storage facilities to call. She took her list with her into work the next day and made furtive calls on each of her breaks, puzzling her coworkers when they eavesdropped over her cubicle wall. She went about the day in a daze, puffy-eyed and miserable, and worst of all, so damned unlovable.
Ororo spent the next two months broker than she had been since her sophomore year of college. She began picking up the occasional piece of furniture at garage sales and thrift shops until she had a dinette table with one chair. A futon. A bedside table with a single drawer. A floor lamp. Just enough furniture for one.
Ororo moved through each day of the next month like a robot, only showing real animation during her kickboxing class. Her sparring partners and trainers grunted loudly beneath the impact of her feet and fists, slightly unsettled by the fierce gleam in her eye.
Her nights were the worst. Since she graduated, Marie, Ali, Betsy and Jean had drifted into the ‘burbs. Lorna worked down the street from Ororo, but kept fierce hours at the ironsmithing foundry, designing “rustic, shabby chic: furniture and objets d’art that cost as much as a mortgage payment. She couldn’t blame any of her friends for having a life.
I’m not “lonely.” I’m “independent.” It became her mantra. Granted, it was a lie…
She fought to keep her feet from straying back into the groove she’d worn in the pavement to her old apartment. The next month found her numb and still stumbling. She dropped ten pounds that she didn’t even need to lose; food tasted dry in her mouth. Her internist lectured her soundly about her diet.
She missed his warmth at her back at night, twining her long, narrow feet with his. She fought to remind herself of his iniquities. Her television set no longer blared shows featuring breasts, bullets and explosions. There was no longer a grungy halo of stubble and shaving foam residue ringing her bathroom sink. She always knew who drank the last bottle of orange-carrot Sobe.
By the end of the third month, Ororo ran into him at the takeout place on the corner of Fifth and Graymalkin Avenue. She guessed it was inevitable, even in a city as big as New York. He still looked gorgeous. Damn him. She averted her eyes and tried to sidestep him as he backed away from the counter, calling back flippant jibes to the man behind the counter. She flinched as he bumped into her, shivering slightly when she caught a whiff of his familiar scent.
“Excuse me, Miss…’Ro. Hey,” he hedged. She cleared her throat and attempted to move out of his way. His firm, insistent grip on her upper arm stalled her. She look up into his eyes and was shocked to see him looking like a boy who’d found a favorite, forgotten toy in the bottom of the chest.
“H-hi,” she stammered. “Just…dinner. You know. Takeout. Eating at home.” She muttered monosyllables, while her heart hammered, inching its way higher into her throat.
“Uh-huh.” His grip twisted the handles of his plastic takeout bag. “How’ve you been, ‘Ro?” She tried to shape the words. She finally let the first ones that sprang to her mind tumble free.
“How do you think?” She tensed beneath his gaze. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Mine’ll take a while. I don’t have what I want yet.”
“I can wait,” he assured her. “And I think you do.” Damn him.
“Suit yourself.” The sensible voice of reason was drowned out by her body’s screaming urge to cling to him. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything.” The barb stung him. She stared him down until he let go of her, his jaw clenched beneath pleading eyes.
“I don’t have anywhere special I need to be right now.”
“Maybe that was our problem,” she offered. “Where we were…with what we had; I don’t know.” She attempted to sound casual and dismissive but missed it by a mile. “I wasn’t your special place to be,” she grated out. She hated the sound of her own voice. They measured each other with their eyes. With their hearts. An uncomfortable moment later, Pietro rushed from the shop as Ororo placed her order for her usual lemon chicken.
Pietro rang her mobile the next day.
He insisted that he didn’t want anything, just to talk. They he mentioned “ casually “ that he was free for lunch, if she wasn’t too swamped. Ororo cursed to herself: Of course she wasn’t. She felt herself tipping over and sliding down that slippery slope. Pietro was waiting to catch her with phone calls. Flowers. Invitations to dinner. He was solicitous. Held open doors. She reminded herself that he was the one who cashed in the warranty on their “happily ever after.”
She had to be crazy to take him back. She had to have lost her damned marbles. Chickens come back to roost… murmured her voice of reason, but she squelched it. His scent, his heat, the feel of his lips, his flesh beneath her seeking, stroking palms overwhelmed her. Enveloped her. She could never tell him no.
Pietro didn’t seem to have that problem. Despite the little, daily “man favors” he did around the house like taking out the trash, loading the dishwasher, or taking her car to the car wash every now and again, he didn’t seem to throw himself at her mercy. Everything she wanted was dangled in front of her nose, like a carrot on a string.
Pietro was a groomsman in Scott and Jean’s wedding. Ororo was Jean’s maid of honor. The gears and wheels of Ororo’s biological clock ticked, thudded and grinded loudly in her ears.
Cu-ckoo. Cu-ckoo…
She was going to be stuck in taffeta, instead of white lace, for the rest of her young life.
~0~
“Line sure is moving slow,” Jean complained, bringing Ororo back to reality.
“Ummmm.”
“Ororo? You there?”
“Uh-huhm.”
“I don’t believe you. What’s up? You look down. We’re out to have a good time!” Jean squealed. “I won’t let you be a downer tonight! This will be fun; we’re out of the house, you don’t have to stay home and pine away over your man, and we get to dance our asses off!” Her voice rose in emphasis on the last two syllables, drawing smirks from passerby as more people attached themselves to the coil of clubhoppers. Jean looped her arm through Ororo’s and gleefully trotted up and down in something resembling a Snoopy dance, jostling Ororo along with her. “Smile, damn it!”
“O-kay. QuitThatSHIT!” Her words were staccato with the impact of Jean’s antics. She grinned back at her. “Excited?”
“God. You don’t even know.”
“Nope. But you seem excited.”
“He’ll come around.”
“Maybe if we don’t kill each other first. I’d hate him, if I didn’t love him so much.”
“Everyone has their days when they don’t get along. Scott and I fight once in a while,” Jean offered.
“Over where to eat. Or who burps the loudest, or who didn’t hang up the last dry washcloth. You two are the Bobsey Twins. It’s not the same. You’ve never broken up with Scott and tried to get back together with him again.”
“Get out of here with that shit. We fight. All couples fight.”
“Not like me and ‘Tro.”
“So we’re having a contest over who fights the most?”
“Pfft.” Ororo dug into her pocket for her gum and popped a piece into her mouth, tucking a stick into Jean’s palm when she beckoned impatient to her to kick down with some. “It’s not like I want to win that contest, but I could, hands down.”
“Scott just treats me like a queen. I’m pretty lucky.” Her tone was matter-of-fact as she reached out to smooth a flyaway curl that drifted loose from Ororo’s cap.
“No. You’re practically God. The man worships you.”
They gradually made their way into the alcove of the bar, fishing for their IDs and checking their teeth for lipstick, using each other as mirrors and style coaches at the last minute. Ororo peeked at the bouncers at the front door, relieved to see that their “friend” Vic wasn’t working the door tonight. A medium height, compactly built blond man whose name tag introduced him as “St. John” was ahead of them, barking at a young couple to show them their ID, his accent sounding faintly like he could be from New Zealand. As they came closer, Ororo smelled a faint whiff of clove cigarette smoke on his clothes. His dark busboy’s apron was slightly damp from running in and out of the kitchen and clearing beer pitchers from the patio, and he nodded at Ororo before shining his flashlight on her proffered card. He made no bones about shining it directly into her face, as though the only way he could verify who she was, was to leave her blind as a bat and blinking away spots for the next ten minutes. His lips curled in a faint smile, appreciating what he saw. He handed her ID card to her and waited for her to grab it, and Ororo cocked her brow at him when he wouldn’t let go. She loosened her grip before he let go of his end, unapologetic. She stared quizzically at him before she bent over to pick it up.
Wolf whistles sounded a few yards away as several people in line took in the sight of her caramel cleavage bulging up from the gauzy top. Shit. She felt her cheeks flush with heat, irritation mingling with embarrassment. He smothered a smirk before staring through her to the next person in line, reaching for their ID before she could take umbrage.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath as Jean ushered them inside.
“Let’s hit the patio,” Jean urged. “Bad karma might come back to bite him in the butt.”
“If it doesn’t, can I preemptively wish him a swift kick in the balls?”
“Yup.”
“I knew I loved you.”
The patio was already packed with people milling around, unsettling the wood chips, sitting on the edges of planters and teetering on barstools, bellying up to the three outdoor bars and bellowing orders for drinks, setting down crumple dollars on the slick counters where they could get damp and soggy from spilled beer. Drunken sorority girls in nearly identical outfits and highlighted hair crooned along to the Sheryl Crow song blaring from the speakers, and Ororo and Jean nudged each other knowingly. It hadn’t been as long ago as they liked to think. Ororo half-surmised that she and Jean were one out of, perhaps, twenty people in the crowd who didn’t sport body piercings, torn denim, Teva sandals, or hair dyed colors not found in nature. They were nearly blinded again by random flickers of the flash from myriad camera phones taking blackmail photos that would find their way onto MySpace pages by morning. The band was setting up on the tiny stage, and Ororo cringed at the knock of the speakers as they were moved back and forth. Feedback squealed from the amplifiers, evoking groans from the crowd.
The band slowly appeared to test their equipment, surreptitiously idnored by the surrounging patrons. Ororo and Jean each ordered a rum and diet Coke and munched on handfuls of beer nuts, less interested in the buzz than the night’s dancing. Jean drew everyone’s eye in passing; the floodlights and citronella torchieres bathed her hair in glimmering fire. She was blithe and oblivious. Ororo, out of long habit, groomed her casually, fixing stray spaghetti straps when they slipped loose or making her hold still when she had lipstick on her teeth. Unvoiced need found her hovering close, the two of them leaning shoulder to shoulder, backs against the bar. Ororo craved the confort she didn’t know how to ask for. All the swirling bodies and faces blurred together, and Ororo allowed her thoughts to be drowned out by the clamor. Beer mugs and iced tea glasses clanked against counters, emptied, dripping moisture over every surface. The faint flush of heat from the rum sent appreciated warmth into Ororo’s belly, along with a funny quiver.
Something was going to happen tonight…
Her eyes drifted back to the stage. A slender woman, perhaps a few years younger than she was, adjusted the mike stand to a height that suited her. Her lips were glossed in a red so deep it was nearly black, like lush, sweet cherries. Raven hair shone under the lights, razor cut into a messy shag. She threw back her head and laughed with abandon at something her drummer muttered behind her; Ororo envied her that moment.
The argument with Pietro nagged at her. The twanging, random practice chords broke through her reverie. Lean arms roped with wiry muscle balanced the guitar against hips clas in broken-in denim. Dexterous, clean-nailed fingers rolled the pick over and under each digit, back one way, then the other. He ran his fingers over the strings in a nearly silent glisse, stroking them like a lover before he was interrupted by a mountain of a man down front. He nodded to him in greeting before he met the singer’s eyes, acknowledging that it was time. Her lithe body drew strength from the opening licks of the guitar, thrilling to the clicks of the drumsticks striking together.
”I can’t get no…satis-fac-tion…” Her voice was a just-got-out-of-bed rasp, throaty and delicious.
”I can’t get no…chain re-ac-tion!
And I try
And I try
And I try
AND I TRY! I CAN’T GET NO ““
The song was older than two thirds of the audience but didn’t fail to get them swaying and bumping. Lips mouthed the lyrics while Jean and Ororo drained the last of the transparent, diluted amber liquid in their glasses.
*They danced.*
They hung on the fringes of the crowd at first, not drawing too close to offer anyone an unintended welcome. The next three songs drove away the chill in the aid as they began to sweat. Ororo accidentally bumped into the huge man she’snoticed before, mouthing an apology that was accepted with a bashful smile that seemed at home on his face. Kind blue eyes full of quiet sorrow belied it, but measured her a moment before he saluted her with his beer mug.
*They people-watched.*
Jean tugged sharply on her arm. “Look! It’s him.”
“Who?” She squinted in the general direction of where Jean jabbed her finger.
“HIM.” She spun her around, directing her gaze more accurately with her manicured finger. “Officer Hot Abs at twelve o’clock!”
“Wait…oh. OHHHH…” His hands were good at other things than taking off his clothes and divesting women of singles. “Oh, my.”
“What are the odds?” He was sex personified, even in worn jeans and an acid green Sideout tee shirt. He flipped floppy auburn hair from his laughing black eyes. Playing for all he was worth as the band’s songbird backed herself flush with the slouch of his spine, letting her hair stroke him as she belted out the words.
I got my head, but my head is unraveling
Can’t keep control, can’t keep track of where its traveling
I got my heart but my heart is no good
And you’re the only one that’s understood
I come along but I don’t know where you’re taking me
I shouldn’t go but you’re reaching back and shaking me
Turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky
The more I give to you, the more I die
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You make me hard, when I’m all soft inside
I see the truth, when I’m all stupid eyed
The arrow goes straight through my heart
Without you everything just falls apart
Ororo followed the progress of the Big Guy, as she decided to christen him. A buxom woman with creamy skin and hair as dark as his approached him, materializing out of nowhere and laying her hand on his shoulder. He tensed as though to offer a rejection to pending invitations, until he stared down into her face. Ororo watched his body relax by degrees, and a lazy smile drifted across his chiseled mouth. She makes him feel safe, she thought. His manner toward her, his whole stance, seemed slightly protective, maybe even covetous, even though they didn’t continue to touch after her initial greeting.
My blood wants to say hello to you
My feelings want to get inside of you
My soul is so afraid to realize
Every little word is a lack of me
*They wrote dialogue for complete strangers.*
“Hi, my name’s Serendipity, and I like, totally hate that name? People tell me I sound more like a Becky,” Jean honked nasally, nodding toward a girl who looked like she got in with a fake ID.
“That’s cool; so, do you, ya know, have a FRIEND??? Or maybe two or THREE friends…” Ororo supplied for the guy with the pierced tongue who was hanging on her every word. Jean snorted into her ice water.
*They danced some more.*
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
Ororo gradually caught the eye of their former dancer for hire. She grinned. He winked. It felt good, and naughty, to have found a friend she shared a silly secret with. Out of a sense of restlessness, she scanned the crowd for more familiar faces.
She wasn’t disappointed.
She backed into something solid and immovable, startled and nearly having a heart attack when her boots’ high heels trod hard upon feet so big she could never miss them.
“Whouuulff!” Muffled, hissed cursing swept over the crest of her ear as beefy hands gripped her. She nearly stumbled, trying to overcorrect her feet. Her hands flailed for purchase while her heart pounded with embarrassment and contrition. She whirled around, breaking free of the warm grip and forming apologies weakly.
“That couldn’t have felt good,” she groped. “Your poor feet,” she moaned. “I am SO sorry!”
“Shoulda watched where I stepped,” he grumbled, rubbing his nape as he tried to recover himself. That effort flew out the window as they made eye contact.
“Er…”
“Oh. Wow. Um…hi?” Recognition set in. Palms began to sweat. Guts twisted and hearts slammed.
Brown eyes met blue, and Ororo’s mouth went dry. It felt surreal as his hand drifted up and touched her forehead, lighter than a caress. She flinched; it was still tender.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Still hurts?”
“Just a little. Didn’t mean to step on you.”
“Happens. Story of my life. I’ll live,” he reassured her. His lips quirked, and she felt she was missing out on the punchline.
“Really? I mean…why? People stepping on you, I mean.”
“My line of work has folks fallin’ all over me, literally. I’m an LVN,” he shrugged. “but ya knew that, eh?”
“I knew you…OH. You were…and I…Daffy Duck!” she grinned. It was his turn to look confused, just as it was dawning on her who ELSE he was.
Mister Grumpy Butt was her knight in olive green scrubs.
“My Band-Aid. You gave me one with Daffy Duck on it.” His lips quirked again, and Ororo could tell he still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t lost her mind.
“First one that came to hand. Wuz either him, Bugs, Tweety or Porky,” he shrugged.
“Daffy works; at least he matched my outfit,” she countered. Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights, and her voice flowed over him like thick, warm caramel. She stood with her feet planted apart, resting her weight on one curvy hip, rubbing her nape in a gesture that mirrored his.
A sound bite from an old Looney Tunes cartoon zipped through her head as she heard Jean’s voice over her shoulder, finding herself enveloped from behind in a protective “ if cock-blocking “ girl hug:
Go! Go! Go! MINE! MINE! MINE!
“Whatcha doin’, ‘Ro?” she purred. She appraised Logan with a blend of amusement and curiosity. She struggled beneath Jean’s embrace, which gradually resembled a headlock. It was common. They often bickered like siblings when they went out. As a final insult, Jean lapped Ororo’s cheek like a dog, leaving a gloss of rum-scented slobber across her flesh.
“EEEEWWWWW! Retard!”
“You love meeeeeeee,” she whined.
“Not that much; don’t give the man ideas,” Ororo giggled. Logan shook his head. The redhead was hot. He’d seen her hair winking in and out of the crowd before he practically tripped over her friend on his way back from the mens’. She’d tempted him, sure, until he heard her girlish voice and saw this little display. She’d cured him before he even saw the unmistakably huge rock on her left ring finger. Slowly it dawned on him: This was the blushing bride from a couple of weeks ago, sans the pink penis veil. Damn, that thing was ugly.
“Jean, you remember…err, what was your name again?”
“Logan,” he announced, extending his hand. Ororo heard Jean grunt lightly as he shook hers, and she fought against wringing feeling back into her fingers from his snug grip. “So when’s the big day, kiddo?”
“Next weekend. Whooooo!” She whirled her fist in a circle like Arsenio Hall, bellowing in Ororo’s ear. “I’m excited, if you couldn’t tell,” she recovered, and this time her smile was genuine. Then the thought occurred to her, “So, is that what you do? Do you have a day job, or do you just, you know, bounce? Bounce? Is that what I’m thinking of? No, wait, you’re a chaperone, right?”
“More or less. Security, chaperone, money counter, and roadie on those rare weekends when Remy plays. My friend up there, on lead guitar,” he motioned, jerking his thumb back toward the stage.
“Really? So, what does he do?”
“Ya’ve pretty much seen what he does, darlin’. Remy’s been tryin’ ta find a gig as a music teacher with the school district. So far, he works at the music shop over on Genosha Street downtown, and gives lessons every now and again for extra change. That, dancing, and playing nickel-and-dime dives like these.”
“Sounds…colorful,” Jean murmured. Ororo elbowed her.
“Don’t be a hater,” she hissed back. She explained needlessly, “Jean works as a membership director at a day spa.”
“THE day spa. Inner Circle Beauty Bar and Oasis.”
“That girly gym and salon, ya mean? The really expensive one?”
“Yup,” Ororo replied. “One and the same.”
“It’s not girly,” Jean argued snippily. “You liked it when you went,” she accused.
“I do. It’s still pretty girly, though; man’s got a point.”
“So where do you work, Logan?”
“Westchester County General, in the ER and Radiology ward.”
“Ohmigod! Shut UP! Are you kidding me?” Jean spun on Ororo, eyes bright. “He works with Scott! Small freaking world!” She turned back to Logan. “Scott Summers. That’s my fiancée!”
“Oh. OH! Holeeee shit!” He’d nearly forgotten about the wedding invitation hidden in the bottom of his bill pile on the kitchen counter. “Yer tyin’ the knot at the big Presbyterian Friends of Humanity chapel on North Street, right?”
“Yes.”
“Guess I’ll see ya there, then. Scott invited me.”
“I don’t remember getting your RSVP,” Jean considered aloud.
“Guess this is it, then, Red.” He hadn’t been sure he even wanted to show up until then. He still didn’t know what strange force was manipulating his mouth to let out such insane words. He had to be out of his frigging mind.
That faint, delectable scent of light perfume, a sheen of well-earned, post-dance sweat, rum and Diet Coke, and the natural aroma of Ororo’s body chemistry seized him. She was spoken for.
He hardly knew her.
He should just walk away.
“So, what time’s church again?”
“I expect to have everyone seated at three, on the dot. It’s formal. Scott’s side is on the left,” Jean supplied crisply. “C’mon,” she ordered Ororo, “let’s dance. Nice meeting you again,” she offered noncommittally.
“Okay, IguessI’mdancingnow,seeyouLogan…” Ororo’s voice trailed off as she skipped behind Jean, being dragged along by the elbow. Logan enjoyed the sight of her backside shrink-wrapped in those snug little black capris, as well as the sight of her sapphire blue eyes peering back at him for one last, apologetic look over her slender shoulder. Jean painstakingly buried them in the crowd, and he had to content himself with fleeting glimpses of that amazing body with endless legs and breasts that made his hands twitch.
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug…
Take me, with you
Take me, with you
Take me, with you
He tried not to stare after her as he enjoyed another beer nearly half an hour later, watching the two women make their giggling, rib-jabbing escape through the crowd as they left the patio. He gradually caught sight of Piotr, making pleasant chatter with a stacked brunette who gave him a warmer reception than the future Mrs. Doctor Summers.
“Hello, tovarisch. This is Sage Niles, one of my coworkers.”
“Careful, darlin’, this guy’s likely ta make ya look bad,” Logan teased. “Ya keepin’ this lazy bum in line?”
“Someone has to,” she tossed back, shaking his hand warmly, not shying away from his grip. Cobalt blue eyes met his directly. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t yet. Call me Logan. Just don’t call me late fer dinner.”
“Scout’s honor,” she agreed. She was sipping a Zima, gripping it by its neck and tapping her fingers against her thigh to the music. She wore a black mesh sweater over a cropped camisole, revealing a glimpse of toned abdomen above the waistband of the gleaming leather jeans that appeared painted on. She looked as though someone dipped her in polyurethane.
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, its not as much fun to pick up the pieces
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, it’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
“Remy’s in fine form tonight,” Piotr remarked.
“Lila knows how ta wail, too. She’s damned good at it.”
“I’d pay to hear her sing, if she ever decided to record anything,” Sage admitted.
“Got a copy of her demo that she comped me a few weeks ago. I’ll hafta lend it ta Pete, he can let ya listen to it.” The three of them eventually retired inside to the billiard room. Logan scanned the bar in disappointment; Ororo was already long gone from the looks of it. Not a flash of white hair to be found…wait.
Hold on a damned minute.
White hair, but not the lush sheaves of curling waves that rivaled moonbeams shining on fresh snow. Stylishly cropped platinum locks caught his eye on a man roughly as tall as Ororo, and just as familiar as he strode inside the club, with a pretty blonde on his arm. He heard her laughing at something he said, in the same slightly accented, stuffy English that was so distinctive when he huffed that they didn’t need any help out to the car.
She’ll be fine. I can handle it from here. Sure. Betcha can, asshole. Ugly prickles of heat swept up Logan’s back and made the hairs on his nape stand on end. He almost didn’t hear Piotr tell him it was his shot at the pool table. He chalked his cue and scolded himself. It wasn’t any of his damned business.
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, it’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
Cold Feet! by OriginalCeenote
Logan cursed as his self-cleaning steam iron left a trail of flaky white grunge and damp spots over his dress shirt. He scratched and flicked hastily at the schmutz while he rearranged the shirt on the battered ironing board.
He was going through a whole lot of trouble for a wedding of a guy he didn’t even like that well.
Elsewhere:
Ororo clutched the tiny scrap of cloth in her hand, reeling and slumped against the back of the door as she heard Pietro’s Jeep tear down the road. He’d already been halfway out the door, reminding her that the best man had to stand up in front of the church before the processional march, so he’d ignored her request to take the same car. He hadn’t heard her call to him to help find her other glove amidst the clutter made by the two of them getting ready.
So, she looked under the bed. Easy enough to kick something under there in the scuffle, right?
As she cleared out the scattered, dusty articles of clothing, her gaze landed on something red. She reached for it, hand shaking, and eased up from lying on her stomach. The room spun.
Sitting down was a better idea by far.
“Pietro,” she moaned. Cold prickles bit at her, and she began to sweat.
The day yawned ahead endlessly. Ororo wanted to crawl back into bed and die.
Still elsewhere, a few minutes later:
“Hold y’self still, mon ami. Y’all crooked, quit fidgetin’.”
“Get on with it, already. Only one allowed ta be late is the bride. Wouldn’t put it past her, either.”
“Aww, naw, mec, she was a lil’ ole pussycat, she knew how ta let her hair down.” Remy’s grin was a mile wide. Logan breezed by his apartment after a harried phone call, barking out “Help me ta tie this damned knot around my neck!”
“Ya s’posed t’save lives, mon ami; not take y’own.”
“A Windsor know, smart ass. Ain’t like it’s rocket science fer a guy like you.” Remy’s closet was teeming with a collection of dress shirts with cufflinks, bow ties, and tear-away collars that he often wore on nights when he danced. He was a whiz at slip knots, if you asked any of his ex-girlfriends, even though Logan filed that away under the category of “too much information.”
Remy squinted down at the two ends of the tie gripped in his hands as he wrapped one over the other. “Not too shabby. Y’clean up nice,” he murmured. Logan’s coffee brown silk tie held a subtle amber pinstripe that any woman would have told him really brought out his eyes. His charcoal suit was pressed, fresh from the dry cleaners with knife-sharp pleats and lapels, a sharp contract to his snowy white shirt. He’d merely grunted at the salesman in the big and tall shop to “just find me somethin’ in black that I can wear ta a funeral or a weddin’, bub.” They’d compromised on charcoal, and Logan grudgingly admitted it was the best choice.
Remy fussed at Logan one more time as he fiddled with the tie, tugging the wide end through the column of looped fabric, snugging it neatly up to the collar.
“Not so damned tight!”
“It ain’t. S’perfect. Don’t touch!” Remy wrested Logan’s hand away from his collar as he tried to finish a finger’s breadth of space between the confining flap and his throat.
“All pretty,” Remy pronounced.
“Those are two fucking words I never wanna hear outta yer mouth again,” Logan carped. His heels clicked down the hal to Remy’s bathroom. Remy came up behind him as he rummaged through the drawer for a comb.
“Who y’tryin’ t’impress?”
“Nobody,” he murmured to Remy’s reflection as he wet the comb and flicked it through his hair, eyeing the hair gel and debating whether it would push him that extra inch toward looking like he worked at a menswear store. He took the plunge, pumping out a blob the size of a dime and rubbing it through.
“Lotta trouble fer nobody, mon ami.”
“Ain’t no trouble. Can’t look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. And I gotta work with Summers everyday.”
“Gonna probably see more of his wife at work now.”
“Gads. I hope not.” He recanted. “I mean, she’s nice, but she’s…just…”
“Got a stick up her butt?”
“More like a bug.”
“Hm.” Remy’s look was contemplative.
Logan made his way out, spinning on his heel for one last detail. “Keys!” He caught them deftly as Remy let them sail through the air. “Lock up my baby.”
“She’ll be safe an’ sound; Remy’ll take good care of her.”
“And I’ll fill up the tank,” Logan promised. He wasn’t going to risk helmet hair and his suit looking so rumpled and windblown that he could have slept in it. He moved the seat of Remy’s red Mustang forward about a foot, cursing his friend’s long legs. He waved to Remy before he exited the cul-de-sac, turning left at the four-way intersection that led to the freeway. The digital display on his disc played read 2:35.
Friends of Humanity Presbyterian chapel:
“Is my veil on straight?”
“It’s perfect. It’s gorgeous,” Betsy insisted.
“I want a veil like this when I get married, but with those tiny pearls,” Emma nitpicked, fluffing the double layer of tulle.
“I’d settle for Elvis in his rhinestones and sideburns pronouncing me someone’s wife. Just Elvis, my man, me and you guys. I don’t know how you do it, Jean,” Ali breathed, shaking her head. “I could never pull this off.”
“I could totally see you getting married by Elvis,” Lorna considered, handing out the corsages and looping Ali’s on her wrist.
“Sounds good t’me, shoog,” Anna grinned.
“Whaddya say, ‘Ro? Elvis in Vegas for you and ‘Tro?” Ali urged.
Silence.
“Ororo? Yoo-hoo?” Betsy laid her gloved hand on Ororo’s shoulder, not sure about the blank look in her eyes as she stared out through the window overlooking the parking lot. Unshed tears clogged Ororo’s throat.
“I’m fine,” she declared, turning her face toward Betsy’s voice but not meeting her eyes. She felt Betsy slip away, and the girls continued chatting a mile a minute. Ororo lightly fanned air into her eyes, trying to dry them up before she ruined her mascara. She succeeded, just barely. Jean mistook the glistening shine as hers and hers alone.
“Don’t cry yet, we haven’t even gotten to the altar,” Jean scolded, smiling like Miss America.
“You look so beautiful, Jean. This is your day.” She leaned down and hugged her, taking care not to muss her careful hairstyle or unsettle Jean’s headpiece.
“We’ll still make time for each other, this won’t change things. I’ll be your maid of honor next time!”
“Sure you will.” Oror returned to the window, unsure of who she was even looking for.
Until he pulled up and parked the car. She heard the abbreviated signal that the car alarm was on and watched him striding efficiently up the front stairs. She wished she could beckon to him and make a sound, somehow. She saw him take his place in the dwindling line to get inside. Then, almost as though he felt her eyes on him, he peered into the window. Slowly his hand drifted up in a mute greeting, and a smile spread across his lips. He nodded, straightening up, and he reflexively touched his necktie. Ororo hadn’t been sure that she could manage the smile before it was absolutely necessary, but a flush of tingles swept over her cheeks, comforting her, and she graced him with one of heartwrenching beauty.
Even as the people ahead of him moved up in line, he stood stock-still, content right where he was until Ororo heard the usher welcoming him inside. He hurried away, and Ororo knew that was the last reprieve she would have from the ensuing ordeal for at least two hours.
Strains of haunting organ music filled the chapel as people filed into their seats. Scott stood beside the front pew, chuckling at something Pietro said and rocking back on his heels. Groom and best man were both impeccable and polished.
In the rear salon, Ororo steeled herself before flinging open the door. She turned to Jean and helped her to her feet, guiding her train and handing her the bouquet.
Show time.
Ororo took up her place and started down the aisle at a sedate pace, hesitating like a woman facing lethal injection on death row. Her knuckles tightened, nearly bloodless as she gripped her bouquet. Pietro and Scott eyed her progress. Scott beamed. Pietro looked strangely sheepish. She took up her place beside the bridesmaid pew, staring up the aisle as her friends joined her, two by two in height-matched pairs. The prelude soared to a crescendo, and Ororo caught a glimpse of white around the corner of the arch.
Pews creaked and sighs of approval rang out as the assembly rose as one, heralding the bride, resplendent in white satin and chiffon. Her father looked choked up and proud as he escorted her to the groom.
The ceremony was excruciating.
Ororo smiled beneath the trickle of tears that she allowed herself, ignoring Pietro for all she was worth. She fingered her tiny clutch purse dangling from her wrist as Jean and Scott took their vows.
“Do you, Scott, promise to love, honor, and cherish Jean, forsaking all others, through sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” His voice was shaking but full of unbridled joy. He slid the diamond-crusted gold band into place alongside Jean’s enormous solitaire. Tears crept down his cheeks, and Jean calmly whipped them away, letting him drop a kiss into her palm.
The applause following their kiss rocked the church to the rafters. Ororo reined in the impulse to spring from the church as Pietro clasped her hand, urging her to loop it through the crook of his arm.
“That was nice,” he murmured casually enough. She managed a stiff nod as they joined the receiving line. He stared at her as she refused to meet his eyes.
She doled out handshakes and hellos like they were water, until he walked up. Pietro wedged himself between Logan and Ororo, his hand shooting out for a peremptory grapple first. “Good to see you, man. Friend of the groom’s?”
“Work with him,” Logan offered easily enough, inwardly pleading with his skin not to crawl. Pietro’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the coincidence.
“He helped us. Back when I had my episode,” Ororo deadpanned. She brightened as she greeted him. “Nice to see you again, Logan.” That fleeting trace of honesty was a relief.
“Yeah.” Damn she was beautiful. Watery eyes and all…what was going on with that?
“Maybe we’ll see you at the reception,” Pietro decided, cutting any small talk short.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He nodded to him, then saluted Ororo. “Later, kiddo.” Logan felt two pairs of eyes on his back as he made his way to the Mustang. He was satisfied when he spared the guests out front one final glance, and saw Ororo’s eyes, still glued to him, expectantly measuring him. That was another vision of her that he stored away to savor.
Ororo and Pietro took their respective cars to the resort, namely Jean’s day spa, which had been rented to her for the occasion, providing the optimum location for food, dancing, and people to mingle, enjoying the gardens out back. The ballroom dancing and aerobics studio floor was buffed to a shine and festooned with white flowers; the banquet room featured three large arches dripping with more white roses and tables draped in white and forest green cloths. Pietro attempted to lead Ororo to the bride’s table, but Ororo excused herself, making her escape to the women’s room. Her footsteps were awkward and hurried as she darted between guests and begged more pardons than she could count.
Ororo locked the bathroom door behind her and turned on the light, which automatically kicked on the fan, assailing her ears with the loud, yet soothing whirr.
“I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not going to fall apart,” she chanted, breathing in and out through her nose. Pietro’s eyes swam in her vision, looking cocky and self-assured. He didn’t have a damned clue of what she’d discovered.
Worse, he didn’t have a clue that she planned to settle his hash.
Voices approached the bathroom door before someone jiggled the handle. “It’s occupied,” she sang lightly, before peering at herself in the mirror. Her eye makeup had seen better days, and her cheeks had a hint of puffiness that she could do nothing about right now. She settled for reaching into her clutch for a tiny plastic baggie containing a makeup sponge, already prepped with some of her foundation for touch-ups. She swabbed it beneath her eyes half-heartedly and refreshed her lipstick, deciding that she passed muster.
She swept grandly from the bathroom, and ran smack-dab into Logan.
“Oh!”
“’Scuse me,” he offered, reaching out to steady her with a grip that was light and warm around her elbow. He smelled good; a faint hint of woodsy cologne reached her nose, along with the scent of fresh starch from the dry cleaners. Both aromas were underscored by his own body chemistry, warm and comforting like the man himself. She had a better chance to drink her fill of him in his well-tailored suit that managed to lend him height and emphasized his broad, deep chest and wide shoulders. Glossy dark hair was mostly tamed for a change; she longed to run her hands through it to tousle it again. She didn’t know where that urge came from. She didn’t care.
“There’s a hosted bar,” she explained.
“Then let me get ya a drink.” Her lips refused to refuse. He released her, then waved her in front of him, letting her lead the way to the banquet room. He didn’t order until asking her what she wanted.
“Tequila sunrise,” she muttered. Logan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Startin’ out kinda heavy, dontcha think?”
“Anesthetize me, please,” she jibed with a roll of her eyes. He nodded, making a small sound of empathy in his throat before placing her order and requesting a bottle of Molson for himself.
“I take it ya aren’t one for weddings?”
“My day didn’t start off as festively as I’d like.”
“Ya wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Kay,” he agreed pleasantly. He clinked his beer bottle against her glass. “Cheers,” he decided. She raised her glass to him and took a tentative sip.
“Whoo.” He laughed at her expression. “They didn’t stint on the tequila.”
“Yer eyes practically crossed.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can hold my liquor,” she insisted.
“I ain’t arguin’ with ya,” he shrugged, beckoning her ahead of him again and silently guiding her to the hors d’ouevre table.
“Are too.”
“Am not. Here, try this,” he cajoled, plucking up a tiny square of toasted garlic bread and plowing it through a nearby bowl of dip. He pressed the morsel between her lips just as she opened them to protest.
“Grblmph. Mmm. Yum. What was that?”
“Ya got me. Hold still.”
“What?”
“Hold still, ya got a little…hold on. Let me,” he chastised, reaching up with his thumb just as her tongue was darting out to lick up the dribble of dip. She held still, and inadvertently tasted his flesh just he was wiping away the offending dab of sauce. Her moist, velvety tongue brushed his flesh, sending a rush of heat through him that gave him pause.
“Er…sorry.”
“No biggie, darlin’.” Absently he licked his thumb, sharing the taste of dip that he’d stolen from her lip. Their eyes locked again. She cleared her throat and sipped her drink. He turned away a moment and took a hearty swallow of beer.
“I was looking for you, Ororo.” Pietro’s voice drifted over her shoulder as he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist from behind. “What are you doing over here?”
“Mingling. What I’m supposed to do.”
“They’re getting ready to seat everyone and serve the food. Let’s go sit down.” He nodded curtly at Logan, not bothering to excuse them as he hurried them away. Ororo’s look back at Logan was practically forlorn.
For five minutes, she’d nearly forgotten her purpose.
Dinner was a relatively forgettable affair of a chicken entrée with wild rice and garnish that was more decorative than edible. Ororo barely touched her food, but worked her way through her second tequila sunrise and contemplated the wedding party, picking her moment. No. Not yet.
Logan had made himself comfortable, chatting with a strangely familiar, huge man with dark hair. She smiled to herself when she realized it was the big man from the club the weekend before, accompanied by the elegant brunette that hovered by that night. It was hard not to stare. Some of Jean’s friends from the spa approached her table and made chit-chat about mundane things and boasting about how well everything had turned out, interrogating Ororo about the honeymoon plans and the flavor of the wedding cake. Pietro brought the loud clamor to a halt when he stood and tapped his fork against the crystal goblet in his hand.
“Good evening, everyone. It’s just about that time to start things off, and for me to say a few words about the groom and his lovely bride.” Pietro cut an exquisite figure in his black tux and white tie. His voice was sincere and boomed across the room for everyone to hear him without difficulty. He toasted Scott and Jean with his glass. “It’s an honor to be here with my best friend on the most important day of his life, as he marries the woman he can’t live without. These two were made for each other, and their love sets the bar that many here today would be lucky to even attempt during their lifetimes, let alone reach. I know I speak for Scott when I was this was the one time in his life where he truly reached for the brass ring and grabbed it. Every other moment in your life, Scott, will pale in comparison to this one, with the mere exception of when you and Jeannie bring children into this world that embody the best parts of both of you. Love them. Love your beautiful wife. Enjoy the happiness you deserve in the union you were born for!” He raised his glass aloft as waiters finished pouring a round of champagne. “To Scott and Jean!”
“Here, here!” Glasses clinked around the room before the guests drained them and resumed their conversations at a comfortable murmur.
No. Not yet, Ororo mused. Not quite.
The dancing began mere moments later. Ororo hugged herself as she watched Jean take the floor with her father, sailing smoothly along, the hem of her gown bustled into a careful poof. Handkerchiefs were left damp, and sniffles could be heard over the Celine Dion ballad that Ororo declared would never her personal choice. She tried not to flinch as Pietro stroked her back. Scott’s dance with Jean followed next. A round of applause greeted them before the DJ announced the money dance. Ororo remembered her duties and retrieved the box of safety pins. Another slow song drifted out from the speakers as people lined up for their turn to dance with the bride and groom. Jean danced first with Pietro’s twin nephews, each of whom offered her a dollar for the honor, grinning up at her shyly. They danced together in some semblance of “Ring Around the Rosie,” Jean giggling the entire time. She kissed them both and sent them off before their father took his turn. Ororo began the tedious, although still amusing, duty of pinning the bills onto Jean’s train and veil and passing more pins out to the incoming guests. She took a turn around the floor with Scott, looping a five through the buttonhole of his cuff.
“Looking good, Summers. Wedded bliss suits you.”
“Your turn next,” he grinned.
“Pfft.” She rolled her eyes, avoiding his glance.
“You all right?”
“Fine and dandy. Dip me,” she commanded. He laughingly obliged, and her cleavage bobbed up from the confines of her gown for a brief moment before she recovered. That sent her into a fit of giggles.
“Note to self: Keep Ororo away from the hosted bar,” Scott intoned with a nearly straight face. She cupped his jaw and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek, marking him with her lipstick before she released him to Marie. Then she took a spin around the floor with Jean, just for the heck of it.
“This is really it,” Jean murmured.
“This is really it,” Ororo agreed. “No turning back. You already sent out the thank you notes for the china.”
“I’m married,” she breathed.
“You’re married.”
“You’re next.” They stepped apart, and Ororo turned Jean in a silly disco spin to avoid a reply. “You are, you hear me?”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
“I already know where I’m aiming with the bouquet, be ready,” she whispered into Ororo’s ear. Her blood roared through her veins like a freight train.
No. Not quite yet. She rolled up a twenty dollar bill and shoved it down Jean’s cleavage, to the delight of the bridesmaids, scandalizing Jean’s mother. Disposable cameras clicked away shamelessly at the spectacle.
Ororo and Pietro finally shared a dance. Ororo fought against leaning into his strength, fighting against how good he felt, how he always felt. She breathed in his scent and clutched him almost desperately. Tears bit at the back of her eyes, but she mastered it. He nibbled her neck, whispering that he couldn’t wait to get her home and peel her out of her gown. Ororo silently marked one more blemish on Pietro’s track record. He was batting a thousand.
Next came the cake. Scott and Jean fed each other a polite forkful of the pastry, avoiding the face-smashing mess that Jean despised.
“Kinda surprised he didn’t just go for it and give her a faceful,” Logan marveled. Ororo nearly jumped out of her skin at Logan’s voice by her elbow.
“He’d never do that.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Yer not gonna dance tonight?”
“I did dance.”
“Once. Well, twice, if ya count Scooter.”
“SCOOTER??” she crowed incredulously. “That’s freaking awesome. That’s how I’m greeting him when he gets back from the Bahamas!”
“He hates it.”
“No shit! He hates nicknames, anyway.”
“He REALLY hates that one.”
“Can’t wait to try it out,” she chuckled viciously. The tequila was setting in.
“Betcha can’t.” He raised an eyebrow, enjoying her mischievous look.
“You haven’t either, you know.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Danced. Not once.”
“Eh.”
“Eh?”
“Eh,” he confirmed, shrugging. “No one I really wanted ta dance with.”
“Oh.” She studied her hands a moment before tugging off her gloves and laying them on a nearby table. Before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed his hand and led him onto the dance floor. His expression was helpless and slightly confused. A bubble of excitement shivered in Ororo’s stomach.
“Ya don’t hafta-“
“I want to.”
“Probably shouldn’t do-“
“You lead.” He cradled her left hand in that yummy, warm grip and flattened his palm on the small of her back. Confusion was gradually replaced with acceptance, and his features softened. They were standing close enough to hear each other at a low murmur, but not enough to stir up gossip.
He guided her steadily and easily, despite the disparity in their heights. She barely resisted the urge to rest her cheek against his temple. He was a solid presence, barely holding her but offering so much support. The conversations around them drifted away as they made their way around the floor.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Pleasure,” he murmured, reluctantly letting her go and missing the feel of her slender body barely grazing his. The faintest trace of her perfume lingered on his suit.
Ororo refreshed herself with a small glass of White Zinfandel at the bar.
The glass was savagely wrenched from her hand, and she looked up into the face of a very angry Pietro.
“What the hell was THAT??” He slammed her glass down on the counter. “What do you think you were doing, Ororo?”
“Mingling,” she said blandly.
This was it.
“Mingling,” he shot back through clenched teeth. A tiny vein stood out and throbbed in his jaw. Florid color rose up into his cheeks, and she watched his pupils dilate.
“Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m unfriendly,” she attempted. Her voice was calm until it broke on the last syllables.
“Let’s go,” he huffed, grabbing her wrist and tugging her after him at a near-trot. They headed into the deserted banquet room, and he practically shoved her into a chair, so firmly that her teeth clicked together.
“What are you trying to do?” he growled. “Do you know what people must be thinking, seeing you dance with him like that?”
“No,” she admitted.
“You weren’t thinking at all,” he accused.
“No.” She let him rail. It was the least she could do, for what she was about to do.
“How could you?” he cried. “Do you know how that made me feel?”
She eyed him squarely. “Yes.” She shoved her chair back far enough away to give herself room to stand. She reached into her clutch, fumbling for what she was looking for.
“What do you have in there?”
“This,” she hissed, gripping the scrap of crumpled satin in a ball in her fist, shaking it under his nose. “Do these look familiar?” The tiny red thong was trimmed in frivolous ribbons, well laundered enough that the Frederick’s tag was shriveled and faded. His anger drained away slightly, but he was still primed for a fight.
“Should they?” Then he recanted. “They’re yours.”
“No. They’re not.” She rearranged them to dangle between her fingertips by the string. “Not my size. Not my style. Not my color.”
“Whatever. One of your friends left them at the house, then.”
“My friends just randomly get undressed down to nothing at my house every day,” she spat.
“What do you want me to say? They aren’t my size or style, either,” he scoffed, but she noticed the defensiveness in his stance, and he was having a harder time looking her in the eye. The banquet room was quieter than it had been a few minutes ago; the busboys had removed what plates they could before their discussion grew more heated, wanting to give them ample room if dishes started to fly.
“Oh, I think these are just your type, Pietro. I found them under the bed,” she tsked. “We both know you can’t be bothered to pick up your own laundry from the floor. I found half of your missing socks under there, even your lucky hat. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t have another woman up in my house.” Her voice was low and brooding. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” he replied, hands on his hips, but his anger was gone. His eyes flicked down to his shoes.
“Don’t repeat me. Tell me that you really DIDN’T have another woman up in my house. In our bed. If you love me, tell me. And make me believe it. Right now, I’m not convinced.”
“Look…I love you. You’re drunk right now, Ororo, and not thinking clearly, we shouldn’t be doing this here…”
“You brought me in here to read me the riot act. It’s different, now that you’re on the hot seat.” Ororo tasted metal. “These aren’t mine. You’re worried that I’ll embarrass you. That I’ll make a scene. You’re not even that angry that I was dancing with someone else, just about what other people would think.”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“I’m not your fiancée.”
“You don’t act like you want to be, from what I saw tonight.” It was lame, and they both knew it.
“I’ve been acting like I want to be for five years. I’ve been tiptoeing around you all this time, worrying about what I could do to make you stay. To make you love me enough to want to commit. How I could please you. You were the one that walked out on what we had, ‘Tro. And you didn’t even come crying back! You didn’t have to. All you did was call, and send a few damned flowers, and waltz right back in! You knew I loved you…so…much.” Her words were rasping out on a near-wail, and those damned tears were back, spilling down her cheeks in floods. “You knew I wanted you back. Even then, it was all about you. You never had to work that hard to get back into my good graces.”
“I loved you. It should have been water under the bridge.”
“Water under the bridge. Here, then,” she glared, “put these on, and take a dip in that water under the bridge! I’m done! We’re finished, I’ve had enough.” His hands fought her as she stuffed the wadded up panties into his handkerchief pocket.
“Don’t do this. Not here.”
“Don’t come home tonight unless it’s to pack your stuff.”
“Ororo. Don’t. You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice was shaking. He raked his fingers through his silver hair. The ground dropped out from beneath them both, and Ororo felt slightly sick.
“No. YOU don’t know what I’m saying. Go on. Leave. You’re always so quick to run away. Don’t drag your feet now.” Heartbreak was etched across her face.
“You’re a mess. Clean yourself up. Here, I’ll help you. Jean’s about to throw the bouquet, people will expect you out there.” He tried to take her arm to lead her away, and wore a look of defeat when she flung herself from his grasp.
“They’ll just have to be disappointed. Why not? I am.” She mopped tears from her cheeks and sniffled, reaching for a discarded linen napkin to wipe her nose. “Hate you,” she whimpered.
“No you don’t.” His own eyes were wet.
“Yes. I do.” She staggered away, leaving him bereft. He sagged into the chair she’d abandoned, staring dully at the floor. The red thong dangled uselessly from his fingers before he crumpled it, stuffing it into his pants pocket.
Ororo’s feet couldn’t carry her quickly enough from the spa. She ignored Jean’s call for the woman to assemble for the bouquet toss as she sprinted out into the parking lot.
She heard her ankle twist as the spiked heel of her pump caught on a small pebble. Her legs were dragged out from under her as she fell forward. “WHOOULLFF!” The asphalt abraded her palms and scraped her flesh, sending shooting pains through her kneecaps as she landed in a heap. A whimpering, shivering heap. The night air was cooler than comfort allowed, and she hadn’t worn a wrap over the delicate crepe gown.
Which was now ruined beyond repair. She’d skinned her knees on the way down, shredded the delicate fabric, and blood stains were seeping through. She sat numbly for a moment before giving into her despair.
She heard heavy footsteps approach her before the chill against her back was blocked by someone bending over her. “Ya all right, darlin’?”
“No.” She shivered and hugged herself, not caring about her scraped palms getting debris and blood on her dress. She’d known she would never wear it again, despite Jean’s assurances to the contrary. She felt his knee bump her as he knelt down, and felt the lining of his jacket, warmed by his body, draped over her shoulders. She shook her head futilely. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Tough. Yer not in any shape ta drive home.” His voice rumbled out from his chest, gruff and soothing.
“I don’t want to go home,” she moaned. She didn’t want to face Pietro, whether it was to watch him pack or to hear him plead his case one more time.
“Then we won’t,” he agreed. “C’mon, darlin’,” he encouraged. She hissed in pain when he helped her to her unsteady feet.
“My ankle,” she explained.
“Those damned shoes gotta go.” He finished helping her into his jacket as she wobbled. He skipped ceremony and wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisting her onto the hood of a car. She just stared at him, nonplussed, as he removed her shoes and looped the straps over his thumb. His hands were gentle as he turned her foot for a better glance at her ankle, pronouncing it merely twisted. His touch made her feel safe.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He let her slide most of the way to the ground before scooping her up in his arms. Her hair tickled his lips when an errant breeze kicked up. Ororo stared guiltily back at the spa, then shoved those feelings aside as Logan helped her into Remy’s car.
Sit Tight by OriginalCeenote
“You don’t have to carry me anymore. I can manage.”
“It’d be easy if ya hush yer yap an’ quit wigglin’ around. Relax.”
“Right. Yap. Hushed.” She pantomimed zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key. He cocked an eyebrow at her. She attempted a straight face and failed miserably. He sighed heavily as he maneuvered her around his efforts at fitting the key into the lock. His shoulders bunched into rounded rocks beneath her arms, loosely circling around his neck.
“Flick on the light fer me, will ya, darlin’?” She obliged, blinking at the sudden brightness of the hall fixture. His apartment held the slightly lived-in smell of a man who lived alone and spent his days in the house. His bike hung from pegs on the wall, and the living room was relatively uncluttered.
A small pile of magazines covered the tiny coffee table that was the centerpiece of a cozy living room. A New York Jets throw blanket was flung over the chocolate brown sofa. Logan deposited her on the couch and eased the table closer, resting her foot on it.
“Looks a little swollen, darlin’,” he grumbled.
“It doesn’t feel like I sprained it,” she reasoned. “That feels different than this does.”
“Yeah, but does it feel worse?” he prodded.
“Nope.”
“Good. Sit tight.” He dashed off to the kitchenette, and Ororo heard him yanking open the freezer and flexing an ice tray. Numbly she considered his words.
“I can’t exactly ‘sit loose,’ can I?”
“Dunno. Give it a try, make yerself at home,” he suggested. Ororo kicked herself; she’d muttered her thoughts out loud and wasn’t expecting a reply. He had surprisingly sharp ears. When he came out, he had several ice cubes sealed into a large Ziploc bag and a dishtowel draped over his forearm. “I’m gonna lay this on yer ankle. Tell me if it ain’t comfortable, babe.” He settled the bag over her aching joints, and her toes jerked with the sudden cold.
“Brrr,” she complained before easing back and burrowing further into his jacket.
“Cold?”
“A little. Still shaking off the chill from outside.”
“That dress didn’t come with a matching parka.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a lost cause.”
“Damn shame,” he murmured, letting his gaze sweep slowly over her lax body, draped in the shimmering satin crepe in forest green. Then he shook it off. “Ya can’t exactly watch CSI reruns with me in that getup, though. And I wanna get a better look at her cuts. Ya rubbed most of the skin off yer knees. Be right back.” She watched his retreating back, broad enough to make the fabric of his dress shirt strain across its breadth. His glutes were toned and rippling, accented by the well-tailored charcoal slacks.
Honey, hush.
She helped herself to a magazine, flipping through the dog-eared pages of an old issue of Newsweek. She heard Logan’s low, rumbling voice in the back, having a one-sided conversation and explaining that no, he wasn’t ready to switch the car for his bike yet, and yes, he’d already filled up the tank. Ororo had stared forlornly out the passenger window of the little Mustang while Logan pumped the prohibitively priced premium fuel. She’d startled when he rapped his knuckles against her window, asking if she needed any Gatorade or munchies. She’d shook her head, but he bought enough for two people to easily share at the little quick stop market as he paid the attendant.
Ororo heard running water in the bathroom down the hall. When Logan came back out, he was in stocking feet and carrying more items, including a small medical kit and a worn NYU sweatshirt. He already had his sleeves rolled up, and the scent of hand soap drifted out to tickle her nose. He sat across from her on the coffee table, fingering the ankle-length, flared hem of her dress. “D’ya mind?”
“Uh-uh. Just don’t use any of that stinging stuff, and we’ll be friends. Play nice,” she warned. He chuckled, bringing out a dimple in his cheek.
“Baby. Besides, I’ve bandaged ya up before. Didn’t hear a peep out of ya.”
“Wasn’t I unconscious?”
“Details, details.” He paused as he noticed that her slender, toned calves were sheathed in nylons. “How are we gonna work this?”
“They're knee-highs. Pull ‘em right off. I’ll still be decent,” she promised. Cool air kissed her knee as he eased the hem up a few inches more, exposing her very shredded knee, the blood smeared and darkening to a rusty red. Bits of debris and threads from her dress clung to the wound. Logan winced.
“That didn’t tickle,” he sympathized. He grasped the cuff of her stocking and rolled it down, and her relief was palpable. She sighed on a groan at how good it felt to take those damned things off. The faint impressions of the elastic remained on her skin. Logan was tempted to rub them away. Her skin was satiny and soft, gleaming in the lamplight.
He flicked open his medical kit and pulled out a small bottle of antibacterial wash. He sprayed some over the wound, letting the dribbling liquid loosen the dirt clinging to her raw flesh. He felt her flinch slightly as he laid the cool, damp washcloth over it, daubing it to sop out the dirt and clean away the blood. He took out a long swab and uncapped some triple antibiotic ointment, then spread a thin layer of it over the sore, sealing it from infection. His hands were steady, unerringly gentle, and so warm that she quivered beneath his touch.
The quivering graduated to Ororo turning into a puddle of goo when he pursed his lips and blew a puff of soothing, cool air over her flesh to take the hurt away. She cleared her throat, which was difficult after her mouth went completely dry. He peeled the backing from a sterile strip, which to her delight still featured cartoon characters. Bugs Bunny grinned up at her as he smoothed it down over her skin. It felt like a caress. Her stomach did a funny little dip.
He reached for her other stocking, again reaching beneath the bothersome hem and taking care not to jar her sore ankle or knock off the bag. He made more room for himself by tucking her good foot up onto his lap while he administered to her knee. Her buzz from the tequila wore off a while ago, but a fuzzy glow flowed over her as he gave her his full attention.
“Messed it up good, didntcha?”
“I’ve got a knack for that. At least it wasn’t my head this time,” she shrugged. His eyes flicked to her forehead, noticing that the tiny wound was nearly gone, faded to a barely visible scar beneath her makeup.
“Yer gonna knock a few marbles loose if ya keep on doin’ that.”
“There they are, rolling around on the floor.” They shared a smile as he finished up, closing up the kit and folding up the now soiled washcloth.
“All better,” he pronounced.
“Not yet. You didn’t kiss it,” she teased before she could hold back the words. His eyes darkened with something unfathomable. She felt him tenderly stroke the foot that was still laying across his lap, kneading the ball and tracing her slender toes. It wasn’t deliberate; it felt companionable, natural, even instinctive to touch her like this.
A strangled moan escaped her as he bent down and caressed her kneecap with his lips, steaming her skin with his breath. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing became shallow with need. She fought it back down and met his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes full of secrets and questions. Logan cleared his throat.
“Lemme take the jacket and hang it up. Put these on,” he offered, nodding to the sweatshirt, which was folded around a pair of boxers. She shrugged out of it and handed it to him, and their fingers grazed. “Be right back.” He scooped up the medical kit and washcloth and ducked back to his bathroom. Once the kit was put away the cloth stowed in the hamper, he frowned at his reflection in the mirror.
Logan didn’t want to be anyone’s rebound man. It hurt too much. He’d ridden that train before, and it all led back to the same damned stop. He was already tugging off the stifling necktie and undoing his top button as he rejoined Ororo, who’d managed to shuck the dress and leave it folded next to the couch. His shirt was enormous on her, the boxers short and baggy, left every inch of her long legs exposed. She still hugged herself against the chill. Logan frowned and reached behind her, grabbing the blanket and fanning it over her lap, tucking it around her securely. He handed her the remote before striding over to the wall unit and opening the cabinet. To Ororo’s delight, a plasma flatscreen TV was his apartment’s one hidden treasure, complete with surround sound and Dolby speakers. She hit the power button and left it on the channel he’d selected last while Logan rummaged in the kitchen.
He came back with their snacks and a bottle of Gatorade for himself. He’d poured Ororo a glass of something that smelled like 7-Up and wrapped her fingers around it.
“Why were ya cryin’, Ororo?”
“You probably heard me before I ran out.”
“Not all of it.” He tore open the bag of sour cream flavored Ruffles. “Just enough ta know he didn’t appreciate ya ‘mingling’ with me. Tell me something.”
“Whatever you want to know.”
“Was I just a means to an end? Did ya plan t’make him mad by spending time with me?” She paused mid-nibble through a fat chip, eyeing him guiltily.
“I was already angry with him before we even left the house. He cheated on me.” The words hung heavily in the air between them, and Logan settled himself next to her, close enough that their shoulders touched. He was relieved that she knew, but hated himself for not giving her any clue before today, of all days, what he had witnessed at Harry’s. There was no way to let her know, but he carried the burden of the knowledge nevertheless. It nagged at him. “I guess I already knew, but I had my head buried in the sand. Late nights. Missed dinners. He hated me calling him at work or showing up there, even to just bring him his lunch if he forgot it. Business travel, more often than the rest of the brokers in his office. The signs were there.”
“Ya love him, though.”
“More fool me. He walked out on me once. I was stupid enough to take him back.” She dug into the bag of chips, hungrier than she thought after the laughably unsatisfying dinner. “We won’t talk about this. No more drama. You’ve got a bumping flatscreen, snacks, a comfy couch and we finally got to get out of those damned monkey suits. Bring on the brain candy.”
“I never miss an episode. I Tivo it when I work nights.”
“Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry if it seemed like I used you.”
“I don’t wanna step in the middle of whatever’s goin on between you two.” That wasn’t exactly true. Logan wanted more than anything to kick Pietro’s pasty ass.
“I’d like to tell you that you won’t.” Ororo was already cringing at the thought of seeing Pietro again when they inevitably went back to her house.
“I won’t,” he insisted, gulping his Gatorade with vicious thirst.
“I’ll have to go home eventually. He’ll need a chance to pack.”
“Not planning a boyfriend bonfire on the front lawn? Haul everything out in a red wagon and light up a cigarette using the flames?”
“Waste of good lighter fluid.” She still felt raw, shaken. “He’s actually got some pretty nice stuff. I gave him a lot of that stuff.”
“Keep it.”
“It’ll remind me of him. That’ll just taint it.”
“Ain’t no makin’ ya happy, is there?”
“I guess not,” she grumped ruefully as she swirled the last of her 7-Up in the bottom of her glass, listening to it fizz.
They watched the show companionably, and Ororo gradually shifted to spread out part of the blanket over Logan’s lap. He turned to ask her if she needed a refill on her soda, and was surprised to hear her slumbering breathing so close to his ear. Her body sagged against his, exhausted and limp. He’d been so busy enjoying her company that he never noticed that she’d plastered herself over him. Her hair tickled his lips again, lightly fragrant and soft. She’d taken it down, leaving the tiny heap of bobby pins on the coffee table, and it tumbled free, tousled and cascading past her full breasts as they rose and fell.
Logan couldn’t resist touching her anymore. He freed the remote from her limp fingers and turned down the volume. She mumbled in protest at his movement, leaning into him until she found the perfect nest in the crook of his arm. She sighed; the sound resonated through him, humbling him that she trusted him.
Then again, did she?
His voice of reason bellowed “Rebound, dumb ass! Don’t walk that road!” His fingers drifted up of their own accord to run the tips over the curling fringe of lashes fanning out from those incredible eyes. Logan hated to move her. He eventually gave in to the drowsy stupor drugging his limbs, and fell asleep with Ororo wrapped in his embrace.
Three hours later:
Ororo woke with a start when the arm supporting her convulsed in an effort to restore blood flow. A deep, gusting snore stirred the hair at her temple. She squinted at the glare of the lamp as she acclimated herself to her surroundings. Somehow she’d ended up horizontal, and she was currently using Logan as her mattress. Some foolish stroke of ego flickered through her mind that he might not have a problem with that; his face was peaceful and languid. The TV droned on in the background, marring the dreamy lull. She lifted Logan’s hand, still clamped around the remote, and aimed it at the set, turning it off.
That motion woke him, and he stared up at her, eyes half-lidded and thoughtful.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What’d I miss?”
“You tell me.” He yawned, leonine and rumbly. She attempted to sit up, but his hands stilled her efforts.
“Not so fast,” he whispered. He reached out and swept aside the tangle of hair obscuring her face, tenderly stroking her cheek. She turned her lips into his palm, barely lipping the thick pad. She became aware of the sculpted muscles of his chest, abdomen and sturdy thighs as she stretched her full length against him and lowered her lips to meet his. From Logan’s vantage point, her hair tented their faces, shutting out the stark light. There was nothing in that moment, in that room but Ororo.
She brushed her lips over his, tasting the salty-sweet residue of chips and Gatorade, underscored by something rugged and delicious. He slid his hands into her thick hair, letting his fingers knead and explore her jaw line and neck, massaging the stress of the day from behind her ears. Their limbs tangled together as they mutually, silently determined the sleeping arrangements for the rest of the night.
The bulge in his slacks stiffened and grew with every sinuous arch of her back. She nestled him against her core, which grew slick and damp, scorching him through the thin cotton of his boxers. Their mouths slid and molded together, the kisses dizzying and thrilling.
“Bed,” Logan gasped. He was getting a crick in his neck, rivaled only by an erection he could hang his hat on. Reluctantly he let her up, and she squealed in surprise at the cold, slithering blob that nudged her foot. Her ice bag hat melted and plopped onto the floor. Logan grinned and deposited it in the kitchen sink and retrieved Ororo, carrying her piggyback to the bedroom. He felt her nipples graze his back and he shuddered. He backed up against the foot of the bed, thinking to let her sit, but she remained standing long enough to embrace him from behind. She moaned into the side of his throat and nipped his earlobe between his teeth.
“God! Darlin’, ya don’t know what ya do to me,” he rasped. Her fingers searched for the buttons on his shirt, and she tugged the tails from his waistband as she devoured his neck. She drew it over his head and let it drop, running her palms over his bare back. Her arms wrapped around his waist again as she fiddled with his belt.
His hand stilled hers. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice full of dark promise. He turned to face her, drinking her in before he enveloped her. His lips were wild, roving everywhere, painting her flesh with his desire and heat. Ororo heard his belt buckle unhook and rattle before his slacks slid down in a heap. Pleasure curled through her stomach as he grasped and raised the hem of his sweatshirt up, exposing her flesh to his hungry gaze, breaking their kiss only when he tugged it over her head, letting her hair spill down. He unhooked her bra, allowing her breasts to tumble out and fill his hands.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“Please…take your time with me.”
“Gonna be hard. I want ya real bad.” Kisses traced the contour of her cheek. “I know I ain’t gonna get enough of ya the first time around. But I’ve gotta have you. Now.” She nodded, giving herself up to his lips. Briefs and boxers hit the floor and the only sounds that could be heard were lips meeting and Ororo’s cries as he treasured, discovered and lavished every inch of her, only claiming her when she begged him.
Above her head, Ororo’s fingers were laced between Logan’s as he thrust himself into her velvety depths. They fit together like puzzle pieces, moving in unison and with such passion that it left her reeling. Logan felt her contract around him, her face almost strained.
“Ororo?” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. “Look at me, darlin’.”
“I’m sorry,” she grated out, opening watery eyes and wrapping her legs more tightly around his waist. “Need you…too much. You don’t have to wait.” His emotions rippled over his face as it dawned on him what she meant. He surprised her with a feather-light kiss on the tip of her nose.
“Yer comin’ with me,” he informed her, rocking to a halt. He knelt back and unwrapped her legs from his waist. She stared up at him with fleeting confusion. He lifted her foot and propped it against the plane of his chest in the dark. Logan engulfed her toes in the exquisite heat of his mouth. His name barely escaped her throat, and the sheets beneath her twisted in her hands. Sensations tugged at her womb with each lap of his tongue. He nipped the ball of each foot, making her squirm and writhe, and she was just teetering on the edge of her control as he stroked her pearl. Her flower wept sweet tears, echoed by the moisture leaking from her eyes.
“Not without you, darlin’, he reminded her, propping her ankles over his shoulders and entering her again, his thrusts long and deliberate while he plucked at her.
“Oh, God!” Her hands scrambled for purchase on his body, clinging to him as she rode it out, finally succumbing to the tremors of an orgasm that wrung both of them dry. His body convulsed as he rocked himself into her, crying out raggedly and repeating her name like a mantra. His breathing was harsh and hot, gusting in her ear as he collapsed, letting her legs slide bonelessly from their perch. Slender arms twined around him and pulled the covers around them both. She contented herself with offering him touch instead of words, curling her fingers in his hair and plying his hairline and the bridge of his nose with tiny kisses. A large, sleepy hand caressed her in return, wiping away the dampness cooling on her cheeks. His hands only stilled their soothing strokes when she dozed off. They coaxed her awake again at dawn as he took her again, lingering over their union with sweet intensity.
Mixed Messages by OriginalCeenote
“So, how do you like your eggs?”
Logan was just scrubbing his face with his thick palm, flicking the grit out of his eyes and giving his broad chest a hearty scratch as her voice reached him above the clamor. He grunted in surprise at the progress she’d made, as well as the mess.
“Shit,” he muttered, “how long have ya been up?”
“Early enough to flip through the last of the televangelists, and infomercials.” The rich scent of bacon filled the kitchen and made his mouth water, until he drifted over to the sink. Ororo was looking even more delectable in his spare boxers and NYU shirt, washing the dishes left from the day before and wiping up stray blobs of pancake batter from the Formica counter. Logan crept up behind her as she dropped the wire whisk into a washtub of soapy water and gathered her against him. They swayed together in a good morning embrace that already felt habit-forming. “Yer side of the bed was cold,” he accused. “Ya coulda let me make ya something.”
“I didn’t have the heart to wake you up. And I was starving, I figured you would be, too.”
“Smart woman.”
“Thank you,” she purred.
“Sexy, too.” His lips nibbled her neck, distracting her from draining the bacon. Contentment and building excitement fluttered in her stomach as she leaned into his heat.
~0~
It had been hard to leave the sweet and tangible comfort of his embrace as the covers spilled away from her flesh. She retrieved his discarded boxers and shirt and padded down the hall, acquainting herself with his home. She slowly dispelled the shock of waking up in strange arms. In a strange bed.
The ticking of the kitchen clock rang out, thudding through her veins. How many minutes until she had to go home? She rummaged for the bacon in the lunch meat drawer and ticked off her chores for the day:
1) Collect her car from the spa.
2) Check her messages.
3) Scratch that. Take two mega-dose ibuprofen, THEN check her messages.
4) Go through her receipts and sort out the purchases she and Pietro made together.
5) Disconnect the network between their PCs.
6) Call a locksmith to come on Tuesday.
Despite the growing heat from the stove, Ororo shivered.
She fought the urge to tiptoes back to the bedroom for another snuggle from Logan. Awareness rippled over her skin at the revelation that she didn’t know how close to get to him. Would he shy away if she tried to hold him? Would he stare her out the door and watch the clock? Let her wear his spare clothes home? Promise to call her?
Those questions were best asked “ or pondered, at any rate “ over breakfast. She searched his fridge for butter and settled for grape jelly.
~0~
She wasn’t expecting his covetous embrace at her back, or the luscious rasp of his deep, scratchy morning voice at her ear.
“Am I keeping you from anything?”
“Nope. I’m on NOC shift. Gonna run a few errands. Hit the gym. Then hit the sack.” Logan practically heard the crack of her lips as she smiled. “Could change the order of that list, though. Sheets’re still warm,” he offered.
“So’s the food.” She heard his stomach growl. “Mm-hm. See?” Logan chuckled into her hair.” Food. Now. Then we’ll go over that list.” They lumbered to the cabinets, Logan’s arms still engaged around her slender waist as she fished out plates. Ororo temporarily shoved her own to-do list asideas they sat down and tucked into the goodies.
“Ya gonna be all right, darlin’?” Ororo paused mid-sip, orange juice hovering just short of her lips.
“I guess. I don’t know. There’s so much to think about.”
“Things look different in the light of day, kiddo. Havin’ regrets?”
“No!” She answered too fast. He quirked a brow at her before biting into his toast. “I’m not,” she murmured.
“Enh.”
“Enh?” Her look was cautious.
“Enh.” His was resigned, as though he had already passed judgment on her situation, or on theirs, and found it hopeless. Ororo sighed.
“Logan…it was fun.”
“Yeah.” Logan gulped his juice.
Ororo and Logan’s eyes played tag across the table for an uneasy minute while she dug for the words.
“More than fun.” She didn’t want to bust out with the big speeches. He didn’t seem the type to want them.
“Mmm.” Logan’s thick finger crept up to scratch himself behind his ear. Ororo toyed with her bacon, breaking it into bits. His eyes followed her hands. When her eyes sought his again, her expression was almost bashful.
“Whaddya want me ta say, darlin’? That the earth moved? Birds sang an’ violins played?”
“I’m not into violins,” she admitted. “I didn’t ask you for hearts and flowers, Logan.”
“Good. Best ta just follow that plan of action, then. That ain’t what I’ve got ta offer.” A morsel of something landed on his plate, distracting him.
“What do you have to offer?” He flushed with the directness of her question, steeling himself before he replied.
“Only what’s left after everything I had was either stolen, used up, leached outta me, or beaten to a pulp.” He was distracted again by a faint, itchy something bouncing off his chest. He rubbed the spot absently as he met her gaze again.
“I’m tryin’ ta explain myself here.”
“You don’t have to yet,” she assured him, rising to clear her plate in one fluid move. “Because I don’t know what to say to you yet, either.” She circled the table and reached for his plate.
His warm, insistent grip held her in place, interrupting her grasp. She let it clatter back against the table and stared at his hand braceletting her wrist. His other hand relieved her of the other plate and stacked it onto his with a clank. She felt herself tugged between his knees and pulled onto his sturdy lap, and he took the liberty of wrapping her arms around his own neck.
“Last night at the reception…that wasn’t how I’d want it to be if…”
“Yeah. Me, too.” She was once again enveloped in his embrace, and felt a hint of cool air against her skin as his fingers reached beneath her shirt and stroked her flesh.
“I don’t like playing games. I don’t like guessing where my man is and where he’s been tipping and sneaking.”
“Yeah, I hate that shit. I like a woman who’s direct with me. No secrets.” He played with a lock of her hair, twirling it around his finger before brushing back the loose waves from her face to cup her cheek in his palm. “No making me read her mind. I wanna say no baggage, but ya know how that goes.”
“I’ve got enough baggage for Amtrak, Delta and Greyhound,” she grinned, kissing his forehead.
“Sounds scary…so, what time did ya want me ta drive ya home?” He pretended to check an invisible wristwatch, and yelped when she pinched his ribs ticklishly. A butterfly-light kiss landed on the tip of his nose.
“Whatever time’s good for you,” she decided, knowing she had to let him off the hook. “You don’t have to dance attendance on me, Logan. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“Yer not. I don’t want ya ta leave. But I can’t hold ya captive in yer skivvies all day.”
“Sounds fun, though.” She laced her fingers behind his neck and plied tiny kisses against his forehead, brows and temples, nuzzling his ears and hairline. Heat surged into his vitals, and his fingers tightened their grip on the curves of her hips. Her breath was warm and teasing against his closed eyelids and the crowns of his cheekbones, and he rumbled his approval when she leaned into him, pressing her breasts into his solid chest. She tipped his jaw up and lowered her lips to his parted ones, greedily, langorously exploring the textures of his mouth, drinking his essence.
“We aren’t getting anywhere very fast like this,” she rasped. His skin felt hot beneath her hands.
“Sure we are,” he growled back, sliding his hands up her ribcage until he found the straining peak of one luscious nipple, tugging it until she moaned. “I’m gettin’ right where I wanted ta go, baby. An’ I thought ya said last night ya wanted me ta take my time with ya?” Her response was unintelligible, eyes closed, head flung back as he lifted her shirt to feast on her. She nodded and moaned again in agreement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She squirmed against him and didn’t argue when he lifted her shirt over her head and chucked it onto the floor. His hands encouraged her to grind her pelvis against his hardness, need building between them, restless and wild. Her hand edged between them, stroking the tapered trail of hair over his abdomen and jerking back his waistband until she found him. He groaned as her fingers enclosed him in her grip, appreciating his smooth thickness. Her thumb slicked over the silky head, spreading the faint droplets of moisture across his taut flesh. She felt powerful as he pulsed and throbbed in her hand, murmuring a strangled curse against her throat before tangling his fingers in her hair, crushing her lips to his. Her world was nearly turned on its ear in a mad fumbling of falling clothes as he repositioned her to straddle him.
“Want you,” he grated out, testing her with probing fingers, slowly snaking them up into her depths. He pulled back to watch her face contort in shock at how good he felt. “I know ya want me, too.”
“Yes,” she gasped, rocking herself into his palm, nudging up against the head of his manhood. He nearly came undone as she rubbed herself against it, slippery and stimulating them both with a slow, even rhythm that was almost as sweet as being inside of her. But nothing was as sweet as being inside of her…
Until he impaled her, thrusting up into her heat, his fingers digging into her thighs. The choked moan of desire, shuddering in his ear and confirming that it felt so right, coupled with the glaze of fulfillment in her soft blue eyes when she pulled back to watch him, proved him wrong when she began to ride him. She was beautiful, that beauty only enhanced by the slackness of her features as he filled her, chanting his name. It sounded right coming from her lips, in her voice. He closed his eyes to let it imprint itself on his memory. She sensed it, too, and caressed him, trailing fire over every nerve ending, tasting every part of him that she could reach.
A hail of cries was underscored by the occasional squeak and knock of the pegs on each chair leg scraping the floor. Ororo’s toes and the balls of her feet began to sweat against the hardwood as she worked them further into a frenzy, picking up speed and friction that threatened to push her over the edge.
“You’re not supposed to feel this incredible,” she babbled. His eyes offered no answers; he just raked his fingers through her long tresses and let his fingernails scribble lightly down her spine, nibbling her chin and throat. “I’m not supposed to want you like this.”
“Yer free ta want me however ya damned well please, now. That’s up ta you,” he pointed out. He toyed with her clitoris, circling the pad of his thumb over it to create even more maddening, delicious friction. Ororo bit her lip against the sensations that threatened to consume her. “I want you, baby doll. As long as a pissed off boyfriend doesn’t come with the package. And as long as ya want me fer me. Not just ta fill a gap.”
“What you see is what you get,” she hissed. “You don’t see anyone else here, do you?” Her lips teased his, pulling back every time he attempted to devour his lips. “I can order from a catalog to fill a gap, Logan. Less talk,” she grunted.
“You got it.” He dipped his mouth to her breast and suckled it to drive home the point. They pushed each other to completion, and Ororo collapsed against him, her body muffling his hoarse shout as he convulsed, jerking within her, spurring another brief climax from her. He held her, steaming her shoulder as he panted for breath. Her legs were trembling, rubbery and limp before she kissed his cheek one last time, then lolled her head to rest against his neck.
“At this rate, we’re gonna be nekkid all day,” he considered, stroking the length of her thigh as it still quivered.
“Might I make a suggestion?”
“Shoot.”
“Shower?” Her smile was languid and warm. He kissed it in response as they rose from the chair, chuckling when they noticed that it had traveled across the floor, now backed against the kitchen counter. Logan only pulled himself away long enough to retrieve towels for them both while she adjusted the temperature of the spray. They made positively wasteful use of his shampoo as he washed her hair. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“Ororo?”
“Hmm?”
“The earth did move. Violins, birds an’ all.”
“Sure that wasn’t just the chair?” She tickled him as she scrubbed his back; he blocked her doing it again by yanking her arms around his waist, leaning around to kiss her.
“Brat.”
The next half hour found her tugging on more of his clean clothes, laughing hopelessly as she cinched in the drawstring of a pair of navy sweats that swam on her. Logan gave her a plastic shopping back to carry her ruined clothing in, and she balled up the dress around her heels and stockings, tucking them in as Logan locked up.
“Mind if we make a quick stop on the way home?”
“Where do you have to go?”
“Remy’s. This is his car,” he explained. “I ain’t gonna trade it for her his bike just yet, I just wanna let him know when he can expect it back. I ain’t got a helmet ta lend ya, so a ride on the bike is out fer now.” His voice perked up on the last two words. Ororo smiled as she pictured being wrapped around him on the back of a motorcycle, shaking her head when Logan read her mind. “Ya might like it.”
“I just might,” she agreed. They piled into the car and Logan fiddled with the CD player, scanning the selections on the disc already in it before hitting play. The drive home was companionable. When they reached the last intersection before the freeway, Logan captured her hand and laced his fingers through hers, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. She sighed and snuggled further into his roomy sweatshirt, then leaned over to kiss his shoulder. Logan pulled onto the exit ramp to a middle-class neighborhood she wasn’t familiar with, directing the Mustang through mid-morning traffic casually, pointing out a mural on the side of a children’s day care center.
“Remember the guy we talked with at Harry’s? Petey?”
“The Big Guy?”
“Yup. Back in the day, before he hit the big time where he is now, he was commissioned to paint that.” The mural depicted a castle straight out of a story book against an airbrushed sky that seemed to bring the clouds close enough for Ororo to touch.
“Wow.”
“Not too shabby, eh?” Logan continued to peer back at it from the rearview mirror as it retreated away. “He did that one while his sister was still goin’ there, when she was just a small fry.” He sobered, and Ororo heard sadness creep into his voice. “He lost her a while back. Leukemia.”
“Oh, my God. That’s horrible for him. He seemed sad when we spoke; no wonder why, now.”
“He’s never really gotten over it. They were close. She adored her big bro.”
“I don’t doubt it. He was so nice. Seems like the kind of person who would be very giving.”
“Sensed that, did ya?”
“Mm-hm. He gave off that vibe like he’d do anything to keep the Boogey Man off your doorstep.” Logan stifled a snort of laughter.
“Listen to you.” Logan fiddled with the CD player again, then craned his neck around to watch her as they rolled to stop at the red light. “Boogey Man, eh?”
“Everyone’s got one.”
“He been knockin’ on yer door?”
“I’m not afraid of him. He knows not to mess with me,” she boasted. Logan suddenly sure who she was talking about. She caught the pregnant pause and faced him. “I don’t expect you to rescue me from my mess.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I get the feeling ya don’t need my help with that.” They turned into the parking lot of a well-maintained apartment building before Ororo expected it, now reluctant to give up their talk. “Ya wanna wait out here, or come inside?”
“I’ll come with you,” she confirmed, already undoing her belt before he turned off the ignition. Ororo inwardly kicked herself when she realized she was in Logan’s oversized sweats, looking every inch like she’d just enjoyed an impromptu sleepover, but there was no help for it. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair yanked back into a ponytail that shaved five years from her and made Logan’s fingers itch to take it back down. His hand was warm at her lower back as he knocked on the door and ushered her ahead of him. Slow footsteps approached the door, and Ororo saw dark, familiar eyes peer at them through the crack between the door and the chained deadbolt. Remy’s smile was sly but welcoming.
“Wasn’t expectin’ comp’ny, specially not such pretty comp’ny,” he chided Logan, nodding them inside. Logan growled at him when he took Ororo’s proffered hand and kissed it instead of just shaking it.
“Hey! Knock that shit off, Gumbo,” he warned, wrapping a burly arm around Ororo’s waist. Ororo enjoyed Remy’s lazy smile, recognizing the same mischief she remembered from Jean’s bachelorette get-together. The man was a scamp. “Gonna give Ororo here a ride home before I pick up my baby.” He corrected himself mentally: My other baby. His hand gripped her hip possessively.
“I took good care of her, mec. Gym later?”
“Yup. NOC shift tonight.”
“Yuh favorite, as Remy recalls. What’re yer plan fuh t’day, cher?” he beckoned to Ororo.
“Heading home. Sorting out some business.” She stopped herself from saying “Kicking my ex out of my house so I can lay around miserably, counting the ceiling tiles.”
“How was the weddin’?”
Ororo and Logan automatically searched each other’s face for a reply before Logan decided to avoid a grilling. “Bout whatcha’d expect. Dry chicken. Free booze. Long speeches and handwritten vows.”
“Works fuh me.” The twist of his lips told Ororo that he hadn’t felt he missed anything, but his eyes probed hers briefly. He grunted under his breath a moment, deciding something about the pretty woman on Logan’s arm that seemed to satisfy him. “Keep an eye out fuh dis one, cher, he ain’t not’in but trouble!”
“Look who’s talkin’, bub!” They were interrupted by a low buzzing in Ororo’s purse. “Yer bag’s buzzin’, darlin’.”
“My phone. I’ll get it in a minute,” she offered, reaching into the depths of her purse to turn it off. Her glance caught the number of messages on the illuminated display, making her squint in displeasure as a number of messages in the double digits greeted her. Fuck.
“Let’s bail, kiddo,” Logan suggested. He gave Remy a handshake that resembled an arm wrestling match on his way out, again letting Ororo out first.
“Bye, Remy. And thanks,” Ororo called back.
“Bye-bye, sweetness,” he chuckled, enjoying Logan’s warning glare before they bundled themselves back into his Mustang. Logan shook off disgust at himself for a moment, knowing damned well that Remy would blab it to Vic and St. John that he showed up on his doorstep with a woman, particularly a stunner like Ororo. Ah, fuck it. There were worse things they could say about him…
The easy glow that they’d shared dissipated a bit the closer they drew to Ororo’s neighborhood. She gave instructions in a murmur that held notes of moodiness and caution. Logan practically felt the butterflies in her stomach, pounding in her pulse as he reached for her hand again. She squeezed him reflexively.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” He wasn’t convinced. She looked terrified.
“You don’t have to stay if you have places to go.”
“I know.”
He wasn’t going anywhere, particularly not after seeing Pietro’s Jeep in the driveway as he pulled up and parked out front instead. Ororo’s hand was shaking as she reached up to smooth a tendril of hair behind her ear. She once again unbuckled herself before Logan came to a full stop, and found herself tugged back just as she clicked open the passenger door. It fell shut again as she met his eyes.
His lips were tight, and concern radiated from his hazel eyes, narrowed as he made his case. “I mean it. I know ya might get into it with him after what happened last night.”
“I’m not going to just not face him.” She gently released herself from his grip, then stroked his cheek; he nibbled her thumb, still looking slightly put out. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her stomach twisted into a knot, and she felt her heart hammering, making her skin break out in chills.
“Maybe not. But two wrongs don’t make a right, either. “Do what ya gotta do.”
“First things first. I need your number,” she reminded him. She took out her mobile, and programmed it in as he recited it, watching her shaking fingers as she completed the task.
“We’ll talk soon.”
“I know.” He wasn’t starting the ignition. She looked at him quizzically before kissing the corner of his mouth hesitantly, then let herself out. The faint slam of the car door brought Pietro to the front door, opening it before she could try her key.
“Tro…”
“Where have you been?” His voice was deadly quiet, and his silver eyes looked worn and hard as he swept them over her. She felt him passing judgment, taking in the borrowed sweats and her disheveled hair, bulky running shoes on her feet, the dress dangling from her wrist in the shopping bag.
“Move, please. Let me into my house,” she advised, brushing past him, feeling him jerk and flinch with the initial contact of her body since the night before. The air in her house felt thick and foreign, charged with a fierce energy that stung her. She felt his eyes on her back as she crossed the living room, dropping her bag and purse on the kitchen table. He didn’t immediately close the front door. She turned to face him, but instead she just saw the sunlight streaming through his hair as he stared outside, scowling into the street.
“Where’s your car?”
“Back at the spa. I drank last night. I wasn’t going to drive myself home,” she reasoned dully, even though she had come close to doing just that. He’d believed she had been tipsy last night when she confronted him, so she decided to justify his assumption, if it would benefit her, too. She had been close enough to him to let him smell the tequila on her breath while she was letting him have it…it was too soon, and felt too raw.
“So he gave you a ride?” His fist was clenched against his jean-clad thigh, and his mouth was tight, tension curling the corners.
“Of course. I didn’t walk, Pietro.”
“Fine. I can take you to pick up your car. Go ahead and tell him to leave.”
“He will in a minute,” she snapped. She didn’t bother to mention she’d already suggested the idea to Logan, and he was taking his sweet time deciding whether to follow her advice. So far, no go.
“Then I’ll tell him,” he announced, and Ororo bristled at the sight of his lean back rushing out the door, ramrod straight and determined.
“Tro…get back here!” To her horror, Logan hadn’t gone anywhere. He was actually outside the car, leaning back against the hood with his arms folded over his chest, waiting expectantly when he saw Pietro come out. He’d been listening, hoping against hope that there wouldn’t be any yelling or drama that would bring him running inside, since Ororo had enough on her plate.
Drama was flaring its nostrils at him now, knuckles white and primed to kick his ass.
“You can go now. She’s home, you did what you needed to do.”
“I ain’t gotta be anywhere in a hurry, bub.”
“Oh, yes you do. Get the fuck out of my driveway.”
“I ain’t leavin’ Ororo alone with ya with ya lookin’ loaded fer bear, bub. She was upset when she left ya last night. I ain’t gonna just leave her so ya can upset her again.”
“It’s none of your business what happens between me and Ororo.” He was heedless of Ororo gripping his shoulder and pulling him away from Logan. He planted his feet, immobile and hard beneath her hand.
“Logan…please. Go,” she pleaded with him. “It’s okay.”
“No, it ain’t,” he murmured low in his throat, staring into Pietro’s face and just daring him to push him. His chest puffed up to its full girth; he’d already pulled away from the hood of the car, hands itching again, but this time to bury his fist in Pietro’s face.
“She’ll be fine. I can handle it from here,” Pietro intoned, making Logan see red as he repeated the same words from Ororo’s night in the E/R, dismissing him. The icing on the cake was that he felt Ororo needed to be “handled.” Ororo, every sweet and loving inch of her.
Yup. He was gonna hafta kick his ass and hand it to him.
Ororo read his mind and reacted swiftly, edging herself between them, Pietro’s swirling breath stirring her hair, his chest at her back. “Go. Please, Logan.” Her eyes were dry and determined. He longed to stay. To kick Pietro’s ass across the lawn, hurl him into his Jeep and shove the gearshift into drive.
He sighed gustily and backed off. “Awright, kiddo.” Time to bail. He couldn’t help her help herself. That didn’t mean he didn’t hate the tingle of foreboding that ran up his spine as he crammed the key into the ignition and drove off.
Ororo stood watching the car until it turned the corner. She turned to go back inside, then rammed smack dab into Pietro. His eyes were blazing with undiluted rage. She tried to step around him, then hissed in surprise as his fingers handcuffed her wrist and jerked her after him, making her stumble up the front steps of the porch.
“Let go, ‘Tro? Are you out of your fucking head?”
“Am I…are you fucking kidding me??” SLAM! “First you take off, leaving me to explain you weren’t there when Jean needed you. You were her bloody maid of honor, and you ran off! Not so much as a word to anyone, and there I was, left holding the bag.”
“No. Just the panties, remember?” she snarled back. “You couldn’t explain why I really left, could you?”
“I just said you were a little under the weather,” he shrugged. “It was the best I could do, you didn’t leave me with much. What’s wrong with you, Ororo? How could you do that…then show up like this…” he waved his hand at her sweats and sneakers and untidy hair. “Do you have any idea how bad this looks?”
“Makes you wish you hadn’t complained about my other clothes now, doesn’t it?” His eyes widened until she saw the whites, and his brows were beetled together, fists balled up on his hips. He pounded one on the counter so hard that the tile threatened to crack.
“Don’t…don’t just stand here, being a smart ass! This is funny to you?”
“No. No, it’s not. I told you I wanted you out of my house if you came back here, Pietro.” She swept her arm across the living room, still in the shape it was when they both left for the wedding. “I don’t see any boxes. You haven’t packed.”
“Why should I?”
“It’s my house.”
“I live here. Where do you expect me to go, huh? Just get myself someone to hang out with until I get my own place? Have a sleepover like you did?” he spat. “You never came home. You never answered my calls.”
“I had my phone turned off,” she admitted easily.
“Why? You knew we had to talk.”
“Please,” she scowled, waving him away dismissively as she went to the cabinet to fish out her Motrin. She was already feeling a tension headache working itself into her neck. She swallowed them dry as he continued to rail at her.
“Were you trying to teach me a lesson? Don’t try to tell me you weren’t trying to get me back.” That hurt; she’d battled misgivings about Logan feeling exactly the same way. It wasn’t like that, her mind insisted. Not Logan. Not that.
“No. He just happened to come along at the right moment, when I needed him.”
“When you needed him…God, that’s rich. You wouldn’t stay for me to explain, or to clean up after that ugly scene you made. You needed him to make your escape!”
“I would have managed my way out of there, somehow,” she considered. His voice was steadily growing hoarse, but he was still shouting. Ororo was running out of energy but still stood her ground. She knew from experience, hard-won, that Pietro would not be satisfied at the outcome of the argument until she was screaming right along with him. “I could have called a cab, or even had Anna drive me, if all else failed, even though she would have asked why.”
“You’ll run crying to her; you women are all the same, blabbing what’s supposed to stay under your own roof in the streets. As soon as I turn my back, there you’ll be,” he accused.
“Pietro…I didn’t talk about what happened the first time you dumped me for almost a month.” Her tone was hard but didn’t gain any volume. She wouldn’t touch him, even though he continued to attempt to physically box her in. The words “first time” caught his attention. “You cheated on me.”
“You’ve been…”
“What? What have I been?”
“You know how you’ve been. All you want to do is change me, and complain about what we have. We were fine the way we were, but you just want to ruin everything because we aren’t married. I love you, Ororo, but I don’t need to prove it by standing up at an altar and signing a slip of paper.”
“You’d sign a car note, or a house note. Just not a marriage certificate.” Her voice held a note of disbelief, as though a light finally went on.
“We don’t need marriage to validate what we have. I don’t need it,” he shrugged. “And you proved to me you won’t honor a commitment between us. Will you?” he railed. “Huh? Will you, ‘Ro?” She prepared herself to press him about how many times he’d been with his lover, or even how many there had been, when he took the wind out of her sails. Just as she spun on him, he loomed over her, eyes still wild, a fleck of spittle decorating his lower lip. She could practically feel the heat rising up from him as he backed her against the refrigerator.
“Pietro…get away from me! Let me go!” she hissed. She shoved at him, but he wouldn’t have it. He grasped her wrists and slammed them back against the cold vinyl, holding her immobile.
“Was it worth it? Was fucking that asshole worth our relationship? To just throw it down the toilet?” BANG! His fist resounded off the cabinet, but Ororo wasn’t impressed.
“I didn’t…” He cut her off.
“Don’t lie to me! YOU WERE JUST WAITING TO DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS!” His voice boomed through her, hurting her ears. Tears bit at the back of her eyes as she winced away from him, gnawing on her bottom lip. His grip around her wrists began to hurt.
“Stop it!” she gasped.
“Do you like it, huh? You like me being home like a good little boy? ‘Ro doesn’t want me to leave her anymore? I’ll be good, Ororo! Fuck getting myself someone who won’t smother me and tell me what to do! You wanted me all to yourself, baby,” he crooned, pupils dilated. Ororo whimpered and shook her head free of his lips as they tried to kiss her, biting her instead. “Now you have me.”
“Don’t touch me,” she warned him.
“Huh? Or what? What’re you gonna do?”
“Leave me alone, you prick!” Her breathing was ragged and hard, and his grip tightened on her, pressing his chest against hers defiantly, heedless of her discomfort.
“I don’t have to leave you alone. You’ll just run off and fuck your little friend if I do,” he murmured. His handsome features were twisted in a leer. “I left you alone once.”
“Twice,” she cried. His smile dropped briefly as he considered this, then nodded.
“Fine. Twice. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Neither will I,” she agreed. She closed her eyes and braced herself, flinging her forehead as quickly and with as much force as she could, thankful that she took some Motrin already.
BAM! She saw spots as her forehead connected with his nose, smarting so hard that her eyes watered. Pietro roared and released his grip on her wrists. She shoved him with all of her weight and ran from the kitchen, grabbing her bag from the corner.
“Bitch,” he hissed, wiping away a stream of blood from his nose, staring at his fingers numbly before glaring at her. “Are you fucking crazy?”
“You won’t touch me again,” she announced, brandishing her mobile phone that she retrieved from her purse. “I’ll call your dad. I’ll call the cops. I’ll call our next door neighbor if you try to lay a hand on me again. You messed up, ‘Tro. You messed up big.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto Logan’s sweatshirt. He weighed her words and her defensive stance. His face finally softened.
“That was bullshit. Why the fuck did you do that?”
“You didn’t give me a choice,” she said flatly. “You were just wrong before, Pietro. Cheating was bad enough. And you did cheat. You didn’t listen when I said to get out. We’re through. Don’t try to call me. Call one of your friends to stay with them, but I want you out. I’ll take your name off the utility bills.”
“You don’t mean that,” he began, unwinding a paper towel from the roll on the wall stand, mopping his nose.
“I do mean it. Stop thinking I don’t.” Her voice was exhausted. She was too tired to even hate him right now. “I think I’m done, ‘Tro,” she said, echoing his words from five years ago. “I’m done. We had our chance. I couldn’t give you what you needed, and God knows I tried. But you cheating…you can’t, or just won’t give me what I need, either.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Yes you did.”
“Don’t do this,” he insisted, crumpling up the towel and chucking it onto the counter. “I’m sorry, baby. You just kept pushing me…why won’t you listen? Those other girls didn’t mean anything.”
“Girls. Great. Plural. Save it, Jack,” she shook her head, tears still leaking from her eyes. “I’m the one who didn’t mean anything.” He still didn’t want to heed her. His hands fumbled for her again, trying to pry her cell phone from her grip.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” she shrieked, her voice raw with the effort.
“No! Goddamit, I don’t let you end us like this!” He shook her. He actually shook her.
“GET OUT! GET OUT! I HATE YOU!” Her fists beat at his chest until they stung, warding off his attempts to embrace her. She kept her grip on her cell, managing to punch in three digits that sounded suspiciously like emergency assistance. He backed away, defeat slumping his shoulders. He sighed, then threw up his hands.
“Fine,” he barked, spinning on his heel and grabbing his jacket and keys. “That’s just fucking fine.”
“Don’t come back,” she muttered.
“Fuck you.” SLAM! She stood and stared at her empty living room for a dizzying moment, listening to her stuttering heartbeat before she walked to the front sidelight window flanking the door. She nudged the curtain aside and watched him as he sat in his Jeep. She nearly felt him pounding his fist into the steering wheel before he cranked the gas and careened out of the driveway.
“See ya, Speedy,” she muttered weakly. Her lungs hurt, almost as though she’d just run a marathon. Tension coiled in her stomach, making her wish she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She peered at the clock; it was nearly noon.
As though sensing that the drama had ended, her cell phone vibrated in her hand. She punched the talk button on the second ring and whispered “H’lo?”
“ORORO! Oh, thank God it’s you! Where the heck have you been, girlfriend?” Jean’s voice chirped at her with sounds of commotion and commuter traffic in the background. “We just got to St. Maarten this morning! It’s gorgeous! But you had me worried when you disappeared without coming to catch the bouquet. What happened to you? Anna and Lorna didn’t know where you went,” she accused. She heard Scott over Jean’s shoulder, echoing his wife’s concerns.
“We missed you, kiddo. Everything all right?” His baritone was soothing and nudged her from her stupor.
“I was a little under the weather,” she remarked, stealing Pietro’s cover story. It was convenient enough.
“That’s what ‘Tro said,” Jean carped, making Ororo roll her eyes. “You okay now?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone? I left you all these messages, trying to get in one last goodbye before we got on the plane.”
“Well, here we are. You can tell me all about it and show me the photos when you get back.” She could hear Jean smiling at that prospect.
“You worried me,” she continued.
“Don’t worry about me,” she soothed back. “Promise me you guys will have a good time.”
“Tell ‘Tro we’re on for Scrabble when we get back,” Scott called out. Ororo winced.
“We’ll see if he’s up to it,” Ororo suggested, rubbing her forehead. It still smarted. She rang off, nodding in accord when Jean wheedled the promise out of her to get together as soon as they touched dry land again in the states.
Ororo wandered over to the couch and hugged a pillow over her chest as she began to check her messages. She scrolled through them. One from Lorna. One from Anna. One from her oldest brother, Japheth, wondering if she was going to the family reunion.
Five calls from Jean. No surprise, she guessed. She listened to them listlessly, each one sounding more petulant and wheedling than the last.
“I love you, you brat. Call me and let me know you got this. Wish that I don’t get seasick,” she giggled at Ororo, being pulled away by Scott’s rumbling warning that they would miss the flight.
Not just one, but ten calls from Pietro. Ten. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten, stacked one on top of the other. Out of long, agonizing habit, she listened to every one.
“I’m sorry. Please call me back. I know you’re there, ‘Ro. C’mon.” Beep. Delete.
“I know you’re there. Don’t be like that. You didn’t mean what you said, all right? Call me. Bye.” Bye, she thought ruefully. Beep. Delete.
“Ororo, c’mon, damn it. Where are you?” Beep. Delete.
“I know you’re not going to let me just call you all night long like this. You’re not just gonna not show up?” Beep. Delete.
“This is bullshit…” True. Beep. Delete.
“Three fucking hours. You leave me hanging here, waiting up for you…call me. Come home.” Beep. Delete.
“They aren’t even mine. These were probably just one of your friends’, don’t be like this, Ororo.” Beep. Delete. Snort…
“Maybe you had a guy on the side. What’s the deal with that short fucker you were dancing with, huh?” Beep. Delete. Aaaaaannnnd…
“Don’t think I’m gonna just sit back and let you kick me out. It doesn’t work like that. We’ve had five years, ‘Ro. Five fucking years of my life I’ve spent on you. I give you love, you give me bullshit, just because I won’t marry you. You won’t do this to me.” That one gave her pause. She ignored the momentary insanity of yelling aloud into an empty room and dead cell phone.
“So how DOES it work, you fucking fucker? Five years of YOUR life? Huh? Yell at ME? Cheat on ME? Red thong panties? Bringing your dumb ass drama into my kitchen and onto my front lawn? I don’t think so. No, no no no. No, you don’t. You don’t get to treat me like that and bring that shit. You don’t…” she cried, curling herself into a ball around the pillow and letting tears soak it ceaselessly. She rocked herself, hating herself. Hating Pietro for making her love him so much, and for so long.
She told Logan no baggage. The prospect of going back on her word stalled her fingers as she reached to call him. She snapped the phone shut and tucked it back into her purse, like it was something precious, then began to thumb through her yellow pages. She began writing down phone numbers to call on Monday for all of the utilities and a locksmith. Then she washed her face, changed her clothes, and called Anna to help her collect her car from the spa. Anna was nearly silent when she noticed Ororo’s ruined eyes. Ororo directed her to the post office store downtown first, where she bought as many cardboard boxes as Anna’s truck bed could carry.
No More Words by OriginalCeenote
“You can comb Princess Poppy Girl’s hair, and there’s even a barrette and necklace, just for you!” Dimples flashed from cherubic, rosy cheeks, delight evident as she ran the brush lightly through the seven-inch doll’s shiny polyester locks. The cameras rolled as she sold it, nailing the script with little effort.
“I love you, Princess Poppy!” She tilted her face just so, nuzzling the doll’s diminutive cheek with her own. “Now YOU can be a Princess, too!”
“Aaaaaand…CUT! Print it!” Piotr rose and stretched, flexing his back from the uncomfortable position in the miserable excuse for a club chair. He ambled over to the monitors and reviewed the footage, his face slowly lighting up as the scene came to life.
The set construction was impeccable. Their little diva lay stomach-down on a patchwork quilt, surrounded by a bedroom of cotton candy perfection, presumably “daydreaming” about visiting “Poppyland” and gallivanting with Princess Poppy and her friends, all similarly garbed in dresses that looked like pastel-hued meringue puffs. The landscape of “Poppyland” was filmed over a green screen and was reminiscent of how the land of Oz looked in Technicolor, only with millions of pixels rendering the petals of each frilly flower. The CGI took nearly half their budget, but Piotr and Sage were ecstatic with the results.
“That’s lunch, people,” Douglas cheered, giving Piotr a high five as he passed the monitors. Sage grinned at their new whiz kid as he made himself comfortable at the console, editing the footage to adjust lighting without the added nuisance of reshooting it. Douglas was a child prodigy and graduated from high school at fifteen. His parents urged him to take time abroad before starting college. MIT enticed him back with a full scholarship and a dorm two years later, and his future looked bright. Piotr knew he was lucky to work in an up and coming advertising agency, but didn’t delude himself that it wasn’t small potatoes for someone with Douglas’ skill. Goodbye, tiny, nondescript cubicle decorated with action figures. Hello, Disney.
“Come here, Luna. Let’s get out of that pretty dress and get back into your play clothes,” her mother encouraged, stooping down and holding her arms wide. Luna Maximoff swooped into them and gave her mother a smacking kiss on the cheek. Piotr felt a lump rise up in his throat. She was so much like Illyana, hurling herself at him as he walked in through his mother’s front door that it made him ache.
Sage’s voice at his elbow drew him from his reverie. “She’s precious.”
“She’s absolutely brilliant,” he sighed, resting a hand on his hip and scrubbing at the back of his neck. Luna took her mother’s hand and skipped alongside her back to the wardrobe room. Crystal Maximoff paused and waved back to them before they rounded the corner. The child’s future beauty was guaranteed, the potential obvious by looking at her mother, a porcelain-skinned strawberry blonde with tourmaline blue eyes and a petite figure that didn’t look like she’d had a child. There was pride in her bearing. She brought Luna to rehearsals and shoots alone.
Piotr headed toward the nearby coffee cart and poured a cup of the tasteless brew, sugaring it liberally before taking a gulp. He grimaced at it; Sage grinned at him.
“You look like you just drank sour milk,” she remarked.
“This is ridiculous. This isn’t coffee, this is horse piss squeezed through a dirty sock. I need something to cleanse my tongue with.”
“How about lunch, then?”
“Sure, let’s see if Monet has the takeout menu from that place down the street, we can order…”
“I was thinking more about going out for it. Actually, eating out,” she informed him pleasantly.
“…in.” Piotr looked up from his day planner, pen mid-scribble. “Wait. What?”
“Lunch. Out. Us.”
“Oh.”
“Interested?” Sage’s face held no guile. No eyelash-batting, no pouts. Just…Sage. And something like anticipation in the depths of those eyes.
Just Sage. And him. Lunch.
His lips moved of their own accord.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She ducked her face for a moment, then peered back up at him. She raised her finger as if remembering something. “Jacket. I…I need my jacket. Be right back.” She turned and darted off, worried that he’d be long gone in a puff of smoke when she got back, praying it wasn’t a fluke.
“Sure.” His eyes followed her as she went to retrieve it. Since she wasn’t pinning him with her gaze, he took a moment to drink his fill. When she disappeared into the bank of cubicles down the hall, Piotr was still thirsty.
He couldn’t remember when he’d first truly noticed her, only that he wanted the number of that truck. Piotr was a creative man by nature, with an artist’s imagination and eye for beauty. Over the past few weeks, she’d eased her way into his daydreams, suddenly populating their friendly chats with contemplative silence and awkward pauses. God, it was awkward. Why couldn’t it ever be simple?
“Ready?” She was garbed in a snugly belted black leather jacket that looked made for her.
“Ready.” There went his mouth again. He peered down at his day planner as though it could give him the answers. He came up blank. He clapped it shut and shoved it into his satchel.
Piotr held open the door, feeling an odd little current run through him as she inadvertently brushed against him. A light scent of shampoo and cologne with notes of ginger and musk reached his nose.
“What did you have in mind? To eat?” Piotr wanted to kick himself. What did she have in mind, indeed? Hello, redundant.
“No salad. I need something I can sink my teeth into,” she announced. “No rabbit food.”
“Keep talking.” Piotr was already pressing the button for the walk light, unconsciously nudging them toward a strip of cafes. He shrugged further into his fleece-lined jacket and fell into step with Sage, allowing her to walk along the side of the pavement closest to the shop windows.
“I’m thinking something with some meat in it.” Piotr cleared his throat.
Mind out of the gutter, Rasputin.
“Sandwich or pasta?”
“Ooh. I didn’t even think about pasta,” she admitted. She nodded to a pasta café down the next block. “That one?”
“Lead the way,” he beckoned. A strong breeze whipped through the street, pushing them back, pinkening their cheeks and disrupting her carefully coiled hair. By the time they made it inside, loose tendrils were drifting into her eyes. She blew them up impatiently, making Piotr chuckle.
“You don’t do that often enough,” she informed him.
“Do what?”
“Laugh.” She stroked her hair from her eyes, beating Piotr’s instinct to do just that. His hand stilled at his side before she noticed.
“Pot calling the kettle,” he hummed innocently, nodding at the waiter who handed them their menus. They ordered their drinks and took extra time deciding what to eat. Sage nursed a Sprite, drawing up strawfuls of soda by covering the tope of the tube with her index finger, letting it sluice back into the glass, stirring up the fizz.
“This is nice. We don’t get out of the office enough. I forget what daylight looks like.”
“Use some of your PTO,” Piotr suggested easily.
“Easier said than done. I only take it when I absolutely can’t not take it.”
“Workaholic,” he accused slyly, a hint of mischief quirking up the corner of his mouth, making him look surprisingly boyish.
“Now who’s the pot?” Piotr shook his head before downing half of his root beer in two swallows.
“I hate coming back to heaps of work piled on my desk. So I avoid using up my leave.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Sure. The piles stay a little smaller.” He broke a sesame seed breadstick in two and handed her half. “Slightly smaller,” he amended.
“Bullshit.”
“Okay. Bullshit.” He crunched the stick savagely, wishing he could come up with something better than talking shop. She beat him to it.
“When’s Lila singing again?”
“Her concert schedule’s on her MySpace page.”
“MySpace…gads. Tool of the Devil.”
“Works, though. She’s practically overbooked. Search for her under “Cat’s Laughing.” That’s her band and her user handle.”
“That’s different.” She nibbled the breadstick absently before chipping off the remaining sesame seeds onto her appetizer plate. Her movements were meticulous; Piotr liked watching her hands.
They were nice hands. A lot of things about her were nice. Like that sweater: Snug, lightweight, and the color matched her eyes. A hint of cleavage flirted with him from the deep boat neck.
“I’d like to hear her sing again, sometime.”
“Mmmmm.” His voice was noncommittal, even though he silently agreed.
“It was nice of you, letting me know about that concert at Harry’s.”
“Any time.”
“Piotr?”
“Yes?”
“Would you go with me next time, maybe?”
“Why not? We might run into each other if we-“
“Piotr. I said would you go with me,” she pointed out.
“Go with…oh.”
Color crept into his cheeks before he could stop it. His lips ran on autopilot again.
“On a date.”
“Well…if you want to call it that.”
“You. Me. Going to a concert. That…sounds an awful lot like a date.”
“Er…I guess it does. Wow.” Her eyes darted away, and she drew in a shaky breath, making Piotr finally realize how awkward this was for her. Fuzzy tingles inched up his nape with the revelation: Sage was nervous.
The worst he could say was no.
Except that WOULD be the worst thing. Ever.
“You’re asking me on a date,” he repeated, looking at her as though she had spoken to him in Sanskrit.
“Yes, Piotr. I’m asking you. On a date. With me.” More mental kicking ensued. She wanted to sink into the floor.
Silence. Unwelcome, contemplative, excruciating silence.
Sage schooled her face into serene lines as she watched him absorb the impact. Her own words seemed to echo through the gaping divide between them, though they were separated by the narrow table and basket of breadsticks. Piotr gripped the menu in front of him like a makeshift shield while Sage stirred her soda.
Sage’s pulse flickered in her throat as she fought to maintain her nonchalant smile. Her mind screamed at her.
There’s still time to take it back. Double-dog dare. Take-backs. Do-over. That didn’t really count. Fingers crossed behind my back. Just joshing you, silly goose. Date? No. I was just asking you to borrow your rake. Sorry, wasn’t speaking clearly…
He licked his lips “ those chiseled, pale pink lips with that beautiful notch in the top one “ and prepared some semblance of a speech. Her pulse beat in her chest like a manic butterfly’s wings.
“Don’t,” she yelped.
“Sage ““
“I know. Don’t.”
“But-“
“Uh-uh.” She made lip-zipping motions and held out her palms in surrender. “It was stupid. I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything. Oh, look. Food. Here’s the food.”
“But you-“
“I’m famished,” she interrupted again. Anything to put off the rejection, stifle it. Gag it. They could be just plain old Sage and Piotr. Buddies. People who could talk at the water cooler. Even if one of those people was enormous, divine and made her want to snuggle into him like a winter coat. There were times when silence was a buffer. When words just didn’t work. Didn’t fit. Wouldn’t make sense or make a bad situation better.
Then, there were times when silence was a curse. When it yawned open like a canyon. The less he said, the more she buried herself.
“You’re probably busy,” she rationalized. “Forget I mentioned it. I bet you have plenty on your plate.” She paid attention to her own plate, tearing apart a warm roll and dragging a tuft of it through the pesto cream sauce.
“Okay.” He prodded his salmon with his fork, watching it flake and release a plume of succulent steam before he spread his napkin over his lap. He wasn’t sure of what else to say that would wipe that look of worry from her face, so he settled with “Okay.”
They ate, both of them occasionally smiling politely and asking “how is it?” Sage mentally counted the money in her wallet, knowing she had the money for her own entrée, so they could make an easy escape from the café and back to their usual status as associates once the meal ended. Acquaintances.
Just friends.
Shit.
Piotr worked his way through his meal slowly, mulling her words. She was studiously trying not to stare at him too much.
He hated that.
His fork clattered onto his plate, and he chucked his napkin onto the table, eyeing her squarely. “Sage?”
“Yes, Piotr?”
“Why? Why…this? Why ask me, and then why take it back?”
“It was stupid, I’m sorry. I should have just-“
“Should have what?”
“It was silly. We work together. I like it when we talk. Things were fine, and I feel like I just messed them up. I just got the wrong idea, is all.” She stabbed her fork into her tortellini and rolled it through her sauce. “We’ll just let it go.”
“Just let it go.”
“Why not?” He couldn’t tell her why not. Part of him was steadfastly agreeing with her. It would be insanity, the two of them going out on a date. A real one. With small talk, hand-holding, “getting to know each other,” sharing embarrassing stories and meaningful glances.
Except…didn’t they sort of do that now? He corrected himself. They did that. Just not without the “dance of uncertainty” outside her front door, deciding on whether to venture a kiss, or to just settle for a half-hug. No, he reasoned. A date meant a kiss. A kiss meant crossing that line and starting over. Getting back into the game. Answering questions like “So, what are you thinking?” and compromising his solitude.
There was also nothing “small” about talks with Sage. She was sympathetic and didn’t pry too deep when his sister passed away, or when Laynia flew back to Russia. Her wit was quick, sometimes even parted his hair. She was sweet. Tranquil. Undemanding. Funny.
She deserved more, he reminded himself, than what he could give. Or what he wouldn’t give. And there went his mouth on autopilot again.
“You can’t take it back,” he insisted.
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t. It’s out there. You asked me out, and then didn’t give me a chance to even consider it before you tell me to forget it. That’s not fair, is it?”
“Piotr-“
“Nyet. Hush. I’m not finished,” he interrupted this time. “Sage. Be honest with me. Do you want to go out with me?”
She wrapped her mouth around the words. “Piotr…”
“Do you want to go out with me on a date?”
“I…Piotr, really ““
“Do you?”
“Yes.” It was staccato and she was bursting with it. “Yes. Are you happy now? Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I want to go out with you. I like you. A lot. I know you’re still on the rebound from being with someone for a long time, but there you go.” It came out in a rush.
“Sage, how long have you felt this way?”
“Months,” she admitted, tucking the pocket of tortellini between her lips to stall having to say anything else. Piotr’s fingers tunneled helplessly through his hair.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. She swallowed and drained the last vestiges of soda from her glass. Her lips were rosy from the ice chips; she sucked a droplet from her upper lip and sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes darkened, and he leaned in, reaching for her wrist just as she laid down her fork. Long, strong fingers caught her in a gentle grip that pulsed with warmth, and his thumb feathered her skin. “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m not.” All of the moisture evaporated from his mouth as their eyes locked. “What do you think I have on my plate? I live a quiet life, Sage. I come home to an empty apartment. I have no commitments. I’m lucky enough to have friends that I can talk to, and parents that are still on this earth, even though it hurts to go home, knowing that Illyana isn’t there anymore. That I can’t watch her grow up.” That tore strips out of him. Sage watched him swallow over that lump of grief and began kicking herself again. She’d give anything to just cross over to his side of the table and throw herself into this lap so she could embrace him, maybe even kiss his pain away.
Yet here she was, heart slamming in her chest at his touch, just with him holding her wrist captive in the crowded restaurant.
“I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t find you attractive,” he admitted quietly, loosening his grip and shifting her hand until it rested in his palm. “Mind you, I wish that I didn’t. I enjoy spending time with you, Sage, but I feel as though it would be unfair to try to go any further than this. I have so little to offer you.” That was when he felt her pulse thrumming and her entire body stiffen a moment, before she relaxed. She knew it was appropriate, even preferable to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go. The caress of his thumb over her knuckles was at odds with the necessary, yet cruel words coming from his mouth.
“You’re the one saying no. It would seem that you don’t want what I have to offer, Piotr, not the other way around. That’s usually how it works.” She still couldn’t pull away. His touch felt too good; she hungered for it.
“I don’t want you to think I can offer you a relationship.”
“You made that clear. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” His thumb traced the edges of her fingernails, gently probing the one on her index finger. “I want to go out with you more than just about anything I can think of, but I won’t lead you into thinking we can build a relationship out of it that will lead to anything more than either of us saying ‘It was fun while it lasted. Here’s your toothbrush, give me back my key.’ You don’t strike me as someone who would settle for that. You deserve more.”
“You’re right,” she nodded, her voice slightly choked. “I can’t settle for that. I can’t afford to settle for maybes and could-have-beens. It hurts too much. This is rare,” she admitted, finally extracting her hand from his addictive warmth.
“What?” He panicked when he saw her reaching for her purse on the seat on the floor beside her and threading her arms through her leather jacket.
“I usually just feel like shit after I break up with someone,” she said blandly. “I don’t normally start a relationship that goes nowhere, waste a man’s time, and break up all in the course of one lunch. It’s been enlightening, Piotr.” She dug into her purse and extracted a small wad of bills, tucking them under her plate and scooting her chair back from the table in a rush.
“Sage! WAIT!”
“No. See you back at work, Piotr,” she sparked, shooting him a wave and turning on her heel. She was elegant despite radiating frustration and hurt in her posture, yanking the belt of her jacket closed with jerky, sharp motions as she flew out the door. Piotr sat there flummoxed and alone, not having a clue what had just happened.
“Damn it,” he muttered. The waiter eyed the conspicuously empty chair and half-finished plates knowingly before setting down the bill.
~0~
He was right. Sage had settled for that before. And the cost was too high to do it again. The near-stomping of her Vivienne Westwood black leather boots filled her ears, nearly drowning out the blare of traffic in the street. The wind chafed her hot cheeks as she continued to lecture herself all the way back to the agency.
She invited him out. Then she just left him there. It was official. She was ready for the loony bin.
It wasn’t just her own life she was playing games with, embarking on anything resembling a fling. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself, and Aliyah didn’t have anyone to rely on but her. Lucas had seen to that, blast his eyes.
All she could remember was the incredulous look on Peter’s face as she ran out of the café, concern and confusion etched around his eyes and mouth. She wouldn’t do that again. He didn’t need her baggage, or the backbreaking responsibilities she had to face everyday. That, or reminders of what he’d already lost, staring him in the face everyday.
She made her way back to her cubicle with no preamble, shooting off brief hellos on her way in. She hung her jacket on the plastic peg and flung herself into her rolling chair, immediately checking email and voice mail, even though she had barely been gone an hour. She turned on her media player and shoved in a disc that usually soothed her, tugging on her earphones in an attempt to look busy.
It didn’t work.
“Sage?” The voice was accompanied by a small knock on the frame of her cubicle wall. She smothered a sigh, then continued typing.
“I know you’re listening,” the voice insisted gruffly. She felt his presence drift closer, taking up space in her makeshift office. He swam into her line of peripheral vision as he leaned back against her desk. “Please talk to me,” he inquired on a low rumble.
“We don’t have to talk about it. I think we both said enough, Piotr. I took you away from your day. I won’t keep you.” She hadn’t stopped staring ahead at the computer screen.
A large, warm hand enclosed hers, stopping her mouse. Awareness of how close he was thudded through her veins. His masculine scent, coupled with the scent of being outdoors, and the faint hint of “traffic” that lingered on his coat filled her nostrils. He hadn’t even gone back to his own desk yet. She stared down at his hand before meeting his gaze again.
Ohhhh, how it hurt. She hated that her actions and words put that look on his face. That magnificent, familiar face.
“Did I deserve that? You running off?” Shame hung in the air. She hung her head and shook it, stirring the tendrils of hair that drifted down from her bun.
“No. You didn’t,” she admitted. “You were right. I can’t just have a fling. That’s not something I can just meet you halfway on, Piotr. I’m not going to lay my expectations at your feet on this and wait for you to make up your mind, when I know that you have.”
“What do you think I have decided?”
“About me? That I’m asking too much. About us? That we’re just friends,” she said, her voice impossibly low. The cubicles had ears.
Piotr heaved a gusty sigh, stared at her as if he wanted to say something more, then released her. His footsteps were nearly silent, unnerving for someone so large as he left her.
~0~
Across town:
Ororo wiped her hands on the back of her worn jeans and stood up, digging her knuckles into her lower back to work out a kink. Her joints popped as she bent this way and that, stretching this way and that to restore her equilibrium. Spotless floor boards shone up at her as she wiped away a smudge of sweat-streaked grime from her cheek. She slowly turned and surveyed the nearly bare space. She’d carted six bags of trash to the curb and swept out every corner of every closet and underneath every stick of furniture.
Ororo agreed to let him move his things on his own, giving him twenty-four hours before she changed the locks.
He retaliated by breaking everything. Ororo swore in the back of her mind, in gruesome hindsight, that she’d never send a man packing again unless she had the police waiting on the front porch.
She came home to what looked like a crime scene, choking back a small cry of rage. Tears dripped down her cheeks, landing in the corner of her mouth as she stumbled forward through the rubble. Her floor mat was kicked aside in a heap, littered with broken glass. Ceramic and polymer picture frames were laying in fragments, and a pair of wooden kokopeli figures were both splintered, broken in half. It grew worse the further she walked through the house.
Upstairs, her CD collection lay scattered in a pile, various discs and cases cracked or snapped in two. The bathroom reeked of her perfume, the bottle laying broken in the sink. Two of her fine gold chains had broken clasps, the links pulled apart and bent.
Her clothes were mostly intact, but she was trembling too much to take any solace in it. The biggest offense was the photographs. Not just the ones of her and Pietro together “ she’d planned on sending the ones of him by himself to his father’s house, so at least someone could enjoy them “ but other photos of Ororo with Lorna, Jean and Anna. Pictures of her mom and dad, particularly one of her father before his health had declined, seated in his favorite chair beside the Christmas tree. Tears blurred her vision as she pawed through the shards of glass, scooping up the photo and hating the white streaks where the glossy finish had torn through.
Ororo called her lawyer the next day to file a restraining order while she waited for the locksmith. Her lawyer was an unassuming looking brunette named Jennifer with a finger-crushing handshake. Once she had his copy of the injunction couriered to his brokerage, the threatening, pleading phone calls evaporated. He emailed her at work, and she managed to block him and talked with her network administrator about tracking his IP address. The front desk in the reception lounge was given a copy of his photo and a standing order not to let him in.
Some of the photos she managed to salvage with spray adhesive; some had to be recreated with her scanner and laser printer, but the glossy photo stock was a worthwhile investment. Anna came to the rescue with her collection of discs and burned copies of most of her favorite music before she could miss it.
A week had gone by before she called Logan. She nursed the knot on her forehead until it no longer resembled a goose egg, knowing it would cause more trouble then it was worth if he saw what Pietro made her do. The sudden lack of knick-knacks she could explain. Pietro’s departure made that easy.
Logan picked up his phone on the second ring. “H’lo?”
“Hey.” Ororo heard the crack of his smile and the soundtrack from CSI in the background.
“Hey, darlin’. Whatcha up to?”
“Cleaning house. Taking a breather.” In more ways than one.
“Eh. That second thing sounds pretty good. Need any help?” She heard a hint of indolence and mischief in his voice and shivered.
“I’m open to suggestions.” Ororo continued to knead her back one-handed as she paced the living room, which felt so empty that it seemed to echo.
“I come over.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I come in.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I close and lock up the front door.”
“Mmmmm.”
“I tell ya hello and kiss ya.”
“Keep talking.” She warmed to his suggestions like hot cocoa and wool socks.
“We get nekkid. We bang a few holes in the walls. I take ya upstairs and we don’t come back down til the cops come knockin’ on the front door. An’ I rub yer feet. Not necessarily in that order.” Ororo lightly fanned herself and grinned into the phone.
Dang.
“Guess you might get into trouble if you just drove over nekkid, so I don’t have to waste any time with your clothes?” Her voice was smoky as she threw his own words back at him.
“Yeah.”
“Darn it. Ah well, no need to dress up for me. Just wear something that will look good lying in a puddled heap in the corner when you get here.”
“Bye,” he barked quickly.
“Bye,” she trilled, clicking off and cradling the phone handset.
Twenty minutes found Ororo loosening the ponytail holder in her hair and throwing a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Curls of anticipation rose in her stomach, and the rush of giddiness at seeing him again found her doing an impromptu “Snoopy Dance” in her kitchen. Just for a moment, mind you…
She knew Anna and Lorna would be laughing their asses off right about now if they were on hand to see this. The hum of the microwave muffled the sound of an engine pulling up outside; she was just pouring the popcorn into a bowl when a sharp knock on the front door made her yelp and do a quick “hair check” in her patio door pane. She nearly tripped over her own feet rushing to answer the door.
“Hm. Check you out, ya look about ready ta drop,” he drawled lazily, those hazel eyes crinkling at the sight of her in worn jeans and a sweatshirt with an embroidered patch of Goofy on it.
“Come in,” she nagged breathlessly, yanking him over the threshold by the arm, slamming the door on a quick swish, and practically knocking him over as she kissed him so hard he grunted. They stumbled together against the back of the door, and Logan’s hands were already searching for the hem of her shirt, seeking out warm flesh and molding to her curves. Her lips were insatiable; Logan chuckled between breaths.
“Miss me, darlin’?” Her low moan was his only reply. Ororo didn’t give a damn if the popcorn got cold. “Awright. Missed you too, baby.” His laughter gave way to arousal as she slinked against him, shucking off his jacket and letting it slide to the floor. “Damn,” he gasped. His voice gradually drifted off as he returned her greeting with groans of approval, letting his hands roam and caress. He smelled the hint of sweat, mingled with her shampoo and the unmistakable scent of lemon Pledge lingering in the room, not to mention the popcorn. Logan couldn’t remember offhand what her house had looked like when he’d shown up last, only that it felt different, somehow. Charged with a different energy, almost like a whirlwind had swept through the entire space.
Ororo surprised him by pulling away first. “I’m grungy.”
Logan shrugged, his eyes dark with interrupted desire. “Ya look fine ta me.”
“I look like Hope Digging Potatoes. I should have freshened up before I called, but I wanted to see you.” Her hair was more tousled now from Logan running his fingers through it and sweeping tendrils of it from her face. She had on no makeup, and her face glowed from her efforts. His eyes scanned her face at their leisure, suddenly narrowing as he scowled at something on her forehead.
“What the hell happened?” His forefinger lightly skimmed the shrinking bump there that replaced her previous gash from the night of her fainting spell.
“Nothing. Just bumped my head.”
“On what?”
Pietro’s hard-ass head. “It was just an accident.” The lie sounded hollow to her own ears. “It’s no big deal,” she amended. His eyes held a strange light as they flickered over the offending lump, before he cupped her face, drawing it down to his lips. Ororo felt the change in him as he embraced her this time, rocking her protectively against him.
“Want anything?”
“Yup.” He tucked her hand into his and began leading her toward the back of the house, flicking on the hall light. Ororo smothered a giggle.
“Drink? Popcorn?”
“Nope.”
“Am I getting warm?”
“Ya will be if I have anything ta say about it.” He turned to her, kissed her again, and stooped down, leaning his shoulder into her midsection. Up she went, over his shoulder, doubled over like a sack of potatoes as he carried her up the stairs.
“Logan!” she practically squealed.
“The only thing I want ya get me is you, nekkid, like ya promised.” He paused at the top of the stairwell, turning around while she continued to wriggle against him. His wide palm caressed the smooth curve of her backside through the worn, velvety denim and she moaned and pointed the way to the bathroom. “Aha!” he grinned, striding to the door and turning on the wall switch. Ororo’s house surprised him. The walls were unusually bare; his ex-girlfriends all seemed to have a love of knick-knacks and framed art prints and other kitschy collectibles cluttering every inch of available space on every wall. Her home still offered a comfortable space, but he expected there to be more evidence that it had recently been occupied by two people.
Her bathroom counter was impeccable, save for the hairbrush, her toothbrush cup, and a jar of cold cream tucked neatly in one corner by the mirror. Logan lowered her to the floor, setting her on a turquoise blue bath mat and letting her body slide against his on the way down. His hands groped her bottom, grinding her against him until she began to writhe wantonly, rocking her mouth over his. He tasted so good, felt so right beneath her hands. His kisses became more heated and demanding as their clothing began to drop. He cradled her from behind as she ran the shower and tugged her aside as he tested it first. “Hop in,” he murmured huskily, urging her in with the press of his hand on the small of her back. She stepped back into the spray, tugging off her ponytail holder and wetting her hair as he got in.
He was beautiful. A deep, broad chest and rippling shoulders tapered down to a waist that was firm and free of flab. His abdomen was a perfect six-pack, complete with a happy trail of black hair that teased his navel. A fine mat of dark hair covered his pecs. His flesh was slightly tanned; Ororo could tell that his year-round skin tone was a ruddy olive. Tapered, muscular thighs and calves surprised her; he didn’t have the underdeveloped calves of someone who only lifted weights instead of throwing in regular cardio workouts. She drank her fill of him, with her eyes, fingertips and lips, beckoning him to her. They took turns washing each other’s hair, and Logan used that as an opportunity to knead the last of the tension from her neck.
She was beautiful. Startlingly blue eyes fringed with long, wet, curling lashes roamed over him and drifted shut as his mouth traced the contours of her cheekbones and the hollow of her throat. Her caramel skin was flushed and rosy from the heat of the shower. Her body was sculpted and toned, with breasts that begged him to cup them in his palms. Her wasp waist led to flaring, feminine hips and legs that he longed to have wrapped around him. He teased the tiny dip of her navel with his fingertip before he touched her, stroking her until she grew damp inside. Plump, kiss-swollen lips gasped his name and begged him not to stop. Their bodies fused with shared need. They stumbled backward again, nearly freezing when Ororo’s backside hit the shower knob and accidentally nudged the dial to cold.
Logan enveloped Ororo in a thick bath sheet before letting her rub his back dry with another. “We gotta work on another item on the list,” he huffed, tugging her down the hall.
“We covered nekkid,” she reminded him.
“Nuh-uh. We’re still workin’ on that one.”
“Still can’t sell you on that popcorn, huh?”
“Hell, no!” She conceded and tugged him into her bedroom, bracing herself for his reaction.
It was neat as a pin. Almost too neat. No overflowing laundry hamper. No personal effects like aftershave or sports paraphernalia. Logan helped her to shed her towel, unwrapping her like a present and easing her back onto the bed.
“Was startin’ ta wonder if ya’d ever call me,” he accused, nipping her bottom lip.
“Had too much to do,” she reasoned. The press of his body was overwhelming and addictive, feeding all of her senses. She thrilled to the ticklish hair on his chest caressing her, making her nipples peak. He sucked the first morsel into his mouth, and she squirmed and bucked against him.
“God,” she breathed. “Logan, please.”
“Couldn’t wait t’do this, thought I was gonna bust as soon as ya answered that damned door,” he mumbled, unable to make up his mind which of her breasts he liked more. Ororo thrilled to the feelings rising up in her chest. Being desired and covetously stroked, possessed so thoroughly was addictive. His lips scorched her, trailing a path down her belly, gradually nuzzling the downy curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Oh, my God, you’re…oh. OH. He swirled his tongue over her sensitive flesh, making her buck again and cry out. His fingers probed her intimately and patiently, discovering each new texture. She felt the earliest tremors of fulfillment beginning deep in her womb. She couldn’t stop the impulse to ride his face with each thrust of his hand and tongue. She was greedy. So was he.
Logan was as good as his word. The headboard slammed into the wall, knocking loudly and creating dings in the plaster. Ororo’s nails dug into his back convulsively. Her voice became strangled and hoarse from calling his name, but the sound of it stroked him and spurred him on.
“Ro,” he panted into her hair. His breath came out in harsh gusts as he neared climax, steaming her ear as he nipped it. Tingles swept across her flesh, bringing with them so much pleasure that she couldn’t think. He bucked, arching his back and bellowing his release into the room as his orgasm claimed him, draining him in ragged torrents. The rhythmic, shuddering flex of her muscles around him pushed him over the edge.
They lay sated and glowing, half-swaddled by the covers and stroking each other as if they could not get enough.
“You promised me cops on the front porch,” she murmured. Logan snickered.
“I ain’t gonna give ‘em a free show.” One strong, warm hand drifted up, sweeping aside the spill of long hair from the nape of her hair and massaging her neck.
“You’re forgiven,” she sighed.
“Ororo?”
“Hmmm?”
“…why’s it so damned bare in here?”
Word Games by OriginalCeenote
“Girl, what on earth did you do to your hair?”
“Hey, when in Rome…there were these ladies in the beach and at the little touristy stands that would braid your hair with seashells. Scott loved it when I had it done.” Ororo handed Jean back each glossy four-by-six photo as she finished looking at them. Jean tucked them covetously back into the sleeve as they chatted over iced tea.
“Bet that was fun to comb out when you got back.”
“I’ve still got a bald patch. It smarts!” she admitted. The two of them were seated on Jean’s comfortable, floral brocade sofa amidst the clutter of shopping bags, tissue paper and bubble wrap littering an otherwise impeccable living room. Jean was finally back from her honeymoon. Scott was working the day shift at Westchester General, tanned, rested and smug with tales of tropical drinks and “more time spent inside than on the beach, if you know what I mean.”
Ororo had been alternately dreading and craving this visit for the past two weeks.
Jean had been bubbly and effusive as soon as Ororo had met them at the airport, hugs in generous supply. Jean eyed her quizzically, immediately noting Pietro’s absence. Scott, as usual, didn’t take the hint.
“Where’s ‘Tro?”
“He’s…out. Doing guy stuff. Y’know?” She hoped that would put him off.
“Hnh. ‘Kay.” He lifted one brow at her, hoping a better explanation was forthcoming. It wasn’t. “Tell him I want a rematch.”
“For what?”
“That last game of HORSE. He cheated,” he accused.
“Pot calling the kettle,” she reminded him. Scott and Pietro’s games of basketball were often comical. The awkwardness between Scott and Ororo dissipated when Jean cheerfully urged them outside to find their car. She pecked Ororo on the cheek, extracting the promise from her that she’d come over the next day for girl talk and to pick up her souvenirs.
“So, why didn’t you return any of my voice mails, bonehead?”
“I’m sorry; I’m sorry, already.”
“Did’jou think I didn’t miss my homegirl? I wanted someone to dish with about my vacation and you were nowhere to be found. I got worried.”
“I got busy with work. I was doing some spring cleaning,” she added guiltily. “I wanted to get back in touch with you. I’m here now,” she supplied. She took another sip of her tea and patted Jean’s knee. “And I missed you too. Really. Pinky swear.”
“Pinky swear,” Jean allowed, linking hers with Ororo’s and tugging on it solemnly. “Now…why didn’t ‘Tro come with you to meet us yesterday? What’s going on with you two?”
Ororo steeled herself.
“There is no “we two” anymore. Pietro and I broke up. He moved out after the wedding.” Ororo’s heart thudded, her pulse throbbing an erratic tattoo as cold tingles swept her flesh. The words came out in a rush. Jean stared at her as though she had grown another head.
“Oh, my God,” Jean breathed.
“Yeah,” Ororo hedged. It felt surreal, admitting it out loud. She bowed her face, staring at her hands tucked into her lap.
“Ororo, what happened?”
“You know I left the reception early,” Ororo hinted.
“I know. You didn’t really tell me why,” Jean recovered, setting down her tea and leaning her elbows on her knees, watching her oldest, dearest friend with inquisitive eyes.
“It was a mess.” Ororo exhaled a shaky breath. “Pietro was cheating on me. I’m guessing he had been at it for a long time. I just wasn’t paying attention.”
Silence. Cold, stony silence.
“Uh-uh. Ororo…he couldn’t. Not after everything you two put into “ “
“Yes he could. And he did. I didn’t catch him in bed with another girl, but I might as well have. She left a souvenir at my house.”
“What kind of souvenir?” Jean prodded. Ororo returned Jean’s gaze. Her face was calm, but she could have almost sworn she heard Jean’s heartbeat pick up, even felt her pulse quicken when she reached for Ororo’s hand.
“It doesn’t matter. He admitted to it.” She squeezed Jean’s hand back. “That’s all I really needed to know.”
“You guys loved each other so much, ‘Ro.”
“I know.” It still stung. “Just not enough. Doesn’t matter how long we were together. He threw it all away as soon as he kissed someone else.”
“You really don’t want to forgive him?”
“No. I really don’t.”
“And that’s it. You wouldn’t take him back?”
“Not on my life. It’s hard. I got used to being with him. But I’m better off.”
“You two were happy for a while. Five years is a long time to throw away.”
“It’s a long time for him to piss away with sleeping with someone else. Multiple someones. He admitted that, too.”
“Ouch.” Jean shifted uncomfortably on her overstuffed couch, sinking back into the cushions.
“You still love me, right?” Ororo attempted, trying to lighten the pall that fell over their chat.
“Like a fat kid loves candy,” Jean promised. “Go on, Ororo, open that box. It’s for you.” Ororo reached for a small red package and popped up the flap.
“Ohhhhh…look. I LOVE this.” It was a mother-of-pearl inlaid barrette with a matching slender bangle. Ororo tried them both on, anchoring the barrette in her thick hair, pulling it back from her face at the crown of her head.
“Looks good on you. Glad I bought it,” Jean sighed.
“You always think of me.”
“How could I not? You’re always in my corner,” Jean tsked. “C’mon. There’s mocha almond fudge in the freezer, calling our names.” They adjourned to the kitchen, appointed in the best that Pier One Imports had to offer. Jean decorated her space in warm tones of cinnamon, rust and ivory. Sunflower motifs decked out her curtains, refrigerator magnets and dishtowels. The room was homey; expensive Williams and Sonoma appliances gleamed from the left counter, including a tomato-red KitchenAid electric mixer that Ororo coveted, mentally adding it to her gotta-have-one list that seemed to grow longer every year.
They continued to dish about the beaches, waves and shows that Jean and Scott enjoyed on their sojourn in the islands. Jean showed off a hint of sunburn still left on her shoulders, her skin stark white in contrast where she had tan lines left from her bikini.
“You’ve got to try snorkeling one of these days. You’ll love it,” Jean assured her.
“When I can afford it,” Ororo piped up.
“I don’t see why not, Pietro’s got plenty of money to take you…oooh. Sorry.”
“No biggie.” Ororo fumed inwardly, scraping the thick, gooey fudge away from her bowl with her spoon, more of Jean’s wedding china and flatware. Noritake.
“You’ll find someone else,” Jean assured her.
“That’s the other thing I was wanting to talk to you about,” Ororo hedged. Blue eyes met green over the pine dinette. “I kind of already have.” Jean’s eyes grew into saucers.
“Shut UP! Are you shitting me? Who? WHO?!?”
“You met him once,” Ororo continued, licking up a dab of mocha ice cream from her spoon. She chased the final melting lump from her bowl, leaving Jean in slavering suspense.
“Don’t make me jump across this table and kick your ass! TELL ME!” Ororo chuckled at Jean’s ability to change gears so easily and envied her for it.
“Logan.”
“Logan?”
“Yup. Short. Dark. Buff. Solid. Does this funny scowly thing with his eyebrows.” Jean still looked clueless. “He was at the wedding.”
“He was?”
“Sat on Scott’s side of the church.”
“Scott’s side? A friend?”
“Coworker. He’s down in the E/R. C’mon, Red.” Ororo dropped the other shoe. “He was the chaperone at the bachelorette for Officer Oh-My-God.”
“Oh.” She didn’t quite make the connection, even with Ororo making “come one, you got it” hand gestures at her. “OH! THAT Logan. Shit.” She seemed to see Ororo with new eyes. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“How?” It wasn’t registering yet. “When?”
“Ya don’t wanna know.”
“WHEN, Ororo? Spill it!”
“The night of the reception,” she breathed. Silence. Awkward, forbidding silence. Jean opened her mouth, closed it, searched the room with her eyes for a reply. Her gleaming appliances and sunflower magnets had no answer for her, regrettably.
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“You and…Grumpy Butt.”
“JEAN!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry. Shit.”
“You already said that,” Ororo pointed out, nodding to Jean’s bowl. “You gonna finish that?”
“Hey, back off. Mine!” Jean peered down into the depleted tub of Haagen-Daz and scooped the last of the dregs out, dividing them into their bowls. “Look what you’re making me do.”
“What’s another half hour on the treadmill for chocolate’s sake?”
“You’re corrupting me. If Scott stops sleeping with me because I’m too fat, it’s all your fault.”
“Shouldn’t stop him. More cushion for the pushin’, toots.” Jean cackled, then suppressed it with a snort behind her hand, nearly choking on her ice cream.
“He’s just so…wow. You and Logan. I never would have figured.”
“Why?”
“He’s just so…not ‘Tro.”
“Thank God,” Ororo huffed.
“He’s awfully hairy.”
“Mmmmm.” Ororo tugged a lump of ice cream into her mouth, savoring the fudge as it melted on her tongue. “I don’t mind that.” Her eyes had a faraway look that could only be described as cock-whipped.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“You like him.”
“That’s the general theory, yeah.”
“I mean… you REALLY like him. As in, already falling for him.”
“No.” Ororo’s tone was defensive. “NO. Jean, don’t even…it’s not like that. We’re just having fun. He’s good to me. We like spending time together.” Ororo hated the lie as soon as it sprung from her lips. She didn’t know why she was underplaying what she felt. Something in the back of her brain nagged her not to divulge too much too soon.
“Okay. Keeping that in mind, ‘Ro, why are you glowing?”
“I am NOT!”
“Bullshit. You’re doing the little ‘blissed out’ thing with your face.”
“Am NOT!”
“Are too. That’s bliss, by God!” Jean’s smile was sly and knowing, exchanging a look with Ororo that was only truly acknowledged by the happily oversexed. Ororo’s eyes dropped shyly to her ice cream bowl.
“Leave me and my bliss alone,” Ororo cringed.
“Oh, God. I’ve got to tell Anna and Lorna, where’s the phone?”
“Anna already knows. She helped me to get boxes when ‘Tro moved out.”
“Wow.” Then she realized, “Hey. Why am I always the last to know everything around here?”
“You were on a honeymoon, whaddya expect?”
“You didn’t return my calls.”
“Heh. Right. Sorry.” They finished their treat and piled the dishes in the dishwasher before moving back out to the living room to throw away all the gift wrappings and empty boxes.
“Soooooooo…when will we do it?”
“Do what?” Ororo started helping Jean unpack her suitcase, tugging out her lingerie bag and clicking on the light above her washer and dryer in the alcove down the hall.
“Our Scrabble tournament. We’re long overdue.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe Scott and Pietro-“
“Please! We don’t have to wait on them to decide when we get together next. You two break up, and the four of us can’t be friends anymore?”
“Maybe not in the same room?” Apprehension tightened the flesh at Ororo’s nape. Something had gotten lost in translation, here. Jean really didn’t grasp the full impact of Ororo’s news. Nor did she have a clue how ugly things were when they split.
“We’ll manage just fine,” Jean reassured her. Ororo helpfully started a fresh load, twisting the dial to “delicates” and unloading the dainty nylon drawstring bag. Enough underwear and teddies tumbled out to fill Victoria’s Secret’s front window. A scrap of scarlet satin caught Ororo’s eyes. She fingered the underwire bra, trimmed with tiny red bows.
“This is totally cute. When did you get this?”
“A while ago.” Jean raised her eyes to the ceiling the way people do when they rack their brains. “The shower,” she announced, smacking her forehead. “It’s one of my favorites,” she said by way of explanation.
“Hm.” Ororo chucked it cavalierly into the swirling water and added Cheer liquid.
She didn’t give it a second thought as they continued to unload swimsuits still reeking of saltwater and wrinkled cruise wear, shaking sand out of Jean’s sandals. For about the jillionth time that day, Ororo envied Jean.
Same time, downtown at the gym:
“HUUUUUUUUURRRGGGGH!”
“Nice one, Vic!” St John encouraged. “C’mon, pussy, one more! You know you want it! Show me YOU WANT IT!”
“Shit,” Remy muttered. Vic was red in the face, his knuckles white and continuing to change color as he gripped the barbell over his head, raising it by excruciating centimeters over his chest. He was on his fourth set. That little vein in his forehead was standing out again, along with all of the vessels in his neck. Remy resumed his own lateral pulls, adding another two modest plates, working more for streamlined fitness than bulging bulk. Vic always sneered when he asked Remy if he wanted to spot him. The barbell was loaded with two fifty-pound plates on each side, with an additional twenty-five hugging each for good measure.
“Fucker,” Vic hissed, spraying St. John with a mixture of spittle and sweat as he grunted, pushing himself farther and letting the bar falter, then jacked it all the way up in a clean sweep. “I’ll…show…you…pussy…asssssssss,” he continued.
“You done, man?”
“Fuck, no!”
“Ya gonna hurt y’self, mec,” Remy tsked, wiping his hands off on the nubby, snowy white gym towel and ambling over to his two friends, wanting to give a hand in case things got OUT of hand.
“Fuck YOU, LeBeau!”
“M’just sayin’, take it easy, homme,” he chided, black eyes conciliatory. He held up his palms in surrender.
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGH!” Vic dead-lifted the bar one more time, before hissing “There!” St. John held the bar steady has Vic let it roll off his palms back into the holster. He sat up shakily, still reeling with euphoria and endorphins. His blond hair was plastered to his neck, and he jerked off the ponytail holder that was tangled up in it. His face still wasn’t its normal color yet, Remy mused to himself. St. John clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his half-empty Propel Fitness Water, which he glugged in noisy gulps. His steely blue eyes landed on Remy as he smirked. “Pussy. Yer on the wrong side of the gym, LeBeau. Women with Weights is that way. No. Hold on a fuckin’ minute, there’s Jazzercise in a half-hour. That’s more yer kink, ain’t it?”
“Get in dere’n show me how, homme,” Remy offered with a grin. Vic’s face twisted into a mocking scowl.
“Fuck you.”
“Put y’money where y’mout’ is, Vic.” St. John chuckled at the mental image of Vic in leotards, giving Olivia Newton-John a run for her money. Vic caught his look and returned it with one that dared him to voice it at risk of an ass-beating.
The three continued to work in sets on machines they shared, racking up reps with easy precision. That was how Piotr found them when he skirted around the weight benches and Stairmasters, wending his way through the midday crowd.
“Here’s the other pansy ass,” Victor accused. “Still playing with dollies?”
“Jealous?” Remy shot him a grin.
“Cute,” Vic grunted, but he smiled despite his usual urge to abuse Piotr with profanity. He liked the big, quiet Russian, even if he showed it by showering him with goodnatured curses and insulting his manhood. Ah, the joys of male bonding. “Maybe ya wouldn’t need ta play with dollies if ya were gettin’ some regular pussy,” he suggested helpfully, rubbing his sweaty face briskly with a towel.
“That would be fine, if that was all I was in it for,” he countered. Remy eyed him carefully.
“Had anyone in mind, mon ami?”
“Oh…nyet. Of course not.”
“Bullshit,” Vic grinned, showing a mouthful of shark’s teeth. “Petey’s chasin’ some tail! C’mon, Petey, don’t hold out on us, don’t just stand there like a pussy! Who is she? Is she hot?”
“It’s not like that,” Piotr growled defensively. Remy’s eyes were twinkling, his shoulders shaking with quiet mirth. Shit.
“What? She’s not hot? Yer settling fer a skank?”
“NO!” Piotr’s fists clenched; his lips tightened into a white line. “It’s not like that.” He reached over and shoved Vic roughly, catching his grunt of protest of being robbed of his perch. He stumbled off the weight bench as Piotr glared at St. John until he, too backed away. He began re-stacking the barbell, adding a ten to each side of Vic’s twenty-fives. He laid back on the bench and gripped the bar; Remy decided to step in, spotting him without being asked, despite his initial misgivings when he saw what Piotr benched.
He raised the bar cleanly in a regular rhythm. Vic looked thunderstruck.
“Well, fuck!”
“Nice,” St. John chuckled.
“She’s…not…a skank,” Piotr huffed.
“Y’talkin’ bout Sage? That fine thang y’brought t’Harry’s a while back?” Piotr grunted his assent.
“She stacked?” St. John inquired.
“Yep,” Remy supplied. Piotr scowled up at him.
“She’s more than a pretty face, tovarisch,” Piotr educated him.
“Hey, why not? Frail’s gotta have a nice ass and big tits, too,” Vic informed them.
“Sure. That might be all you need,” Piotr strained. The veins in his neck were just beginning to stand out in relief as he worked his way through his third set.
“Naw. She’s gotta be able ta cook, too. That way she can make me breakfast before I take her home,” Vic added cheerfully. Remy, St. John and Piotr all paused in what they were doing to stare at him with the shared look of “You’re so full of shit.” Vic ignored them as he stuffed his wraps into his duffle.
“Ya like her,” Remy prodded. Piotr paused mid-pressed, then nodded. “Fine, then.”
“Not…quite,” he hissed.
“Non?”
“Nyet. We had lunch. It didn’t…end well. Not like I hoped.”
“Didn’t tap that ass?” Vic accused on a whine.
“Fuck yourself,” Piotr grunted. Vic raised his craggy brows, pleased that he got a rise out of him.
“Didn’t tap that ass,” he confirmed cheekily. “Later, bros,” he grinned, taking off with the hefty swagger of someone who’d worked out until he was sore. St. John nodded his own goodbyes and followed him, swinging his own duffle over his shoulder and zipping up his Adidas windbreaker.
“Fucker,” Remy chuckled.
“Asshole,” Piotr grunted. Remy guffawed. Piotr finished two more sets before the two of them adjourned to the recumbent Lifecycles and keyed in forty minutes each, using the remote to tune the cardio theater to ESPN. They were each a study in contrasts; no casual bystander would have guessed they were friends. Remy was at home in gleaming nylon and Lycra workout gear, wearing tearaway sweats that snapped up the sides and spanking new cross-trainers. Piotr stuck with a plain white Nike tee with a black swoosh and thick cotton sweats, his own Asics running shoes so worn the uppers were almost pulling away from the soles.
“What happened? Why didn’t lunch turn inta dinner turned inta ‘my place or yours, petit’?”
“I made the mistake of being too honest, too soon. She said she liked me. She asked me out on a date.”
“And?”
“I rabbited. I told her I had nothing to offer, which I don’t after Laynia.”
“Shit. No wonda’, den. No woman wan’ hear dat, mec.”
“I don’t want to start what I cannot finish. She’s nice. She deserves someone who can give her more than I can.”
“What y’think y’can’t give, homme?”
“The whole nine yards. Sharing a bathroom. Keeping a toothbrush at her place. The kind of relationship that’s really a relationship, not just a few dates that drift off to ‘it’s been fun, but it’s not you, it’s me.’ I’m not ready for that again yet. It feels weird.”
“It always feels weird. It always WILL feel weird, homme. Dat’s just life.” The hum of the exercise bikes droned soothingly in the background as Piotr increased the incline.
“I don’t need the drama. I don’t want the baggage. I’ve got enough of my own.”
“Whaddya really afraid of, mec?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Y’afraid of letting in a nice woman who likes ya fuh some reason. Ain’t nuthin, that much Remy knows.” Remy focused on the television monitors above. “Ya a family man, Pete?”
“Eh?”
“Ya wan’ a family one day? L’il ones, picket fence, a dog?”
“Not now,” he sighed. “My mother hasn’t stopped asking me the same question yet whenever I go home.” Going to his parents’ house and walking past Illyana’s empty room tore him apart.
“Awkward, ain’t it?”
“God help me, da!” Piotr contemplated the red digital display on his bike.
“There’s ways o’ knowin’ when a woman’s de one,” Remy hinted.
“Please,” Piotr huffed. “That’s bullshit.”
“Naw it ain’t. It’ll hit ya in de gut, mon ami. Go ahead. Call her up. Take her out. Talk to her. Watch for those little signs. Wait for dat l’il moment when y’can’t speak, y’fuhget what y’wuz plannin’ t’say cuz y’got so caught up in her dat nothin’ else mattered.”
“How will I know that moment? And how are you such an expert?” Remy was a stripper. Women threw themselves at him all the time, literally. Piotr didn’t usually take his advice on something as puzzling as unlocking the feminine mystique and matters of “love.”
“Trust me, homme.” A fleeting memory of a silken cloud of auburn hair and laughing green eyes and a laugh so sultry he wanted to drown in it came back to him, making Remy smile knowingly. They pedaled in relative silence, occasionally shouting abuse at the screens when the Patriots fumbled a pass.
Forty-eight hours later:
“That’s not a real word. Scott, that isn’t a real word, is it?”
“Read it an’ weep, bub,” Logan crowed, jabbing his finger in the tiny dictionary as he selected three more tiles from the bag. “Triple word score!” Scott leaned over the page where Logan’s thick finger was digging a groove into the book and sighed, shaking his head at Jean.
“He’s right. Guy’s good,” he shrugged in defeat, taking a pull from his beer.
“’Queue’ isn’t a word, it’s ‘cue,’ like pool cue. Or taking a cue.”
“Heh. It’s like the letter ‘Q.” Or ‘queue’ ta start something, or to position something for action,” Logan offered. Read ‘em and weep, Princess, he thought smugly. Ororo elbowed him and beamed before leaning back against his knees. He kneaded her shoulders fondly and tugged her hair, urging her to tip her head back as he devoured her lips.
“Gads, you two are mushy,” Scott griped.
“Look who’s talkin’,” Logan grunted.
“We’re newlyweds, what’s your excuse?” Jean pouted, still put out by having the triple word score built from one of her own words that she’d been planning to build on before he beat her to it. Jean peered into the dictionary, her cheeks pinkening when she saw that Logan’s word did exist. “Hmmph.”
Logan was just so…blue collar. He wasn’t supposed to know words. He was supposed to know football scores, or auto maintenance. Or the right kind of varnish to refinish a deck. He wasn’t supposed to be able to kick everyone’s ass in Scrabble.
They had a pleasant enough time despite initial misgivings on Jean’s part. She was used to Pietro. He fit in with their crowd and always looked at home in THEIR home. He was always polished. Laughed at her jokes. Told them about the neat places he traveled on business. He wasn’t loud. He always remembered to use a coaster. Jean fumed inwardly at the ring of moisture decorating her coffee table before she handed Logan a wicker trivet for his beer bottle.
Scott had never said much about Logan before the wedding. It only seemed like he opened up and sang like a canary about Logan once Ororo announced that he would accompany her to their Scrabble night.
“Logan plays a mean game of pool.”
“Logan grew up in Vancouver.”
“Logan’s an Eagles fan.”
“Logan drank us all under the table on dollar pitcher night at Harry’s, you had to be there.”
“Logan’s got a SWEET bike.” That had been where Jean decided to draw the line.
“Forget about seeing me naked ever again if you so much as LOOK at the Harley Davidson store windows like you’re buying one.”
“Yes, dear,” he mock-simpered.
Jean liked everything in her day-to-day little world to be tidy, with no loose ends. Everything had to fit. Everything belonged in its place. Her friends were the right friends. They were all supposed to be happily married and planning wedding showers, housewarming parties, Tupperware parties, and eventually baby showers. Jean first.
They were all too old to be dating motorcycle-riding roughnecks who were slavering mounds of sex and stubble, shrink-wrapped in denim, and unabashedly potty-mouthed. Jean eyed Logan with the distaste reserved for an unneutered, unpotty-trained Rottweiler.
Ororo was her best friend. They liked the same clothes. Ran in the same circles. Wanted the same brand of domestic bliss, or so she thought. She was going to be Ororo’s maid of honor. Maybe even sport the bump of an early pregnancy underneath her dress on Ororo’s special day, when she wore her white dress almost as well as Jean had. They’d been thick as thieves since college. They knew all of each other’s secrets.
At least the ones that really mattered, she reminded herself.
She wondered how long Ororo was going to keep it from her that her relationship with Pietro was all a big farce. Jean’s vision of Ororo’s wedding, huge and posh and dripping with the trappings of Pietro’s wealth and his father’s added money had evaporated as soon as she answered the door.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Jean, let us in! It’s chilly out here,” Ororo nagged, breezing inside and giving Jean a peck on the cheek. Logan strode in after her, nodding a greeting.
“H’lo, Red,” he rumbled. He scanned her foyer appraisingly, taking in the neatly framed art prints and plaster replica of Rodin’s “The Kiss” on a small settee beneath her ornate brass mirror. “Nice,” he grunted.
“Thank you,” she rasped, wondering why her voice seemed to die. Logan greeted Scott with the usual grappling handshake that men always had to offer each other before ordering him to hang up their coats and handing him a beer. Jean poured herself and Ororo each a diet 7-Up before they carried the snacks out to the coffee table.
What really threw her was how comfortable Ororo looked with Logan. Again, glowing with sensuality and satisfaction. His big, rough hands were always touching her, playing with her hair, tweaking her nose, tickling her. Ororo and Pietro used to simply hold hands and communicate silently out of long habit. They weren’t so…demonstrative. Logan was already combing his fingers through Ororo’s curls as she leaned thoughtfully over her rack of tiles, contemplating her next word.
“Aha!” she grinned, placing three. “Quip!”
“Nice,” Logan encouraged. Jean frowned at her own rack’s offerings, all vowels. Grrr. Grrrrrrr. Scott wasn’t in much better shape; all of his letters were only each worth one point.
“We’re having a housewarming party,” Jean blurted out, wanting to enjoy the attention again once it drifted away.
“We are?” Scott inquired blandly, looking playfully clueless. Jean stuck her tongue out at him.
“In two weeks. Kind of a “now Scott has all of his stuff here and sublet his apartment” party, for lack of a better description. Just to get to know the neighbors…and meet all of Scott’s friends that I might not have, yet.” Jean pasted a smile on her face that belonged in a toothpaste commercial.
“Maybe,” Ororo considered. She craned her neck up at Logan. “What do you think?” He shrugged noncommittally.
“Whatever ya want, kiddo,” he murmured, caressing the crest of her cheekbone with his finger.
“Right answer,” Scott chuckled approvingly. “We’ll pencil you in.” Then he added devilishly, “Bring beer.”
“So, Logan, what is it you do again?”
“Work in the ER with yer lovin’ spouse here, and in the radiology suite. Mostly taking films of dumbasses that fractured a hand in barfights or breaking into someone’s car through the window,” Logan announced cheerfully. “Loads of fun. Love my job,” he assured her.
“Fascinating,” Jean acknowledged, shooting Ororo a look. Ororo shot her one back that said “you opened this can of worms, you close it.”
“That’s how I found out who ‘Ro was, the second time I met her,” Logan pointed out.
“Lucky me,” Ororo oozed sweetly, practically purring as he kneaded her neck again.
“Speaking of which…’Ro, it’s time for you to eat.” Scott nodded to the snack tray, then selected a Triscuit and loaded it with a slice of cheese and a strip of smoked turkey, pushing it into her grasp.
“Aye, aye, boss,” she acquiesced. She thought she heard Logan growl behind her but dismissed it, biting into the tidbit and catching crumbs with her fingers.
“Might not even be too soon ta serve up some grub fer all of us,” he muttered. “Don’t look at my tiles, Red,” he winked just to egg Jean on. Her mouth dropped open like a guppy’s as she pointed after him.
“I don’t cheat!” she shrieked. “Hey…where are you going?”
“Checkin’ on whatcha got in the oven.”
“No, no, no; I’ll get it. You’re a guest.” Then she grabbed Ororo’s wrist as she was mid-reach for another Triscuit. “Not you. You come with me,” she ordered.
“O-kayyyyy,” Ororo drawled, her eyes swinging back to Logan sheepishly as she was dragged from the kitchen. Scott and Logan abandoned the Scrabble tiles and turned on the game.
“S’pose they’ll be making trips ta the bathroom together next?”
“I wouldn’t bet against the possibility. Pass me the honey roasted nuts, dude.” Scott made himself more comfortable on the recliner, pushing down the lever to put his feet up before he scratched his stomach. Logan let out a hearty belch. And all was well with the world.
The kitchen was a different story.
“Queue isn’t really a word.”
“Tell that to Webster.” Ororo shivered. She missed the warmth of Logan’s legs against her back and wanted to get back to her spot. She also felt Jean’s odd tension once they were alone. Funny tingles ran up her arms, but she couldn’t figure out why.
“So, Ororo…are you happy?” Jean lifted out a perfect pot roast from the oven, filling the kitchen with the scent of onions and chicken broth.
“Happy enough,” she sighed. “He’s good to me. We’re having fun.”
“And you don’t miss Pietro? Not even a little bit?”
“No. Hell, no. Why?”
“Nothing. He cheated, I know. But…Ororo, he was more like you. You had so much in common with him.”
Ororo tsked. “We were both bipeds. And mammals. And we had opposable thumbs. The similarities were more vague after that.”
“You’re educated, and you have class. You came from a good family.”
“Logan’s parents are still alive. His older brother owns his own contracting firm,” Ororo elaborated. “He left a message on my machine one night when he was looking for Logan to tell him that their father was coming to town. He sounded nice.” A frisson of annoyance tightened the back of Ororo’s skull. She didn’t know why she was justifying Logan to Jean. Or why it was suddenly necessary.
“Pietro’s dad adored you. He wanted the two of you to get married.”
“It wasn’t up to him. He was great, Jean, but a great father-in-law doesn’t guarantee a great marriage. Shoot, Pietro’s dad was on wife number three before he finally hit paydirt, or at least stopped having to part with his cash in alimony checks. Kinda ironic, don’t you think?”
The plates clinked together as Jean pulled them down from the cupboard. “Grab the silver, would you?” she urged.
“Sure,” Ororo agreed, glad to answer a question with no hidden meaning.
The formal dining room of Jean’s home was immaculate and looked like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. A cherrywood table with a leaflet that allowed it to seat six was the focus of the room, already laid out with gold-rimmed crystal and beige linen napkins. Nailhead upholstered chairs covered in pale rose moiré satin complemented tasseled curtains in creamy silk shantung. A small Persian rug muted their footsteps as they came through entryway. Ororo was already barefoot, knowing how Jean liked to protect her hardwood floors.
Jean was just about to serve the roast when Ororo decided she didn’t like where she was sitting. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just moving,” she said, heedless of Jean’s odd little look when she moved her placemat, plate, glass and flatware across to the other side of the table. Scott was already at the head of the table, facing the window. Jean already set her place at the other end. The symmetry of the place settings was…off, now that Ororo had moved hers to the other side so that she could sit beside Logan, rather than across. Jean opened her mouth as if to protest the lack of balance, everything was perfect before…
…but she shut up, and carved the roast.
Side Stepping by OriginalCeenote
“Ah kinda like that one,” Anna Marie offered, flipping through the plastic frames of art prints in the upright rack of the discount art shop at their local galleria. The clacking sound was comforting amidst chattering shoppers and innocuous classical music piping from the speakers.
“Eh. Too…blah.” They continued to riffle through the racks.
“C’mon, ‘Ro, live a little; how often do ya get to decorate yer whole house without any interference? No plaid, no dogs playin’ poker, no girly calendars hangin’ on the walls, none of those lame plasticcups from fast food places and gas stations that warp out of shape in the dishwasher, no mountain bike hanging from pegs on the wall…”
“No black bathroom rugs that fade to different shades of gray,” Ororo chimed in. She’d thrown those out first after Pietro left; they were the spare set for the bathroom when the good ones were in the laundry.
“Crap with beer logos all over it,” Anna Marie groused.
“Pietro’s beer mug from Hooters went out the door with him,” Ororo boasted. “Man, I hated that damned thing.” Anna Marie paused mid-flip, letting the next print tip loose from slack fingers as she sensed Ororo freezing up beside her. Her eyes followed Ororo’s gaze out into the mall corridor.
“Oh, my God,” Ororo exhaled on a stuttering breath. The air seemed to thicken, clogging her throat.
Pietro’s cool silver eyes pinned her, raking over her with something akin to amusement. He blood froze when he blew them both a kiss, and raised his Orange Julius cup in silent salute. Even when he appeared to walk away, Ororo began to hyperventilate.
“Roro…?” Anna’s hand found hers. “Calm down, kiddo.” Ororo’s harsh gulp was strained, preceding ragged gasps for air. “Roro, calm down, do ya hear me, it’s okay. Yer with me. We’re out in the open.” Ororo rocked on her feet. Nerveless fingers dropper the paper cylinder she’d been about to purchase. She felt a crunching sensation in her temples and saw a field of static clouding her vision. She heard Anna talking to her one moment, wondering why she sounded like she was underwater.
“Sit!” Anna barked. She gripped Ororo’s arm and urged her to go limp; she slumped against the rack.
“My purse,” Ororo croaked.
“Whaddya need, ‘Roro?”
“My cell,” she hissed. Store staff approached, faces wreathed in concern. “And my mints.” Anna Marie obeyed, freeing Ororo’s purse from her grip and attempting to fan cool air on her face. Ororo’s lips were gray and chalky, and her cheeks felt clammy. Anna fumbled into the middle pocket before upending the whole clutch, dumping out its contents. Anna found the Mentos and handed Ororo the roll before noticing how badly her hands were shaking. She bit open the wrapper impatiently and pushed a candy between Ororo’s lips. Ororo pocketed it in her cheek, relaxing by degrees as Anna talked her through it, yanking open her mobile and scanning her contacts. She will her voice to be calm as she spoke into it; Ororo heard Logan’s rumbling rasp when Anna hit the speaker button.
“Yer woman’s havin’ an episode, bub. We’re at the mall, and Ro’s got somethin’ sweet ta tide her over fer the moment, but ya betta skedaddle on down here.” Ororo heard the rising panic and frustration in his voice from where she sat, even if she couldn’t make out the words. Anna bristled, then smiled briefly, holding Ororo’s mobile up against her cheek. “Ornery sumbitch, ain’t he? He wants ta talk to ya, hon.”
“Hi,” Ororo greeted him. “Had a little scare. Got dizzy,” she explained.
“Don’t get up til I get there,” he snapped. “Don’t move a goddamned muscle.” She heard him jingling the keys to his bike in the background. She didn’t try to lecture him about how he expected her to come home with him on his bike in her condition. She was still breaking out into cold, tingly sweats. She chewed the spearmint candy listlessly; Anna rubber her arms and fed her another while the waited. Bit by bit she regained a fraction of her equilibrium. Onlookers began to drift away as Ororo and Anna exchanged words and Ororo’s voice gathered more strength.
“Ya told me ya kicked him out, kiddo. That took guts.”
“I told you he packed up his stuff. I didn’t explain what else happened to mine.” Anna’s eyes were full of sympathy and questions, encouraging her to pour it out. “He broke everything. Things we bought together. Things he knew I loved. Personal things I had before we even started dating, Anna!”
“So that’s why ya wanted ta get new things?”
“Yeah. Not a lot. Just something to fill up some of that empty space. Call it my own.”
“Means that much to ya, huh?”
“I’ve spent too long, letting him back in, Anna. It was time for him to get out.”
“Okay,” Anna agreed. “I know ya loved him. An’ I ain’t one ta bash him knowin’ that ya loved him, since that’s make me one lowdown, dog-dirty friend. But if he sets foot inta yer life again ta hurt ya one moer time, sugah, so help me, I’m gonna hafta bitch-slap him inta next week.”
“Stand in line,” Ororo groaned. Her hands shook as she reached for another mint.
“Damn,” Anna tsked. “What else can Ah do for ya, kiddo?”
“D-don’t leave,” she stammered.
“All right. S’okay. Ah ain’t movin’.”
“Cold.”
“C’mere.” Anna slumped beside her and wrapped her in a supportive grip, continuing to rub her arms and hold her chilly hands. Gooseflesh was slow to dissipate until a familiar pair of boot-shod feet crept into view.
“Ro?” Welcome relief speared through her at the sound of his voice.
“Hey.” Strong, warm hands pried her from Anna’s grip, huddling her into the vast breadth of his solid chest.
“Yer puttin’ me through my paces, darlin’, ya know that?”
“Hey, petit. Ya can’t keep givin’ Logan here scares like that. He’s old, he can’t take too much drama like he used to,” Remy drawled. “Might give him a coronary.” Logan ignored it and busied himself with small tasks: unrolling another mint after he relieved Anna of the packet, pressing his thumb against Ororo’s wrist to check her pulse, sweeping her hair back from her face.
Logan made a small, dismissive grunt. “This ain’t drama, Cajun.” He nodded to Anna. “What brought this on?”
“We were doin’ fine til Ororo saw something she didn’t like.”
“Bad art?” Remy scanned the tiny poster shop as if looking for the source of Ororo’s bad turn.
“Bad ex,” Anna qualified. Remy nodded and shifted the paper sack he held more comfortably in his hand.
“This ain’t just low sugar?” Logan felt the side of Ororo’s neck, noting her racing pulse and clammy skin.
“Panic attack. Dip in my sugar. Blood pressure bottomed out. The trifecta,” Ororo boasted weakly.
“This ain’t drama, ‘Ro, yer gonna be fine,” Logan assured her, attempting to allay the worry in her eyes that had been there since Remy spoke her earlier thoughts aloud. “Ya came in bleedin’ last time, darlin’; compared to that, this is a friggin’ walk in the park. At least yer talkin’- and actin’ - like I just farted in church. That’s a good sign.”
“Somethin’ sure smells good,” Anna noticed.
“Made a quick stop on the way over,” Remy replied, holding up the bag. He began to open it, until the store clerk peered at them from his perch behind the counter made a disapproving face and beckoned them to move along, indicating the “No Food or Drinks Allowed Near Merchandise” sign.
“Let’s get some air,” Anna suggested.
“Let’s eat,” Logan added. Ororo’s legs still wobbled as they left the store, with Ororo leaning against him, her arm draped around his shoulders for support. His brawny arm held her snugly around the waist, practically carrying her. Ororo’s eyes scanned the corridor of the galleria. No Pietro.
She still mentally wiped off the kiss he threw her, cringing at the memory.
They strolled to the seating surrounding the food court. Ororo was thrilled to find that the food came from a restaurant outside the mall, instead of from the vendors whose food smelled the same, from equally nondescript menus.
Remy extracted the sandwiches from the bag and peered inside the wrapper of the first. “Grilled chicken, cher,” he announced, handing it to Ororo. She took it gratefully and unwrapped one of the neatly sliced halves, biting into it with relish. Black pepper, pepperoncinis and habanero jack cheese made her eyes water, but it was delicious. Logan nodded to Anna, “Got you one, too, kiddo, dig in.”
“Awww, that was sweet; ya didn’t hafta go to the trouble,” she beamed as Remy passed her another chicken sandwich, this one parmesan with black olives.
“He said his baby doll was out paintin’ the town with a friend; seemed like the thing t’do.” His eyes twinkled at her as he bit into his own pastrami reuben. “Kinda had an ulterios motive, though, petit.”
“Like what?” Anna tweaked out a chunk of chicken and popped it into her mouth, licking the marinara sauce from her thumb.
“I like watchin’ a beautiful woman eat.”
“Oh…mah God!” Anna breathed, right before she left the fragment go down the wrong pipe. She sputtered and choked as Remy’s grin evaporated, suddenly contrite as he reached over to whack her soundly on the back.
“Geez, Cajun,” Logan growled, “make her choke t’death, for cripes’ sake!”
“Maybe…*KAFF!*…ya shouldn’t…*kaaarrggh*…say stuff like that, shoog,” she recovered, eyes still watery but riveted on him. Ororo and Logan watched the two of them thoughtfully, trading glances across the table. Anna caught the silent exchange. “What?” she prodded.
“Gotta chew, kiddo,” Logan pointed out slyly.
“Now see, Ah knew that.”
“I wasn’t expecting both of you to come here,” Ororo mentioned.
“It was either that or take the bike.”
“Ah.”
“Roro an’ I took her care here,” Anna reminded them.
“I can driva ya both home.” Ororo swiftly kicked Logan under the table. “Ow! Geez!” Innocent blue eyes darted to the side as she “willed” him to let the other shoe drop…
“Don’t trouble yaself, mec. I can take Anna wherever she needs t’go.”
Up until that moment, Anna had finished wiping the corners of her eyes with her napkin, having finally recovered from her choking episode.
This time she inhaled just enough of her soda to exhale a dribble of it through her nose when she choked this time.
“Spit take through the nose. Classic,” Logan marveled. Ororo kicked him again as she handed Anna another napkin.
“Take ya time, getting’ back t’me on that ride, petit.” Remy smiled again and continued to pat her back, this time less briskly. His hand lingered long enough to flatten against her and caress her in lazy circles. Anna’s eyes, still slightly limpid from her exertions, studied him in slow degrees, drinking in tiny details. His hands. His smooth, golden skin. The amused flare of his nostrils above the sharp, sensuous notch of his lip.
Laughing, intelligent black eyes were her undoing. His solicitous touch, coupled with that intense gaze silenced the surrounding clamor and drove heat into her cheeks in a delicious flush. Memories of his flesh beneath her lips, dappled with airy puffs of whipped topping resurfaced and made her shiver.
“Y’cold?”
“Hm?”
“He asked if you were cold, Anna,” Ororo announced, plucking loose a chunk of chicken and using it to swab up a puddle of marinara dripping from Anna’s forgotten sandwich.
“M’fine…but Ah think Ah could use that ride ya mentioned before.”
Hoo. Could she ever. Logan smothered a small cough, moving his leg this time when Ororo tried to kick him again.
~0~
Anna silently checked her teeth in the tiny sideview mirror of Remy’s car one more time to make sure she didn’t have chicken in them or sauce on her chin as Remy wrapped his arm around the seat to back out of his parking space. Her stomach fluttered, even though she was finally, comfortably full from lunch, one she couldn’t remember enjoying more on previous occasion.
She was getting a ride home with Officer Hot Abs.
The leather upholstery felt cool against her back. The car itself managed to be surprisingly neat; no fast food wrappers or Big Gulp cups, no forgotten jackets in the back seat. The floormats even looked as though they were recently vacuumed. A faint hint of air freshener tickled Anna’s nose.
“Smells nice in here. Whaddya use?”
“Febreeze. Cuts the funk.”
“Mmmmm.”
“Where ya live, cher?”
“Off that first exit on route five, south. Adler Street.”
“Nice neighborhood, petit.”
“Got a little one-bedroom. It’s a place ta hang mah hat, Ah guess.” She snuck looks at him. He looked comfortable shifting gears and steering the sporty little car that he obviously babied. “Gotta be hard not ta open this baby up on the highway,” she murmured. He craned his neck around to look at her more closely, eyes thoughtful. “What?”
“Ya like ta go fast, cher?”
“That and really good chocolate are two of mah only vices, shoog.”
“Get ready t’enjoy one of ‘em in a minute, den, honey pie,” he grinned, shifting into third. Remy wove his way through late afternoon, straggling traffic, and a funny frisson of delight mixed with terror uncurled in Anna’s core. The engine revved to life once they were free and clear of the drifting trail of cars, and Anna felt the road calling her to ride it as the needle on the speedometer began its arc across the dial. She reflexively grabbed the door rail and floored an imaginary brake.
“WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“Attagirl, cher,” Remy chuckled. Their eyes met briefly over the console, and her hand slid from her lap and covered his as she helped him to shift gears over the next three-mile stretch. Luminous green eyes danced with excitement and a shared understanding found between kindred spirits. His eyes raked over her before he rearranged their hands, allowing his to envelop hers and wrap her slender fingers around the gearshift. Heat surged through them both at that contact. Despite the unusual circumstances that brought them to this moment, inside his tiny little car, it was shaping up to be a decent day.
“One last stretch before they give us a ticket,” she suggested.
“Never could say no,” Remy promised as he stomped the gas. Anna rolled down the window and let the wind whip through her thick, shining waves of auburn hair. He didn’t want anyone to pinch him yet as she settled back into her seat, freeing a strand of hair from where it caught between her plump pink lips.
~0~
“So what am I bringing?”
“Spinach dip. It’s easy.”
“Meh. I feel like I always end up bringing that.” Ororo checked the rotation speed of a banner on the site page she was putting the finishing touches on as she cradled the receiver on her shoulder. She nagged herself that she should have just put Jean on speaker.
“I love spinach dip!” Jean whined.
“I know, but I’m just sick of bringing it. Why not make some?” she suggested.
“Mine never turns out.”
“Fine, then.” Ororo hit save, then stood and stretched with a long-suffering groan. “I’ve been in the mood for chicken wings.”
“They’re messy. Sauce gets all over the place.”
“Jean, you can’t come between a woman and a good wing, it’s just not done.”
“Not on my new couches. People go to parties. They eat. They drink. They forget to use napkins, no matter how many you have set out. Wings aren’t gonna happen, ‘Ro.”
“You’re such a poop.”
“Sticks and stones. It’s my house,” Jean sniffed. “It should be a lot of fun. Betsy’s coming, Emma’s coming.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ororo mentally rifled through her closet, deciding what she could wear that wouldn’t make her feel “tore up from the floor up” standing next to their resident diva princesses with unlimited retail therapy. She was still broke from having to assume the entire mortgage payment herself, but on the other hand, she spent about one third of what they used to spend on food and utilities. She was still trying to do that math on that one, but still came up with “five wasted years that I’ll never get back.” It sucked.
Time spent with Logan was helping to roll back the clock. She was craving one of his neck rubs right now.
“The girls from the spa are planning to drop in.”
“Mmph.” Ororo was indifferent either way. The girls from the spa were…nice. Smiley. Lacquered. She knew they didn’t give a good goddamn how she was when they asked, and their eyes just glazed over when she put any detail into the answer. Engagement rings talked, and spoke volumes.
“I left messages for Ali, Lorna and Anna; they haven’t gotten back to me yet.” Her tone was slightly dismissive.
“I’m stopping by Lorna’s today, anyway. Ali said she might meet up with us for a movie. We might see Happy Feet.”
“You guys never tell me about ANYTHING!”
“Chime in any time, Pookie. You can go.”
“No. That’s all right.” Ororo rolled her eyes at Jean’s “I know when I’ve been dissed and deserted” tone that held a hint of haughty in it. “I’ve got things to do to get ready for the party. I was going to make a nail appointment and get my highlights done, anyway.”
“Well, there you go.”
“You’ll miss me,” she pronounced confidently.
“We’ll miss you. And Scott will console you in our absence.”
“That’s MY man! No talk of consoling here,” she insisted, giggling.
“Heifer! I’ve got a man of my own,” she assured her.
Silence.
“Logan’s coming with me tomorrow night. He said to tell Scott that he’ll bring the beer.”
More silence.
“Jean? Helloooooo?”
“Uh-huh. Listen, Ororo, I better motor. Kiss-kiss. Talk to you later, ‘kay? Bye!”
“Okay, Jean; by-“ Click.
“Well…shit.” Ororo powered off and set the handset in its holster before heading down the hall to the bathroom. She pondered her talk with Jean while she showered, making free with the new bottle of bath gel and slathering her hair with conditioner. She brought it up to Lorna twenty minutes later when she answered the door, dressed to kill in her new black jeans and a sweater that Anna talked her into buying while they were at the galleria the day before.
“Jean’s been acting weird lately,” Ororo commented as she hugged her hello and tugged her into the foyer.
“That’s called ‘newly married, so my shit don’t stink,’ ‘Roro. No biggie. It’ll pass.”
“Her head’s probably still in the clouds,” Ali rationalized, following Lorna inside and pecking Ororo on the cheek. “You smell good,” she commented.
“Liz Claiborne. Curve.”
“Mmmm.”
“C’mere, I’ll spray some on you.” They trekked back to Ororo’s room, taking in the mostly bare walls.
“It practically echoes in here,” Ali tsked.
“Ain’t my fault,” Ororo shrugged.
“Did he just take everything, or…?”
“Or something like that.” She rummaged through her vanity and found the perfume. “Bring your neck over here.” She gave Ali and Lorna both a quick spritz, filling the room with the flowery, feminine fragrance. “I ain’t sorry, either. He messed up. Big time.”
“Anna said you told him to leave.”
“He left panties under my bed. RED panties.”
“Ooooh.”
“That’s not even all right. Damn,” Ali scowled, twisting her lips. “And he’s still among the living?”
“Better yet, Ororo, is he at least walking funny? I would have left him walking funny, pulling that mess,” Lorna swore.
“He can walk however and wherever he wants now. Let me grab my purse.” They headed back to her bedroom, noticing a new sheet set on the bed and her father’s framed picture in its characteristic place on the side table. Ali was the first to notice one other detail.
“NICE!” She leapt across the bed to grab a doubled-up flannel shirt that wasn’t Ororo’s size. “Ahem!”
“What?” Ororo inquired innocently, trying to smother a smile but letting a crumpled smirk escape anyway.
“THIS! What ‘what?’ Don’t ‘what’ me, you! Fess up!” Ali waved the shirt under Ororo’s nose, her grin a mile wide. “DISH!”
“Doesn’t look like Pietro’s shirt,” Lorna quipped dryly.
“Nope.”
“Smells good,” Ali remarked, inhaling the faded scent of Logan’s aftershave and a hint of something that reminded her of her father’s cigars.
“You’ve met him,” Ororo explained. “Kind of.”
“When?”
“Jean’s hen party. The bachelorette. The fierce-looking guy who chaperoned.”
“Wait…that guy? The one with the grumpy eyebrows?” Lorna was aghast but dying to know more.
“He was kinda yummy, in a scary way,” Ali admitted.
“Logan’s not scary at all.”
“Guess not, Miss-I-Got-a-Little-Souvenir-and-I-Ain’t-Telling.” Ali continued to wave the shirt at Ororo as she grilled her like a flounder. “When were you going to tell us about him?”
“Tomorrow,” Ororo deadpanned. “We’re going to Jean’s housewarming tomorrow.”
“I forgot,” Ali confessed. “Whoops. Now I’ve got to run out and get a hostess gift. Crap.”
“Bring wine,” Lorna suggested.
“All we ever do is drink when we go to Jeannie’s,” Ali whined. “I just hate this constant barrage of gifts! Bridal shower gift. Bachelorette gift. Housewarming gift. Eventually baby shower gift.”
“Socially acceptable begging?” Lorna offered. “I don’t know. I didn’t make that rule.”
“I’m broke,” Ororo announced. “And Jean already said I’m bringing spinach dip.
“Again?” Ali folded Logan’s shirt neatly and laid it on the dresser. “If I have to look one more bowl of that stuff in the eye, you’ll have to call me Popeye.”
They piled into Ororo’s little Honda and made it to the theater ten minutes into the opening credits. Ali held the bucket of popcorn on her lap while Ororo and Lorna flanked her on each side, nursing cups of fruit punch and a box of Jujubes. The opening sequence of the movie made Ororo nearly dizzy but she got into it, enjoying the music and graphics. She laughed when she heard a tiny voice cooing behind her, “Oooooo, Momma, LOOK! PENGUINS!” Lorna and Ali chuckled, too.
“Cute,” Ali murmured, munching a handful of popcorn.
As usual, whenever she was settling down to have a good time, nature called. Ororo got up halfway through and muttered “Gotta powder my nose.”
“Never fails,” Lorna replied cheerfully, taking Ororo’s depleted cup of punch as she rose and scooted around myriad legs in the dark.
Ororo made it out to the lobby and to the women’s room, grateful that the entire row of stalls appeared to be empty. She hadn’t even heard the two sets of feet following her until she was sequestered in a stall. The same little girl she’d heard cried out, “Momma, I don’t have to goooooo!”
“Yes, you do, sweetie,” she argued. “Come on. Let’s hurry so we don’t miss anything.” Ororo heard the slam of the stall right before she headed back to wash up. The soap dispenser was almost out; she shoved the handle insistently, trying to get the last gasp of gel. Half of it squirted out onto the counter instead. Ororo snorted and rinsed. The stall door swished open, and Ororo was surprised to see a harried but attractive woman with light red hair and a trim figure leading her equally striking daughter by the hand. The child looked familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.
Her daughter obeyed her mother’s injunction to wash, holding chubby little hands under the spray and singing tunelessly. Ororo met the mother’s tidy smile in the mirror.
“You can brush Princess Poppy’s hair,” the little girl recited in a chipper, almost rehearsed voice. Her movements were graceful for someone so young. Most five-year-olds didn’t have that much poise, Ororo thought, guessing her age.
“Does she like Princess Poppy dolls?” Ororo asked of her mother, trying to make brief, polite chit-chat.
“I used to be Princess Poppy. Now I’m just Luna,” the child informed her proudly.
“Let Mommy talk, Luna, okay?” She dried her daughter’s hands on the rough brown towels. “What can you do? Kids will talk to anyone, any time!”
“Sure,” Ororo agreed, even though she didn’t have much of a basis to know. She decided adults had the same tendency as her new acquaintance took the ball and ran with it before she could make her way back to the theater.
“Luna was in a commercial. She has a few more spots coming up.”
“A commercial? Wow,” Ororo admired. Now she recognized the tiny face and those distinctive, ice-blue eyes and cherub’s cheeks. “So you ARE Princess Poppy!”
“No, I’m Luna,” she corrected her, sticking her chest out like a preening bird. Ororo laughed. She twirled her hair around a tiny finger and clung to her mother’s hand.
“I’m going to get back. It was nice-“ Ororo already had her back turned, hand on the door.
“You’re pretty.”
“Excuse me?” The woman declared this in a sharp voice meant to give her pause.
“You’re pretty.” Ororo turned to face her again. “Pietro said you were pretty.”
Ororo’s blood ran cold.
“Who…?” Her voice didn’t sound like she wanted it to. Dazed, definitely. Not hers. Couldn’t be.
“My name’s Crystal. You’ve met Luna, my daughter.” She swung her daughter’s hand to pacify her when she looked like she was champing at the bit. “Pietro’s daughter.”
“Mommy, let’s GOOOOOOO!” She stomped her little foot, making the lights in her Disney Princess sneakers flicker.
The floor seemed to drop out from beneath Ororo’s feet. She swallowed around a lump.
“I…I don’t know you. Why are you telling me this?”
“I wanted to meet you. See you. This wasn’t planned,” she insisted. “You showed up here, at this particular moment. It just happened. I’ve seen you before.”
“How?”
“About three months after Pietro began cheating on me. I followed him once, just to give myself peace of mind. I saw him at Starbucks. You were there. Working. He was ordering his coffee. Skinny latte with a chocolate-covered biscotti.”
“No almonds,” Ororo whispered.
“No almonds,” she agreed, her eyes turning into hard blue chips. “I was young. I had one more year of school.”
“Pietro had already finished school,” Ororo droned on, before stopping herself. Her lips were struggling to keep up with the conversation. She wanted to run. She wanted to slap her, but…no.
No.
“Pietro was cheating on you,” Ororo stumbled, “to be with me.”
“I was five months pregnant when he moved out of our apartment.”
“I can’t listen to this,” Ororo stammered, heading for the door.
“Don’t run away from me!” Her tone wasn’t angry, thankfully. Ororo spun around, facing her.
“Don’t do this to me! Don’t…” She peered through a sheen of building tears at Luna, studying her, her mind screaming that it was impossible even as she saw the now-obvious resemblance. Pietro’s full pink mouth. The same dimples. The same defiant little chin. Identical posture. She was perfect.
But her very existence made her relationship with Pietro a lie.
Suddenly Ororo sobered, her tears drying before they could even fall. “I’m not even with him anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her face said otherwise. Ororo recognized heartbreak when she saw it. She radiated it.
“Yes, it does. Even if you don’t want to be with him anymore, don’t act like I’m an obstacle to you being able to contact him.” Then it dawned her. “Have you and ‘Tro…?”
“No. Not since I was pregnant,” Crystal assured her.
“Doesn’t make me feel any better,” Ororo snapped. Crystal’s eyes held contrition, not guilt. It still didn’t erase the other women who came between them. “Did you love him?” Crystal’s shoulders were set firmly, her spine ramrod straight.
“Yes. With all my heart.”
“Mommy!” More insistent stomping ensued.
“So did I.” She smoothed a shaking hand over her hair. “I never stopped.”
“Has me met her?” Ororo nodded to Luna.
“Once. Just once.” She held up Luna’s wrist carefully, turning it so that the bathroom vanity lights hit something gleaming and gold there. “He gave her this when she was born.” She fingered it absently. “It’s even inscribed. It says, ‘With Love. Daddy.’”
“He denied his own child.” Ororo was past tears. She was livid. “Do you have a cellphone?”
“Why?” She was already ducking into her large purse.
“I have a phone number to call. It’s for Eric. He’s moved since you and Pietro were together.” Crystal eyed Ororo with interest as she beckoned to her to hand over the phone. She snapped it open and began tapping in a number on her contact list after it beeped back at her. “He’s a good man. He would have made a wonderful father-in-law.” She handed Crystal back the phone once she was finished. “He’s a loving and wonderful grandfather. Don’t deny him this. Or her.”
“Mommy? Why are you crying?” Soulful blue eyes peered up at both women, then looked with interest at the mobile phone clutched tightly in her mother’s hand.
“It’s okay, baby. Let’s go, let’s watch your movie, you’re being such a good girl.”
“Don’t let him just-“
“He threw me away. I won’t just be something he threw away. Everything I have, I made for myself. My little girl is my world,” Crystal reared back, plucking Luna up and balancing her on her hip. “Pietro just donated the DNA.” She rushed out. Luna gave Ororo a small wave over her mother’s shoulder, smiling politely but with relief to be headed back to the theater. Ororo followed them slowly, with shaking steps, still reeling. She was quiet through the rest of the movie; Ali occasionally snuck looks at her when she noticed that she wasn’t laughing. When the lights came back up, there was no sign of Crystal and Luna. She fought back a mixture of frustration and relief.
“Why so quiet, Ororo?” Lorna prodded as she unlocked the car.
“Olive Garden,” Ororo muttered. “Now.”
“Uh-oh.”
“That bad?” Ali inquired, her face full of concern.
“Worse. C’mon.” They inevitably waited at least a half an hour for appetizers, and another forty minutes for food. Ali and Lorna knew that something was up, and that it wouldn’t be addressed with anything short of an all-you-can-eat pasta bowl and more ugly confessions than you could shake a stick at.
Two hours later, all three women were stuffed and still stirring their spoons in their dessert cups. Ali and Lorna were speechless.
Almost.
“Pietro’s a dad.”
“A little girl.” Lorna agreed, sucking the mousse from her spoon thoughtfully. Ororo’s eyes flitted back from one friend to the other.
“Well?” Tension knotted her shoulders as she wrung her napkin in a fierce grip.
“That deadbeat, motherfucking rat-bastard!” Ali exploded.
Phew…
“I didn’t want you guys to think I was lame for being so clueless about what he did to me, and how I didn’t know.” Relief washed over her in a crashing wave.
“Geez…Ororo, forget that nonsense, we love you!” Lorna reached over and gripped her hand, then Ali cover both of them in a Three Musketeers gesture. “To heck with him. I’m just pissed that he never told you he had a little girl. It’s fine that he was a dad, it’s just bullshit that he played his little game for so long!”
“She’s so beautiful; how could he deny such a precious little girl like that? That’s what makes me so mad. Pietro’s crazy to have done something like that.”
“Fucking nuts,” Ali agreed, not holding back an inch.
“He was crazy to cheat on you, Ororo.”
“He cheated on her first.”
“Fine. If it makes you feel any better, than go with that, even though it won’t.”
“I guess it almost does, in a bad way. I tried hard to be what and who he needed me to be. It didn’t work. I just figured it was my fault.”
“Bullshit!”
“I think we already got the point, Al,” Lorna drawled. She munched on the pirhouette cookie that came with her mousse and waved it at Ororo for emphasis. “If Pietro was a player, you never could have turned him away from the game. That’s just the way he’s built.”
“I saw him at the galleria, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” Ororo snarled, still riding the rush of anger lodged in her chest. “Threw me into one of my fits. My sugar bottomed out, too. Anna was there, she saw the whole thing. She knows,” she added. “Not about this new mess, but she knows about everything else.” She planned on filling her in.
“Guess he won’t be joining you guys for Scrabble anymore at Jeannie’s, will he?” Lorna polished off the cookie and brushed the crumbs from her hands.
“Hell to the no,” Ororo confirmed, raising her hand for a high-five. The staccato slap of palms rang out over the clamor before they settled up their tab.
Twenty-four hours later, the Summers residence
Ororo had never been air-kissed so much in her life. Her thoughts drifted back to Steve Martin promising “I’ll go, but I’m not kissing anyone” in LA Story. It never fit so well as it did here. Ugggghhhhh.
“MWAH! You look so GOOD! I love what you’ve done to your hair!” Someone, she begged silently, just shoot me.
Logan caught her eye from over the shoulder of Jean’s sister Gayle and saluted her with his beer can. She mouthed the word “Help!” and received another guffaw and shake of his head. The past twenty minutes had been like that, since Ororo had arrived early with the promised spinach dip and helped Jean put the finishing touches on the decorations and to set the table. The master bedroom had been cleared and was spotlessly clean, leaving the bed open to receive coats.
From that moment on, Jean became one part hostess, one part drill sergeant. Logan, Scott, his younger brother Alex, and Scott's backup on Noc, Nate, all escaped to the den to watch Ultimate Fighting Challenge, whooping it up and helping themselves to wings (which Logan convinced Ororo to buy, despite Jean’s warnings to the contrary) while they enjoyed the carnage onscreen.
Ororo scuttled back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, helping Jean bring out trays of finger foods while the barbecued ribs continued to release tempting aromas, making Ororo’s mouth water. She caught sight of herself in Jean’s hall mirror and decided she was fine with what she saw. Her black dress was snug and hit two inches above the knee, making the perfect canvas for her chandelier earrings and kickin’ new shoes that Logan helped to pick out.
He had, of course, made her vow to wear them, and nothing else, once he got her home. She sighed at the memory. Yep…they looked good on her feet, bouncing over his shoulders, too. She loved these shoes.
When Ali and Lorna finally showed up, Ororo’s shoulders sagged in gratitude. “Finally! Took you heifers long enough!”
“I got off work late,” Ali pleaded, hugging her fiercely. She nodded at Logan as he passed by, heading to the den with another six-pack. “Hold on a minute, Slick. Introduce yourself!”
“Name’s Logan,” he offered, shaking her hand with his free one. His grip was firm, and, Ali noticed, absolutely yummy. “Ya went ta Red’s bachelorette, didn’tcha?”
“Yup.”
“Thought that was you. And you,” he grinned, giving Lorna the same treatment. His eyes were warm. “Take a load off, kiddo. Grab some of the wings before they’re gone.”
“I will!” When he was out of sight, Lorna was first to squeal. “Oh, my God! He’s…WOW! I like him, Ororo! I really do! He’s cuter than I remember.”
“Yum,” Ali confirmed. “Honey, hush.”
“Where’s Jeannie?”
“In the kitchen. Let’s rescue her so she can enjoy her party.” Ororo led them back. Jean was just untying her apron and washing her hands at the sink.
“It’s about time you guys got here!” she accused as Lorna pecked her on the cheek.
“See?” Ororo chimed in.
“Oh, be quiet, you!” Ali took her turn next, grasping Jean’s shoulders and turning her this way and that. “Yup. You look like a married woman now, complete with a married ASS!” Ororo and Lorna burst out in cackles that drew curious looks from guests walking past the kitchen.
“Ohhhh…don’t make me hurt you,” Jean warned, eyes flaring even as she grinned. “Just wait. I’ll get you back. It’ll be your turn one day, too, missy!”
“Come on. Show us the house,” Lorna nagged, staring at the elegant kitchen. “This is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Onward! The tour!” she cheered, leading them upstairs. Ororo expressed the same admiration as Lorna and Ali as they ooh’ed and aah’ed their way through the halls and rooms, even though she had already seen it. They eventually landed in the master bedroom, and Lorna and Ali nudged aside the pile of coats to sit down.
“You’re so lucky; you two did a nice job of this,” Ali gushed.
“It’s not really Scott’s thing. But thanks,” she added belatedly, beaming.
“Hey, Jeannie,” Lorna piped up. “Do you still have the green scarf that I liked so much? The glittery one with the fringe?”
“In my lingerie drawer. Top left,” she said, waving her over to it. “Help yourself.” She pulled open the drawer and giggled. Everything was rosebud-rolled, triple-folded and neat as a pin. Jean’s Martha Stewart compulsion was legend. Lorna pawed through the contents carefully, finding a flash of green.
“Aha!” She retrieved it triumphantly and wrapped it around her neck. “Whaddy think?”
“Nice,” Jean encouraged, smiling.
“You have some nice things here. Did all of this come from the bachelorette party?”
“Most of it. I made a trip to Victoria’s Secret, too. Gift card,” she explained.
“Ooooo! LOOK! This is pretty, I wish I could wear this color,” Lorna sighed, pulling out a red brassiere. “Look at the pretty little bows. Looks like something from a pin-up calendar.”
“Hey…I gave you that at the shower,” Ali piped up. “Wasn’t it a set?”
“Hmm?”
“Weren’t there little bikinis that went with it?”
“No, I don’t recall,” Jean shrugged thoughtfully, her brow puckering. She crossed the room and gently shut the drawer.
“No. It was. Panties. A little French-cut thong. Same bows. I almost bought you the nightie, but I figured you would get more use out of the set.”
“Maybe they’re just in the laundry,” Jean offered. Her cheeks suddenly looked…flushed.
Ororo felt a strange tightening across her scalp, gooseflesh running up her nape and arms. She watched the little red bra disappear back into the drawer. She rubbed her neck to dispel the feeling of unease that crept over her.
“You didn’t come home with it.” She didn’t realize her lips had even moved.
“What?”
“Panties. You didn’t bring them home from your trip,” Ororo reminded her gently.
“No. I didn’t take them.” Jean began to lead them outside, but Ororo’s voice stopped her.
“They weren’t here.” Jean halted and stilled, and Ali and Lorna stared at her with questions in their eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“They weren’t here for you to take.” Ororo felt that bothersome lump return to her throat. It nearly choked her. “They were at my house.”
“Ororo! JEAN! What have you two been up to?” Ali joked. Lorna reached out a hand to shush her, not liking the hectic pallor in Jean’s cheeks. She broke out into blotches.
This wasn’t good.
“Not us two,” Ororo droned, as though hypnotized. Her eyes locked on Jean, pinning her. “I had nothing to do with how they got there. Did I, Jeannie?”
“Ororo…”
“Did I?” she repeated, holding up a hand in warning.
“No. You…didn’t.”
“That’s what I thought.” The entire room held their breath.
“Shit,” Ali gasped.
“Hush, Ali!” Lorna was already walking toward Ororo beseechingly, eyes begging her not to act the donkey and forget herself. Forget where she was.
In one smooth motion, Ororo stepped past Lorna and gently shoved her aside as her arm flew out in a broad arc. SLAP!!! The force of the slap sent Jean spinning and tripping over her own feet. She landed against the wall, bracing her palms against it, leaning her forehead against the pristine plaster.
“You said…I was always in your corner, Jean. How could you?”
“Ororo,” Jean croaked, meeting her gaze, eyes glimmering and overflowing with tears. “Please…don’t…”
“HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME? I…I WAS YOUR BEST FRIEND!”
“You are; you are, please. Don’t…please let me explain.”
“You can’t explain this,” Ororo hissed. “You just can’t, d’you hear me, Jeannie? This isn’t shit you just ‘explain.’ You can’t make me UNDERSTAND this!”
“Ororo…where are you going? Don’t go…you can’t…it will look so bad, please, please. Don’t make me tell anyone that you left, you can’t DO this to me! Oh, Ororo, I’m so sorry! So sorry!”
“Listen to yourself,” Ororo snapped. “It’s not up to me to clean up this mess. My name’s Bennett, and I ain’t in it.”
“Ororo,” she sobbed, her voice hardening, “you can’t tell Scott.”
“No. I can’t. He doesn’t deserve this. Not for one minute.” She felt her heart breaking, hating the red handprint glaring out from Jean’s cheek, her face now white as a sheet and streaked with tears. Ali looked furious. Lorna merely knelt beside Jean and laid a hand on her shoulder soothingly.
“She’s right, Jeannie,” she murmured. “You made a mistake. Let her go. Quit worrying about how things look. That doesn’t matter right now.” Ororo glared at all of them before turning on her heel and stalking downstairs.
She reached the living room, searching it frantically for Logan. She caught him on her way back through the kitchen after noting he wasn’t in the den. Scott was just tugging the ribs out of the oven, and Ororo’s stomach pitched. She struggled to stay calm. She’d known Scott for years. She was transparent around him.
That’s how friends were.
“Hey darlin’, Scooter decided not ta let us starve on all this girly food…whoa. Y’all right?”
“Mm-um. No.” She fished for a handy excuse. “Cramps,” she claimed lamely.
“TMI, sweetheart,” Scott whimpered, holding up his fingers in the sign of a cross. “But that’s fine.” He peered around the corner of the kitchen. “Where’s Jean?”
“Upstairs. I already told her goodbye,” Ororo insisted, tugging on Logan’s arm.
“Ya haven’t eaten yet, darlin’,” he nagged.
“I’m fine.” She retrieved her purse from the hook by the back door. “I’ll go start the car. Scott, thank you,” she recovered, pecking him on the cheek.
“What the hell?” Logan looked flummoxed.
“I’ll save you some ribs; I’ll bring the leftovers for dinner on NOC shift tomorrow night. Go, dude.”
“Killer,” Logan agreed, making “I’m not worthy” bows at Scott as he chucked his empty beer can into the recycle box. He was hot on Ororo’s heels as she stumbled and smiled her way out through the crowded foyer. She was heedless of Betsy and Emma asking where she was going.
“Mind explaining to me what…” Logan’s hand halted her hand on the knob, snaking around her. His breath was hot against her ear, making her heart thud in her chest.
“Not now,” she begged. “When we get outside. Please.” She felt the shift in his body as he turned the doorknob for her.
“Okay, baby. Let’s go.” He tugged open the door, letting in a cool draft of air.
“Am I late?” A silvery eyebrow quirked itself in surprise at Ororo’s sharp intake of breath. Pietro was resplendent in black, wrapped snugly in a wool peacoat that looked made for him. “Hope I didn’t miss anything.”
Ororo felt Logan’s hand tighten convulsively at her hip, shivering as his body drew itself taut as a bowstring behind her.
Oh, shit.
Bad Move by OriginalCeenote
“One hundred feet, ‘Tro,” Ororo stated flatly, her eyes icy blue chips. “You’re too close.”
“No. I was invited.” His voice was cool, every syllable in its nice, neat little place. Behind her, Ororo could feel Logan’s hackles “ if a man could have hackles “ standing on end.
“You’re lying.” She didn’t add “You’re an expert at it.” Pietro smiled sheepishly and reached into his pocket, withdrawing the small rectangle of pastel-plaid cardstock, overlaid with vellum and tied at the top with raffia. Ororo recognized Jean’s girlish script as he held it up beneath the glow of the porchlights.
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” He tapped the invitation against his lips thoughtfully.
“We were just leaving,” Ororo insisted coolly.
“You’re being awfully hasty. Doesn’t sound like the way to treat your best friend, Ororo. Wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, but this isn’t the first time, is it? You’re good at leaving the party and walking out on her without so much as a hug goodbye. Seems like you’re following a little pattern.” Ororo was still rooted to the spot, unwilling to step down onto the porch.
She was unceremoniously yanked backward, nearly losing her footing as Logan planted himself between Ororo and Pietro, mindless of Jean’s brand-new textured doormat from Pier One beneath his feet.
“Shouldn’t matter to ya why ‘Ro wants ta leave, pal,” Logan declared. Pietro and Ororo were each of a height; Jean jokingly told them that was one more thing that made them such a striking couple. Therefore, Pietro towered over Logan by a good eight inches and enjoyed this vantage point to its fullest. Logan, by contrast, was sturdy and built like a bull, with fists so big he could palm a basketball. His stance was wide, forming a protective bulwark before her. She didn’t know whether to feel safe, or indignant.
“You were on your way out before could even knock. No one will believe she decided to leave because of me,” he shrugged. Ororo longed to smack him. No one except for at three people she could name who saw her little show upstairs.
“And that makes a difference why, bub?”
“Ask Ororo.” Pietro’s voice was loaded.
“She’ll tell me when she wants to, bub. Ya might wanna move now.”
“What’s the rush?” Pietro directed the question at Ororo, licking his lips as he finally noticed her party clothes.
“She’s got cramps.” Logan heard Ororo’s smothered shriek of outrage and cringed inwardly. He knew he’d have to make it up to her later.
“Logan!” Dude, I figured you’re be gone by now. You sure you don’t want to stay for the second half…oh. Hi, ‘Tro. I didn’t know you were coming tonight, ‘bro.” Scott’s tone rang with more confusion than anything else. Scott typically always kept Pietro at the top of his guest list for everything. Ball games. House parties. Work shindigs. He stopped himself from telling Jean to invite him out of common sense, knowing full well she’d want to invite Ororo. Their tenuous friendship with their favorite couple was at a four-way stop, and he wisely let Jean have the right of way. He loved her.
Now, his gaze swung from Logan and back. His best friend looked cool as a cucumber. His normally stoic coworker and erstwhile houseguest look like a dog guarding a meaty bone, nostrils flared, eyes dilated…oh, yeah. “I’ll just…check on Jean, I guess. Take your time, ‘Ro. Sure you don’t want some dip?” The look on his face was classic: Old boyfriend+New boyfriend=Not good.
“I’m fine.” Her smile was strained, her eyes pleading.
“You don’t have to go, do you? Jeannie was so glad you could come.” Pietro watched the exchange with amusement. See? his eyes seemed to crow.Now you’re the one who looks bad. I win.
“I know.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want to cut things short, Scott. It’s not your fault, everything was great.” His dark eyes were soft and full of sympathy. Telling him the truth would be like kicking a puppy. Suddenly it hit her.
She felt sorrier for Scott than she did for herself.
“Jeannie did everything. It’s just her thing.” Scott peered back through the crowd of attractive people;; the tiny divot appeared between his eyebrows that Ororo affectionately named his “thinking mark” as he continued to watch out for his wife. Amidst the din, Ororo heard Jean’s light footsteps descending the wooden stairs, with Lorna and Ali in pursuit. There went her clean getaway. Ororo fought the urge to look back and lost; her eyes were drawn to Jean as she reached the landing. A quick glance told her what she needed to know. Jean nodded quick hellos and effusive greetings, occasionally tilting her head around her guests in a furtive search. Her skin was flushed; no more handprint or crocodile tears, Ororo mused sourly.
Their eyes met. Time stood still. Jean’s hands smoothed the drape of her skirt, searching for something to do. She clutched her hands…and twisted her wedding band in a tense, tidy circle around her finger.
Everything, Ororo mouthed. You had everything. Tears pricked at her, threatening to fall. Scott loomed between them, gratefully swooping down and wrapping his arms around her waist, gobbling the side of Jean’s neck fondly.
“Mind moving out of the way?” Pietro’s voice roused Ororo from her stupor. “I’d like to come in.”
“Sure ya do.” Logan’s chin jutted stubbornly as he reached up to scratch his stubble, making a thoughtful little growl in his throat. “Ain’t my place ta tell ya no. Yer good at that.”
“Excuse me?” Pietro huffed. A tiny vein worked in his smooth, sharp jaw.
“Yer always wantin’ ta let yerself back in, eh? Betcha feel at home at a shindig like this. Nice house. Great grub. Pretty people. Bein’ in good comp’ny.” Logan flicked his head back, nodding toward Ororo. “A guy’s gotta get out an’ mingle, right?” Logan’s eyes dared him to mingle…
“Not much point in mingling. I know everyone here,” Pietro boasted, taking the opportunity to stare past Logan into the foyer, venturing a stop toward the door and waving at random guests, making a point to look straight over Logan’s head. His eyes raked over Ororo’s outfit, staring covetously at her lean curves shrink-wrapped in the softly gathered black Lycra dress.
“Go mingle anyway. Don’t mind us.” Logan was on a short tether. He felt Ororo’s satiny skin as he reached up to cover her fingers in his warm grip where she clutched him. Pietro’s smirk beckoned to him. He was dying to wipe it off. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. His throat. The tension from that morning when he drove Ororo home flooded back to him, burning him. That look of unease in her baby blues; that expression on her face, like a kid trudging inside for a spanking. The last place Logan wanted to be was in the middle. Still, he planted himself between Ororo and her ex-boyfriend, doing just that.
The fucking irony of it all, he sighed.
“Shame to leave so soon.”
“Shame.” Logan slid Ororo’s hand from his shoulder and curled it snugly in his, lacing their fingers together possessively. Pietro chuckled under his breath and shook his head, backing up and swinging himself aside like a door to let them by, hands raised in surrender. Logan stared into his face with undiluted challenge written over his features as he tugged Ororo after him.
Ororo’s breath caught in her throat as she felt herself tugged back by the wrist. She yelped in protest as her fingers were wrenched from Logan’s grasp. Logan smothered a curse, whipping around as Pietro dropped the other shoe.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening…
Ororo’s arms were clamped at her sides as Pietro hauled her against him, his wool coat rough against her skin, searching her as he levered one final insult.
“You’re not leaving yet. I didn’t say you could leave yet,” Pietro crowed, his expression a mockery of the way he used to look at her, right before he crushed her mouth with a bruising kiss.
“MMMRRMMPPH!” Ororo’s choked cry was outraged as she flailed her hands, pushing at him with ineffectual slaps. “Mmph! NO! STOP IT, ‘TRO!” He didn’t release her, even as she turned her face away, only allowing him to paint her cheek with his hot breath.
“Awww…ya had ta do it. Ya just had ta pull that shit.” Logan’s voice was resigned. Ororo turned briefly to Logan, her eyes beseeching him not to misinterpret it, pleading that this wasn’t what she wanted. Wasn’t who she wanted…until she was his expression, looking for all the world like someone force-fed him a double helping of chili peppers and raw onions soaked in Tabasco and turpentine.
“Miss me, baby?” he purred, cupping her jaw roughly, skimming her mouth with his thumb and smearing her lipstick. Anger sparked in her eyes, never leaving his even as she felt Logan’s boring into her back. Contemplating what Logan was thinking at that moment, seeing Pietro treat her like that was the final straw.
Ororo sank her teeth into the pad of Pietro’s thumb. She was rewarded by the deafening shout of outrage and the weakening of his hold on her as she spun away. Logan’s body blocked her from tripping and stumbling off the porch. She fell against him and searched his face.
“Y’all right?” She nodded breathlessly, her hand reaching up absently to wipe her mouth. “Fine,” he muttered. “Wait in the car.” She hesitated, clutching his sleeve. His scowl was thunderous, even though she wasn’t the target.
“Huh-uh. No. Not without you.”
“Wait in the car,” he greated out, releasing her and focusing past her to Pietro’s leer. Her hands felt empty as he rushed forward, and she numbly trodded down the steps, watching the scene unfold like a five-car pile-up. She stood rooted to the spot, disobeying him as Pietro taunted them both.
“This is a joke. You, coming here with him. Five years. Five fucking years. Were the sheets still warm, man? She let you in pretty quick, probably quick enough to smell my cock on her p- “
CRACK!!!
He was too focused on releasing weeks of bile and frustration to realize Logan wasn’t going to offer him “one for the money, two for the show” to get warmed up. Work-thickened knuckles slammed into Pietro, connecting with the bridge of his nose. The sickening impact of flesh striking flesh made Ororo’s stomach lurch; adrenaline made her dizzy. She still found breath to cry out.
“LOGAN! Oh, God! PLEASE, no!”
Adrenaline had its own wicked way with Logan, dilating his pupils and momentarily deadening the sting in his bones as he hit him again, driving him backward. Pietro’s stark shout roused a murmur from the guests inside; one or two voices paused in asking who left the door wide open on such a drafty night. Ororo choked back a small moan, smothering it before it could blossom into a scream. The irony hit her that she old movies and booked that always found two suitors fighting over the woman they desired wasn’t the romantic, exciting spectacle it was cracked up to be.
The were out on the front porch, in New York, on a tree-lined suburban street. Ororo had five dollars that said Jean’s neighbors were calling the cops right now.
With a grunt, Pietro locked his knees and pushed back, lowering his head and driving his shoulder into Logan’s sternum. Ororo’s eyes were riveted to Pietro’s face. Angry color suffused his skin where Logan struck him, the tissues around his eyes already beginning to swell. Logan barely shifted, huffing as he kept his balance. Pietro pressed him as Logan beckoned to him, waving him forward.
“C’mon, ya pansy, try that again!” Pietro feinted and looked for Logan’s weak side. He swung, catching Logan in the ribs just to see which was he moved. “Ya call that a hit, dumb ass? That shit tickles. HERE!!” BAM! A stream of blood-tinged spittle flew from Pietro’s mouth. He spat more of it onto the porch.
Jean’s cried rang out, startling Ororo from the spectacle.
“STOP! Stop it, NOW! You WON’T DO THIS! This is MY house!
The whites of her eyes were visible beneath the porchlight, glittering with a mixture of horror and outrage. “SCOTT! she shrieked. He was by her side in a second, then pried her away from the doorframe.
“Are you out of your fucking minds? Lo- HO! Holy SHIT!” Scott flattened himself against the doorframe, narrowly missing Logan plowing over him, jacking Pietro up by the lapels, and slamming him back against the siding. The sound of Pietro hitting the house felt so satisfying that Logan did it again.
“You don’t touch ‘Ro,” Logan rasped. “ya never look at her like that, ya sorry, cheatin’ fuck. Ya won’t soil her with her filthy mouth.” Pietro struggled for purchase, his hands clawing at Logan’s strangling hold around his throat. He coughed and sputtered curses, panting for breath.
“Logan, take it easy, knock it off!” Scott was back on the porch, whacking Logan soundly on the back in frustration. “What got into you? Let him up,” he demanded. “Let him up now,” he repeated, pulling Logan back with some effort. Logan jerked his face toward Scott, at first keeping his eyes riveted on Pietro. He thumped him back against the house again, warning him that he wasn’t done yet.
“Ya would be stoppin’ me if anyone’d messed with Jeannig that way, Scooter,” Logan growled. Fresh tears spilled down Ororo’s cheeks, destroying her precious efforts at keeping them in check. The irony left her raw to the bone when Jean’s shoulders slumped, and she bowed her forehead into her templed fingers. Scott was too busy playing referee to notice her sudden silence. Jean felt Ororo’s accusing eyes, telegraphing pain and blame: This is all your fault. Ororo shook her hear to make it go away and covered her mouth with trembling fingers.
It wouldn’t go away.
“This isn’t about Jeannie. It’s not even about Ororo, is it?” Scott’s jaw worked at the sound of his wife’s name.
“You’re fucked in the head if ya think this ain’t about ‘Ro! I ain’t kickin’ his ass just ‘cuz I don’t like his face, bub!”
“This isn’t some pissing contest you can just bring into our home. You’re not bringing this bullshit to work with us, either. This stays here, Logan, but it ends here,” Scott barked.
“I didn’t just show up, planning ta kick Chuckles’ ass tonight, Summers.” Logan loosened his grip a mere fraction of an inch.
“Fuck you,” Pietro rasped indignantly.
“Let go of him,” Scott reasoned. “Enough.”
“He ain’t had enough yet, and neither have I.” The admission coming out of his mouth managed to sober him, though. He let him go. Pietro made a show of wiping Logan’s hands away and shaking off Scott’s attempt at straightening his jacket.
“You’re not man enough for ‘Ro,” Logan informed him disgustedly.
“No one’s man enough for that whore,” Pietro smirked, completely heedless of the favor both men did him. He turned back to Ororo, sizing her up, and Ororo saw a strange soup of hurt, longing and haughtiness in his silver eyes. Scott reacted first.
“Tro, knock it off! Shut up with that shit! You don’t “ “ Scott grabbed Pietro by the shoulder, but any further recriminations died on his lips when Logan carefully, cleanly shoved him out of the way.
“Think yer a smart ass,” Logan grunted. Without further preamble he grabbed Pietro and threw him over the porch rails. Ororo’s muffled scream filled his ears but didn’t stop him. He jumped over the railing and tackled him before he could rise. He was deaf to anything but the echo of that bastard’s words. They grappled in a blurry tangle of fists; Logan had the advantage of sheer endurance and strength despite Pietro’s reflexes and long reach. Logan spun Pietro around and knocked him down again, letting momentum send him skidding face-first into the new sod. His booted foot drove into Pietro’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.
“No,” Ororo sobbed raggedly. “NOOOOOOOO!” She shook her head against the sight of Logan committing such violence. “Stop,” she cried, slowly regaining her voice. “STOP IT, LOGAN, HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” He faced her at last, his scowling brows reassembling themselves. His face seemed to crumple, and he opened and flexed his bloody fingers.
“Aw, geez…’Ro, I…no. Not til this sorry fuck says he’s sorry,” Logan grumbled. He kicked him again as he was struggling to get up and jerked him roughly to this feet. “Apologize, Slick!”
“Sorry,” Pietro hissed, panting and gazing upon her with contrition, mingled with pain that she couldn’t appreciate. She was still trembling.
“Ya can do better than that, asshole!” This time his boot connected with Pietro’s ass, knocking him back onto the grass. Pietro cursed under his breath, hissing as he spat a bit of grass from his raw lip.
“LOGAN!” Jean’s voice was indignant and accusing. “He said he was sorry! That’s it, I’m calling the police!”
“Fine,” Logan snarled. “Do whatcha want. I’m done,” he announced, holding out his hands in surrender. He turned back to where Ororo was standing, only to be greeted by the sight of her retreating back as she fled down the driveway. Panic squeezed his chest. “Shit.” Belatedly she fumbled in her purse for the keys before she realized that logan had driven them in her car. They were in his pocket. His footfalls gained volume behind her as he caught up, stilling her reach for the door handle. She felt his pulsing, solid bulk at her back as he pulled her to him.
“Wait, ‘Ro!” he pleaded, his voice hoarse but no longer angry. His gusting breath stirred the fine hairs by her ear, tickling her chilled flesh. Her hair whipped out and teased his throbbing lip.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered. “No…you CAN’T do that. This wasn’t the time or place, Logan!” Humiliation crawled over her with scrabbling paws, making her chafe all over.
“Then when? What was I gonna do? I didn’t have a clue that he was comin,’ darlin’, did you?” She spun on him but didn’t shake off his grip.
“DUH! NO! Of course not…did I know he was coming, he says,” she groaned. “I wouldn’t have come if I had known, Logan. You know that,” she insisted. He grunted and stroked her hair back from her face, searching it. He offered no words of agreement, but his face finally softened as his thumb stroked the crest of her cheek.
“I didn’t wanna be in the middle,” he reminded her.
“There’s nothing between ‘Tro and me to be in the middle of, sweetie, except an expensive restraining order. You hear him.” She swallowed. “He sleeps around, and I’m the whore?” Her voice cracked, even though she tried to laugh. The quiver of her lips tugged at him and pierced his heart. Growing sounds of chatter reached them from the crowded house, and Logan cringed guiltily as Scott approached, arms crossed over his chest.
“Jean’s upset. If you have any decency, you’ll apologize.”
“Ro’s upset, too, Summers, or haven’tcha noticed?” Scott took in the strain etching itself over her features and recanted.
“Hey…’Tro’s my friend, but Jeannie and I only talked about Ororo showing up.” He reached out to stroke Ororo’s arm comfortingly. “I didn’t know,” he insisted.
“Scott…Pietro can’t come within a hundred feet of me. It’s complicated.” Scott withdrew his hand before scowling back to the porch, where Jean was approaching Pietro with a clean dishtowel. Lorna and Ali watched them soberly, then saw Ororo and Logan beside her Honda. They strode around Jean and Pietro, their faces giving away nothing.
“Don’t leave without giving us a hug goodbye,” Ali demanded, pulling Ororo away from Logan to embrace her. Her hold on her was firm and steadying, and she rocked her like a small child. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered. She released her to Lorna, who embraced her just as fiercely.
“He’s not worth it, Ororo,” she murmured.
“I’m not worth it,” Ororo corrected her stubbornly.
“Bullshit,” Lorna chided her, frowning. “Don’t say that. You worry me when you do. Ali and I love you. We’re all your friends here. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. That won’t change.” Tears spilled onto Ororo’s cheeks again. Her makeup was a lost cause. She sobbed brokenly and enveloped both women in a hug that was more desperate. Logan sighed and rubbed his nape absently, scuffing his boot in the gravel.
The roar of a rebuilt Mustang engine interrupted him from his dark thoughts. Remy and Anna honked and waved from the window before they parked. Their smiles evaporated as they got out of the car and locked up, spying Ali and Lorna gathered protectively around her and Logan looking resigned and defeated. And guilty.
“What happened, homme?” Anna dashed forward and gasped at Ororo’s condition.
“Ya look like hell, shoog,” she snapped She glared at the sight of Scott now seated beside Pietro on the porch steps, Jean hovering over them both and fixing an ice pack. “What’s he doin’ here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care,” Ororo lied. “I just want to go h-home.”
“Yeah, ya do,” Anna agreed. She kissed her. “I’ll call ya,” she promised. Drive safe,” Anna warned Logan, for good measure.
“Gym tomorrah,” Remy offered. Logan nodded, then saluted him before bundling Ororo into the passenger seat of her car. Remy pattedthe hood affectionately as they drove off.
Logan fumbled awkwardly with Ororo’s stereo and turned down the volume, relaxing a half a degree when he found an oldies station. Al Greene’s voice filled the closed up space with a soothing lilt. Logan felt hot and uncomfortable. Ororo’s sorry and frustration rolled off of her in waves. She made herself as small as she could, curtailing herself from talking by chewing her knuckle. The window felt cool against her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered once they reached the freeway and passed the first three exits. The stars were obscured by rolling clouds that promised morning rain. He stared at her, incredulous.
“Why?” He hated seeing her like that, unwilling to look at him. He needed to see her eyes, and to know he hadn’t lost everything when he wiped that smug, my-shit-don’t-stink leer off that asshole’s face. He could take Ororo being mad, as long as he could take her home and explain himself. He didn’t give a damn that he hadn’t a clue as to how.
“I would never …ever do that. Put the two of you in one place like that, after what happened. I’m not like that.” She sniffled roughly and Logan saw her wiping impatiently at her cheeks.
“Dammit, Ororo, I know that! Shit, I’m sorry. I mean that,” he emphasized, reaching into her lap and clasping her hand. “I’m sorry. I get pissed off. I knew he hurt you when he broke up.” He stroked her fingers and settled her hand more comfortably, feeling a small measure of relief when she didn’t pull away. She squeezed his back, but it tore at him when she whimpered softly and her shoulders shook.
“I…” Her voice was strained and low. Logan waited patiently for her to recover. “I’m…not ““
“Don’t say it,” he growled. “I heard ya before. Yer gonna tell me it wasn’t worth it fer me ta make him take back what he said.”
“I’m not worth the trouble,” she insisted. “Not for that. I can’t watch you do that, Logan. It…it hurts. I was so scared, and you “ you were so angry. You work with Scott, for God’s sake!”
“He looked like he was having second thoughts about stoppin’ me back there, when I asked him if he’d have done the same thing if it was Red,” he argued. Ororo faced him now, chin defiant as she sat up to her full height and turned her body away from the door.
“He might have,” she admitted, “but that’s no excuse. You’r a grown man, Logan. Adults get arrested for that playground shit.”
“He wasn’t just stealin the kickball, darlin’. He was pickin’ on my girl. Ya don’t pick on girls. Grown men don’t,” he grumbled, releasing her hand only for as long as it took to turn off onto the ramp. Once they made it through the intersection, he rested his hand on her knee, cradling it as through she were made of fine china. “Yer special, ‘Ro. Special, and special ta ME.” She shivered and shifted in her seat before tentatively reaching out to him, caressing his neck. “He was a dumb ass ta run around on ya, and just cuz he threw ya aside, that doesn’t mean yer not precious, sweet, and so pretty ya make me ache. I care about ya. I don’t wanna run around on ya, because I ain’t built like that.” She feathered her fingers through his thick waves of soft hair and rubbed his nape. The tension knotting his gut uncurled and eased. He groaned low in his throat, wanting to close his eyes and savor the contact. He was grateful she was touching him at all.
“You can’t just act the donkey when someone gives me a hard time.”
“This wasn’t just ‘someone.’” He bristled. “Well, he ain’t.”
“I loved him. I don’t anymore, but I did for a long time. That’s why it hurt, watching you hit him.” Logan winced. “But I hated it just as much watching him trying to hurt you, too. Each time either one of you landed a punch, I felt it. I wanted us to have a nice night. Scott and Jean and Pietro and I had a great time together. I didn’t want to squeeze you into some little mold and force you to take his place by going over there tonight. Scott knows Pietro and I aren’t a package deal anymore.” She said nothing about what Jean thought, and Logan didn’t feel any better, even though he didn’t realize yet that where was a piece missing from the puzzle.
“Let me know if yer not over him,” Logan retorted.
“Why don’t you let ME know if I seem like I’m not over him? Sweetie, he did so much to destroy what we had. Cheating was one thing; it began to show in little ways every day. He nitpicked and ranted. He showed up late. He tried to play it off like everything that was wrong with us was my fault.” She sighed gustily before continuing. “He broke my things.” Logan’s hand stopped mid-caress as he stared at her.
“That motherfucker…awright, that tears it. I wanna be sorry, darlin’, but that makes it might hard.” Then it occurred to him, “Ro? Didn he try anything with you?” Her eyes darted into her lap. “Look at me,” he insisted, catching her chin and tilting it up so they were eye-to-eye. “Did he hit you?”
“No. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to.”
“Don’t hold back, ‘Ro.” She could hear him grinding his teeth.
“He tried to force himself on me. Kind of sickening, since I didn’t know where all he’d been up until then.” She tried to force humor into her voice. It didn’t work.
“Sonofabitch.” Logan banged the steering wheel, then shook his head in dismay. They pulled into Ororo’s driveway and parked, and Logan turned off the ignition, pausing to rub his hand over his face. When the overhead light clicked on, Ororo paused in exiting the car, gasping when she saw his face.
“Oh, God, baby, look at your poor hands, and your lip,” she cried, reaching for him. She touched his face gingerly, and Logan’s misgivings befan to melt away as she leaned over the console, cupping his jaw in her satiny palms. “It tears me up to see you like this,” she husked. Her face was stricken but he heard determination in her voice. “I’m going to clean you up,” she informed him, leaning her forehead against his and gazing deeply into his dark eyes. “If you care for me at all, or for what we could have, don’t do this again, Logan. Please,” she murmured. She felt the tension ebb out of his body, and heard him groan low in his throat as she bestowed a kiss so lightly upon his lips that he wanted to pull her back for another, just to make sure it was real. Instead, he felt her reach up and palm his heartbeat, urging him, “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”
Logan and Ororo avoided real conversation as she led him inside. He groaned under his breath as he sat himself on the sofa, resting his battered hands on his lap. Ororo went upstairs and came back minutes later, carrying a small first aid kit under arm. She laid it out on the table in front of him and seated herself there, patting her lap. He eyed her curiously as she lifted his foot and rested it over her thighs and pried off his boot. He groaned in relief as she freed his foot and set the well-worn leather aside and rolled his sock off. She gently kneaded the ball and freed lint from his toes. His eyes shuttered, and his lips dropped open on a small moan. “Damn, darlin’. Thanks.” She made a sound of indulgent dismissal and reached for his other leg. He offered it to her readily and she unshod that one, too, watching him through lowered lashes, her smile sad and introspective.
“You need ice for that lip,” she insisted, moving out of the way as she rose and propped his feet on the table comfortably. He sighed and caught her by the wrist before she could get very far. “I’ll just be a minute, Logan,” she assured him He shook his head slowly before tugging her back and urging her to sit on his lap.
“I just need a minute right now, ‘Ro. Stay.” Hegently pulled her arms around his own neck, encouraging her to hold him. He studied her face, imprinting it on his memory. He flattened his palm against her lower back and massaged her, tracing the fine line of vertebrae and exploring the taut muscle. Bit by bit she relaxed and sagged against him, dropping her face into the crook of his neck. She was afraid to hug him too tightly, knowing he was sore.
“Tell me now if ya want me ta leave,” he rumbled. Her arms twined around him tightly this time in response.
“No,” she murmured. “Want you to stay. Please.” It was true. Warring emotions swirled in her chest. She didn’t want to reward him for hurting Pietro, even if she’d wished him assloads of ass-kickings when he walked out. To make things worse, when Pietro violated her with his kiss, she felt branded. Shame at Logan seeing Pietro treat her like a possession he could discard and reclaim burned her to the quick.
Logan mumbled something under his breath before reaching to shift her, and she felt herself lifted and turned so she straddled him. Her dress rucked up her thighs, and his palm traced the length of her leg, clad in silky taupe pantyhose. His touch raised gooseflesh, skimming over her through the nylon, and his expressing was raw and full of yearning. Ororo’s eyes darkened with need. His fingers dawdled lazy circles over her skin, memorizing the texture of her skin beneath the silk, and she felt herself grow wet, sensations rippling through her belly.
“Stay, Logan,” she repeated, leaning down and nuzzling the very tip of his nose with hers. Their breath quickened and mingled as she whispered into his mouth, “It want you. Not him.” She feathered kisses over the notch of his upper lip.
“I don’t share, darlin.” She met his eyes squarely, gently shaking her head.
“Neither do I,” she assured him, before she framed his face in her palms and tilted his jaw where she wanted it. She claimed his lips with hunger both desperate and sweet, and Logan emitted a small, helpless moan as he opened for her.
Relief and joy flooded through him as she combed her fingers through his hair greedily, wantonly straining against the growing bulge in his jeans. Her heat scorched him, and she thrilled all of his sense: the sound of her choppy breaths, shuddering out when he stroked her; the fragrance of her cologne and shampoo tickling his nose and enticing him to explore her throat; her gossamer-soft hair tumbling down and brushing his face, tangling around his fingers; and the taste of her, that kept him coming back for seconds, thirds and twenty-fourths.
Pleasure rippled over her skin as he allowed his hands to roam over her through the Lycra dress, eventually lifting her hips long enough to prize it up, up and off; it pooled in a shining puddle on the floor. She sucked his tender earlobe into her mouth while she worked at unfastening his shirt buttons and belt buckles.
“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped, nearly losing it as her tongue continued its naughty work, swirling around the whorls and crest like a tasty lollipop. She ground herself against him, and within seconds she was naked, savoring the flesh revealed by his shirt and jeans, how messily splayed open as she freed him. She gripped his hot length, feeling him throb and thrum to life. He exhaled harshly, eyes fierce and full of need at her touch, aching to be inside her softness, to feel it wrapped around him. She impaled herself on him, feeling pulse within her damp heat, and she cried out brokenly. It sounded like his name and some semblance of a prayer.
“I…want…you. Want you,” she insisted breathlessly. She rose up and lowered herself in an easy rhythm, wrapping her arms around his neck and feeding on his kisses.
“Ya have me. Aw, God, darlin’, ya have me. Every damn bit,” he grated. She squeezed him, loved him with her hands and mouth so thoroughly that he ignored the rasp of the upholstery against his back. He was gonna have a serious case of rug burn. He didn’t give a shit.
She wanted him.
He was hurtling toward a climax that would knock him senseless, he knew. Her eyes were closed and her skin was flush with heat and color, glowing as she reached her peak, pistoning over him with speed that threatened to wring him dry.
“Ororo…” He jerked back, releasing a hoarse, guttural cry as he spasmed, draining himself within her slick depths. He arms crushed her as close as he could bring her, fingers clutching has as he whipped back and forth, taking her with him. She contracted around him, sharing his fulfillment before they collapsed against each other limply, boneless.
The unwelcome image of Pietro claiming Ororo with his kiss on Scott’s porch was chased away as she eased back on her haunches, still coddling him protectively inside her and kissed his lips with casual ease. Her features were dreamy, soft and etched in satisfaction. Her walls flexed around him one last time for good measure; he grunted, evoking giggles that made him grin.
“Oof!” he winced, chuckling. “Stop that, darlin’! Gimme a change ta get my bearings.”
“You feel too good,” she grinned back, before disengaging him and letting him up. He staggered to his feet and they retired upstairs, their clothes bundled in a pile under Ororo’s arm. She fetched him a dose of Motrin and a glass of water before fussing over him, cleaning his hands. He snorted over her choice of Band-Aids, deciding Scooby Doo was the least of three evils. Minutes later, the lights were out, and Ororo lay sprawled and out cold atop Logan’s chest. Logan’s eyes were wide open in the dark as the memories he’s long put to bed roamed free. He pulled the covers up and tucked them more securely around Ororo to keep her from getting a draft.
She didn’t want Pietro. But would she want his own past?
Fleeting snatches of moments between Ororo and Pietro nagged at him as Ororo slumbered pliant and warm against him. Maybe the reason why he thought he could, was because he could, Logan reasoned. Jackass. He didn’t have a fuckin’ clue of what he threw away. Ororo sighed, and snuggled closer, her hands idly searching him as sleep-puffed lips sought him out.
*****
Piotr once told him he hated lilacs.
Logan knew about sensory recall. Some of the worst memories of his life were attached to certain scents, tastes, or textures. Piotr confessed that the sight of the flowers, the smell, walking past them made him choke, even if he started out feeling fine. Sprays of the bluish-purple blooms graced the polished wood of Illyana’s casket before it was lowered into the ground; Logan dimly recalled the salon of the Rasputins’ fine home. Every spare tabletop was cluttered with flowers. Clusters of lilacs battled for dominance among the taller, more sedate irises and white lilies. Logan and Piotr kept each other in stoic company as his mother offered food at the drop of a hat, just to have something to do.
Mary had burnt the rice again the day that she’d left him bleeding. Logan couldn’t stand the smell since.
Logan came back to her apartment at the crack of dawn, pausing to grab the paper from the stoop. He shook off the early morning chill, once again hating that he was turning in just as the sun came up. Daylight and pulling five all-nighters in a row driving for Justice Chcekered Cab didn’t mix, let alone his second gig that was driving him into the ground. His tongue felt like sandpaper and still held the rusty tang of Jack Daniels. It practically weeped from his pores.
On a night much like the one he’d just finished, Vic and St. John stumbled into his life after last call at Harry’s, each ushering an underdressed, over-highlighted girl into Logan’s cab on their way to Denny’s for an after-party breakfast. Logan felt Vic’s hard amber eyes studying him, even as he avoided peering into his rearview mirror to steal looks at his passengers. St. John schmoozed the leggy brunette who was practically occupying his lap with lines older than Logan’s high school yearbook. Vic canoodled briefly with the buxom blonde, playfully biting the side of her neck before he turned to stare at Logan, his reflection gloating and filling the mirror.
“This the best gig ya could get, runt?” There was no malice in his voice, just a sense of overentitlement.
“Pays the bills, bub.” Logan steered the car one-handed as he reached into his shirt pocket for his gum. He craved one of his Cubans, bue he had another hour til his break. His pick-up list from dispatch was already half a page long. It was gonna be a long night.
“Not every friggin’ night?” Vic huffed. Logan shrugged. “Damn. That sucks,” he muttered. The blonde tried to distract him, and Logan tried to ignore where her hand was. Victor seemed to growl at her, grunting at her to behave and let him speak. “Yer gonna thank me,” he announced, fishing in his pocket. He extended his hand and tapped the security screen, urging Logan to take the small rectangle of cardstock. Logan scanned it briefly.
“Smiling Bill’s Saloon?”
“They need a bouncer. Pays better than whatcher doin’ now. No lease, no gas, no drivin’ ‘round in circles all night.”
“What’s Bill got ta smile about?” Vic returned Logan’s smirk, eyes feral and knowing.
“C’mon out next time ya have a night off, runt.” That was all he offered before going back to the blonde, practically gnawing off her lipstick. Logan sighed, then tucked the card into his shirt pocket, cracking his gum.
He didn’t know it yet, but he’d taken his first, slippery step onto a downward spiral that he’d ride for two wasted years.
Logan found out what Bill had to smile about through gappy teeth that spoke of fights lost and won in his own establishment, hair-curling tales shared with Logan over stale beer nuts, whiskey and a place at his sticky bar counter. Bill made his money the no-frills way, spending the money on booze, live bands and hiring good help, while cutting back on lesser luxuries such as plumbing and utilities. The toilets were poorly lit and in miserable shape; heavily graffiti’d walls and cracked mirrors magnified the shabby porcelain, and more than once Logan came away with his boots sticking to the floor. Bill followed the same lighting scheme with the main lounge, making it dim enough to make every patron feel like they were walking out at the end of the night with a Playmate or Chippendale after their bargain pitcher of beer.
Those chicken enough to skip the mechanical bull tried their luck at the arm-wrestling table. Like Vic had promised, there were perks. Logan racked up a killing at the table with a steady hand and a gaze that made every taker pee their pants before they ante’d up.
Logan remembered the night he’d lost, in every sense of the word. Mary had walked in on skinny stiletto heels and a cloud of LuLu perfume, and he felt as well as heard the chatter die down to nearly nothing when she swept through the lounge. Logan’s fingers curled one at a time around the beefy meathook of a man calling himself Santo. He shifted his grip and sized him up. If he took Logan down, it was gonna hurt like a bitch.
Mary sauntered by, her voice like thick honey as she ordered a tequila shooter. Out of the corner of his eye he had the impression of glossy brown hair in a rippling nimbus.. His eyes were locked on Santo, his grip still true. He gained an inch. Santo’s cheeks reddened. He pushed harder, reaching that do-or-die, can’t-go-back, forty-five degrees. Swear glowed around Santo’s temple as Logan’s shoulder began to burn.
Feminine laughter broke his concentration, making him flinch. Santo’s eyes crinkled so subtlely that Logan thought it was a trick of the lighting, or his own sweat fogging his vision. The flat ofher hand hit the bar. Santo flicked his eyes to the left, challenging Logan silently: You know you want to look at her. She’s hot. His arm thrummed like a guitar string.
He took a hope-to-heaven glance at her garbed in blood-red satin and black leather.
Lick.
Drink.
Suck.
Ruby-red lips pursed around the wedge of lime, leaving flecks of pulp in their wake. Her pink tongue snaked out to clean them away. Logan’s gut clenched.
BAM!
He saw stars when Santo took him down. His last vision before he was practically flipped out of his seat was Mary’s eyes roving over him, taunting him. She smiled. He was a goner.
He was still nursing his shoulder, cursing under his breath over the loss of the night’s take, fat enough to pay rent.
“Hey.” Light footsteps scratched across the gravel. “LuLu” tickled his nostrils again, this time kissed with tequila and limes.
No way does she look as good as she sounds, out here in the open… He steeled himself for disappointment, wincing as he turned. Damn muscles still burned. “Hey, darlin’.”
“You’ll need ice for that, sport.” Her lips tempted him.
“Eh. Guess so.” He smoothed his nape with his good hand and drank his fill of her curves and porcelain skin. He nearly didn’t believe it when she walked up to him and prief his keys from his hand and unlocked the passenger door. His hands itched to touch that wild tangle of hair, caress that red satin…she let herself in and leaned over to tuck the key into the ignition, treating him to a peek beneath that skirt. Her eyes glowed back up at him as he gently nudged the door shut. He snapped out of his trance long enough to get in and pull out of the deserted lot.
One month turned into two. Mary was practically a fixture at his apartment; he didn’t question her reticence whenever he suggested seeing where she lived. She distracted him, rolling him onto his sheets, flat on his back, and loving him til he couldn’t walk straight. She made no bones of how she was on the rebound. He was a soldier once, she said. Discharged three years ago. Random talker, short attention span. Went by the name of Wade.
Logan continued those long, grueling nights. Mary accompanied him when he worked at Bill’s, cheering him on at the table and pulling in a killing herself at darts. Logan shook his head in wonder.
“How d’ya manage workin’ every mornin’, darlin’, comin’ in as late as we do?”
“Been taking my vitamins, short stuff. Give Momma some sugar.” Logan never second-guessed her at first, even when she never told him where she worked. Or when her wardrobe never seemed to fit the description of “business casual” of any business that Logan ever heard of. He’d learned over the years not to ask questions he might not want the answers to. He later kicked himself for his silence.
Naturally, it threw him six months later when she invited him over. The sex was loud, raucous and left him walking funny, or would have, if he had made it that far. The mattress springs creaked and groaned, nearly muffling the sound of a key in the lock.
“Don’t stop,” she hissed, seemingly heedless of footsteps thudding up the stairs. Logan was buried hip-deep and so close to paydirt he could taste it… he couldn’t go on, even as his body raged at him to finish it. The door swung open behind him. The funk of sex hung in the air.
Logan craned his neck around. Eyes met eyes. Mary groaned beneath him.
Logan couldn’t remember a previous time when he’d fought someone to within an inch of his life, with nary a stitch on. Ward swung at him before he could reach for his briefs. Mary threatened to call the police. Wade left with wounded pride and a black eye. Mary filled Logan’s ears with excuses as he sat clad in his boxers at the kitchen table.
“Logan…I’m sorry. It was the only way he’d see. I had to let him find us.” He swatted away her hands and left with the injunction ringing in her ears to give him time.
She gave him a week. She showed up crying on his doorstep, and his arms ached for her even as his mind screamed at him to throw her out. She kissed away his rebuke with hunger that scorched him. It went on like that forever.
She blew hot and cold, never the same person for more than a week at a time. She ranted at him, pleaded with him, cried for him. They broke up and made up, sometimes within the space of a month. She never moved in with him. They split utilities. Groceries. Never rent. Her absences varied in frequency, but grew longer, remaining unexplained.
So, on that particular morning, when he landed on her doorstep, bringing in the paper, the first smell to greet him was ruined dinner. Stale chicken grease and burnt rice. Something felt wrong as he came inside and took off his coat.
Scuffling feet upstairs. The rustle of clothing. Giggles. More than one voice. He waited for her to come out front. His stomach growled, but he waited.
She stumbled out into the hall, impeded by two rough hands groping her and pulling her back. Logan’s breath stilled in his chest as she turned to face her guest. He reached into his overcoat and pulled out his wallet, unfolding a roll of twenties that disappeared into her robe pocket.
“Nice,” Logan snarled in disgust. Blood drained from her face, and he saw her eyes widening and spinning tales before she opened her mouth.
“LOGAN…oh, no. No. Please, it’s not what “ “
“Save it.” He stared at the floor, disgusted at the sight of her. With savage candor, he grilled her, “Is this why ya burnt dinner?” He turned on his heel and left, with Mary hot on his heels.
“Wait! Logan, it’s okay. It’s not like what happened before,” she cried, chasing after him, flapping bathrobe swirling out behind her, shivering against the chill. He didn’t slow down until she tried to touch him. He spun on her, past his patience.
“It’s worse, doll. This is yer job, ain’t it? Some modeling. Some dancin’. A little of ‘this an’ that.’”
“It’s not like that at all,” she insisted, her voice rising to a girlish whine.
“Bullshit.”
“I love you…this, this is just what I do, sometimes, Logan, once in a while.” Logan was already in his car. Logan didn’t stick around long enough to hear more, but he did see Mary shouting at her guest in her driveway. Their words escaped their mouths in angry little puffs of frozen breath in the morning sun. He caught snatches of their spat as she tried to straighten her hair. What is that asshole to you? Is this what I’m paying you for?
It doesn’t matter, he’s leaving…don’t go! PLEASE!
Hey, buddy, get the fuck back here…HEY!
Logan made it three blocks. His grip on the steering wheel was impatient. He watched Mary in the rearview, crying, before he focused on beating the traffic to head back to his own place. He was just approaching the four-way intersection when he caught the large blue Ford truck bearing down on him with Mr. Wonderful at the wheel. The light turned red. Logan felt every muscle in his body stiffen into knots as he realized he wasn’t gonna stop. He’s forgotten his seatbelt in his haste…
He woke up to the sound of someone reading his blood pressure numbers in the E/R. Adult male, late thirties. Trauma to the head and neck, shattered wrist and humerus. No known relatives to notify.
He wasn’t awake the first time Mary showed up. Everything was a foggy blur when he came out of surgery. He remembered her voice. Her words didn’t make sense til his fifth day in-house.
She was a mistress, she said. Not a whore. Wade was her client. He got the wrong idea. He sponsored her, she said, but he read things the wrong way. He wanted to marry her. Logan tolerated her presence, telling himself this was a dream. He was going to wake up. He had to. No way was this shitpile his life.
On the seventh day, he rasped, “Get out.”
He stayed home on disability for months. He crossed paths with Vic at the gym while he completed his physical therapy. He met Piotr at the community college at a life drawing class he was teaching; Logan couldn’t draw worth shit, but he needed the elective. In the midst of budding artists and the “models” who ranged from lithe and petite to dumpy and sagging, Logan reconciled himself with the limits of the flesh and the human body, and the spirit, including his own. The models sat still as a stone, only quivering in those brief moments leading up to dismissal, fighting to hold it together. It took him back to that night at Smiling Bill’s.
He was done struggling and wasting time.
*****
Ororo moaned in her sleep, and her hand drifted up to bat at him, tickling his lips as if checking that he was still there. He kissed her palm, inhaling the taste of her before he dozed off.
Off-Beat by OriginalCeenote
“Where have you been keeping yourself, tovarisch?”
“Here an’ there, Petey.”
“Is that a new shirt?”
“Yep.”
“Hm.” Logan was working cleanly through another set of reps on the lat pull bench. He looked like he’d had a recent haircut. In fact, Piotr mused, Logan looked different altogether. Not to mention, distracted.
“How’s work?”
“Good.”
“How’s the bike running?”
“Good.” He continued to lift through, beginning to strain a bit through his fifth set. He selected an additional weight plate and began breathing more harshly through his nose. His face was still calm and tranquil despite his efforts.
“How’s the weather on Mars?”
“Good…hey!”
“That’s what I thought,” Piotr grinned. “And how’s Ororo?”
“Shit. Like I didn’t see that comin’,” he huffed, leaning down to grab his towel and scrub at his hair and neck. He sat back up and tightened the Velcro on his weight gloves and flexed his fingers. “Ro’s doin’ fine. Just skippy. She just landed a big client and she’s redesigning their travel and leisure portal. We’re goin’ out tonight ta celebrate. She wants ta take in that new Hugh Jackman flick.”
“Figures. Every woman I know loves that guy,” Piotr grimaced.
“Eh.”
“She seems nice.” He nodded at the jersey Logan had on. “Did she pick that out?”
“Yeah,” Logan chuckled. “I didn’t have the heart ta tell her I’m more of a ‘winter.’” The shirt was Lycra knit and molded to the planes and bulging muscles of his torso, and it was a bold shade of garnet red. Secretly, he’d been tickled with the gift, and with how she carried on when he tried it on for her. Not to mention how she’d taken it back off of him…Logan flushed at the memory of the shirt and everything else he had on ending up in a puddle in the corner of the bedroom.
“It could have been worse, my friend.” Piotr approached the rack of dumbbells and selected a pair of twenty-fives. He assumed his stance with textbook-perfect posture and began shrugs, his trapezius muscles rippling in a smooth, broad arc. Piotr thought back to the day that Laynia told him it was over. He went through his drawers and began cleaning out “girlfriend gifts” gone wrong. Red silk boxers with hearts. Cotton boxers with cartoon characters on them. A pair of paisley dress socks. A necktie that looked like something a used car salesman would wear. Matching his-and-hers tee shirts; he’d only worn his once. Black cotton briefs that were too snug and that made him feel like “beefcake” whenever he was down to that as his last pair before he had to do laundry.
The only thing he ended up keeping was a bottle of cologne that was down to its last gasp, and a gold pinkie ring that they’d picked out together for Valentine’s Day. He wore it every now and again, if he was already getting dressed up, or even if he didn’t feel like feminine attention when he went out. Jewelry was the quickest, easiest feminine repellent. Nothing said “I’m still obsessed over my ex, come share my baggage” like a promise ring.
“Stop doing that,” Piotr grunted at Logan’s reflection in the mirror.
“What?”
“Looking so happy and sappy like that.”
“Fucker.”
“S’true.”
“Man,” Logan sighed. “It’s some crazy shit. She’s great. We’re havin’ a ball. I keep waiting for someone to pop it with a pin and let it blow up in my face.”
“That’s what you’re not supposed to do. That’s usually when it does blow up in your face.”
“She’s different. She’s awesome.” Then another memory tickled Logan. “And she’s hella funny. She had me in stitches, doing her impersonation of Dave Chappelle, in that episode of his show where’s all like, ‘I’m Rick James, bitch!’ Man, I love that.”
“Sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”
“Yeah, no shit. More often than not. It ain’t even a matter of when she wants me ta call her. Half the time, she’s at my place just as I’m gettin’ off of my shift. It’s weird, though.”
“What?”
“She usually hangs out with her friends and goes shopping with ‘em. Movies. That kinda thing. Girl shit. I don’t have any problem with that. But lately, it seems like she hasn’t been hanging out with Summers’ wife, Jeannie.”
“The one with a bug up her butt?”
“Yep.”
“Did she say why?”
“I kinda don’t wanna ask. I talked to Summers at work, and I said I was sorry about throwing down on his porch…”
“Wait…WHAT?”
“Me an’ ‘Ro’s ex got into it at his place. We weren’t expectin’ ta see him there.”
“Who started it?”
“He did, when he laid his lips on ‘Ro after she said we were leavin’. He’s an asshole. He was cheating on her.”
“Nice.” Piotr shook his head in disgust, then resumed his workout, leaning back into the inclined bench and starting his flies.
“Yeah. He was a dumb ass. I even caught him once myself.”
“Wow. Does she know about that?”
“Nope.” Logan’s brow furrowed as he reached for another set of dumbbells. Aerosmith blared from the overhead speakers as the gym’s occupants labored through their lunchtime workouts. “That ain’t something I wanna get into with her yet. The night we hooked up, she told me she found out he’d been stepping out on her, in their bedroom no less. Found panties under the bed.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Like he needed ta get his jollies with someone else!”
“Did she know who he had been cheating on her for?”
“She never went into detail.”
“Maybe you should ask.”
“I don’t think I wanna know. Sometimes it ain’t so great, havin’ a face ta put to “the other man,” I’ve been on the other end of it before. Sucks.”
“Women are different, tovarisch. They take it personally when you withhold knowledge, even if it seemed like something that wasn’t worth mentioning. It’s like Eve and the apple.” Piotr grunted as he edged his hands up again, feeling the burn in his muscles. The dumbbells clicked together as he finished the lift. “They want to know what you know.”
“I ain’t gonna open that can of worms.”
“Suit yourself.” Piotr finished his set and reached for his bottle of water, taking a hearty pull. His swallows were loud and thirsty. He sucked a bead of water from his upper lip before scanning the gym, then tensed, hissing “Heads up.”
“Eh?”
“Vic.”
“Shit.”
“Whassup, Runt! And Piotr, ya big pussy! What are you fuckers doin’ over here? This ain’t water aerobics!” Piotr winced, then waved. Half the gym seemed to turn their heads toward his bellowing dramatics. They were used to it by now. “Where’ve you been, lazy ass? Yer gettin’ soft, man, ya ain’t been showing up here lately! What’s yer alibi?”
“Fuck off,” Logan muttered good-naturedly. “I only came back cuz I missed yer pretty face.” Logan rolled up his gym towel and snapped it, nailing Victor in the ass.
“GAH! Fucker!” He hissed when Logan zapped him again. Vic came after him, and Logan was ready for it (as usual), dropping into his favorite sparring pose and throwing a few jabs at him. Vic relaxed, shaking his head and grinning at him.
“Asshole. Seriously, where ya been?”
“Working. Hanging out with my girl.”
“Shit, alert the media. Better yet, Rasputin, design him an ad, we’ll plaster it across the buses like ya did with them girly dolls. ‘Local Pussy Ass Gets Some.’” He made blocklike headline gestures with his hands, his smile wolfish.
“Jealous?” Vic huffed. Piotr smothered a chuckle as he resumed his weights.
“That’ll be the day.” Vic motioned for Piotr to come away from his bench and come spot him. Piotr sighed and obliged him as Vic stacked the barbell with one fifty plate after another. “I can get more pussy than you on my worst day, with one hand tied behind my back, wearing a blindfold, and with one busted nut.”
“Damn. That’s one lucky babe, gets herself a piece of that,” Logan deadpanned.
“She got big tits?”
“Ain’t none o’ yer business.”
“She’s stunning,” Piotr chimed in.
“Yeah, but has she got tits?” Piotr sighed. Logan looked ready to stuff his gym towel in Vic’s mouth.
“Ororo’s a fine woman.”
“What kinda name is Ororo?”
“Her mother gave her that name. It’s African. Her people were from Kenya.”
“Hnh. Cool. What’s she look like?” Logan considered that for a moment.
“Really, really tall.” Vic released a bark of laughter.
“Bet the two of ya look like Mutt an’ Jeff!”
“I gotta go,” Logan barked. He stuffed his towel into his duffle, shrugged into his hooded sweatshirt, and waved back to them as he departed. “Gotta meet her soon, before my shift.”
“Get some for me!” Vic yelled after sitting up between his sets for a sip of water. “OW!” He glared up at Piotr, rubbing his head after he clopped him upside it.
“Later, comrade.”
~0~
Piotr had a relatively smooth workout after that, once Vic resumed his own reps without further discussion, except for his usual lecture about how Piotr needed to try his “supplements” if he really wanted to get serious about getting ripped. He shrugged it off, spent a few more minutes defending his job, and headed out. He checked his Palm pilot on his way to his car. He scrolled through his contacts, and found Sage’s number.
He punched it into his razor phone and hit send. He sat behind the steering wheel, fumbling with his air vents and stereo while he waited for her to pick up. One shrill ring. Then two. He adjusted his rearview mirror. Three. He moved his duffle into the back seat. Four…
“Hello?” Her familiar, throaty voice answered him just as his heart had stuttered in his chest with disappointment, thinking he had missed her.
“This is Piotr,” he announced crisply. “Hi.”
“Oh. Hi. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“I just wanted to see what you were doing today.”
“Not much. Just going through paperwork. Watching a little TV.” As if supporting her claim, clamor from her television cut through the background static of her land line. He heard what sounded like the soundtrack for a children’s toy commercial.
“Sounds like something intellectually stimulating.”
“Hey, don’t knock Spongebob,” she warned him. He chuckled, and felt some of his earlier tension leave his chest.
“Wouldn’t think of it. If you want, you can teach me about his finer points over dinner.”
“Oh…well, I don’t know. I was just going to reheat some leftovers, and ““
“Then reheat them tomorrow. Sage, you know how we had lunch and talked about the possibility of going out on a date, or something like it? Well, I kinda wanted to take you up on that.”
He heard the sound of her footsteps moving through her apartment to turn down the volume on her set.
“Okay, I’m back…you were saying?”
“I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight.” He heard her exhale, and could almost feel the questions on her lips, ready to leap out. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what to think.” She sighed gustily. “I thought you wanted to be let off the hook from what happened at lunch that day.”
“Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be let off the hook. I’m not sure what you were even letting me off the hook from, now that I think about it.” He exhaled through his nose. “I like you, Sage.” He smoothed his palm over the pantsleg of his canvas sweats. “I like you a lot, and I was thinking it would be nice to spend some time together.”
“On a ‘date’ date?”
“On a ‘date’ date.”
“On one condition, buddy boy.” He held his breath, trying to squelch the bubble of relief and excitement in his gut, thankful that it wasn’t gas. “No regrets. No telling me after the fact ‘We shouldn’t have done this.’ You get one shot. No do-overs. This could be a disaster, but if it is, neither of of us gets to say ‘I told you so.’ None of this business of being ‘awkward’ with each other if it goes sour, no avoiding each other at work, no bullshit. No games. No mincing words. By the end of the night, I want you to be honest with me if you think us spending time together is going to be a problem going forward. Or there will BE no going forward, capice?” Her voice was no-nonsense, and she barked each admonition like a drill seargeant whipping her platoon into shape.
“If you want honesty, I’ve got honesty,” he promised. “That being said…Sage?”
“Yes, Piotr?”
“Wear something black.” He clicked his phone shut and grinned.
Across town, in her tidy two-bedroom apartment, Sage cradled the handset and drew a shaky breath.
“Mama! Want Spongebob! Come watch with me, Mama!”
“Coming, sweetie,” she assured the occupant of her living room, strolling over to sit next to her on the couch. Aliyah scooted closer and lolled her head against her mother’s shoulder, tickling her with her mop of wiry curls.
“They’re gonna sing the Campfire Song song,” she giggled, pointing at the screen. Sage indulged her daughter and began singing the opening bars of the song in question, provoking her daughter to try to cover her mother’s mouth with her chubby little fingers.
“Nooooooo! YOU don’t sing, Mama!”
“But…but I MUST! I absolutely HAVE to!” Sage insisted, grinning at her daughter with the same smile and poking the tip of her nose with hers. She warbled a few bars of the song off-key, sending Aliyah into fits of shrieking laughter.
She mentally kicked herself. Where was she going to find a sitter at this hour?
~0~
Elsewhere:
Eric Lensherr pulled into the driveway and parked his Mercedes inside his three-car garage, relieved to be home. His favorite sweats were calling his name, and Aleytys was making his favorite, pot roast, for dinner. He walked back outside to check his mailbox out front, strolling down the pebbled stepping stones leading over his immaculate lawn.
He extracted a handful of letters and began leafing through them. Bill, bill, bill, statement, bill, credit card offer, bill…a buttercream-colored envelope handwritten in girlish script caught his eye. It was addressed to him, and didn’t look like it came from Wanda. He pondered it thoughtfully as he made his way inside. He decided to save it until after dinner once Aleytys playfully greeted him at the door, making him forget his initial curiosity about the correspondence. His kiss hello from his wife was long and deep.
Yes. It could wait until after dinner.
~0~
“Ororo?”
“Hmm?” Ororo was bent over a mixing bowl, pounding her fist into a mound of fresh bread dough, knocking the air out of it with a satisfying thud. It released the faint aroma of butter and yeast as she began to roll it out onto a floured cutting board and knead it.
“Have ya called Jeannie lately?” She paused in her work a moment, then shook her head.
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering, that’s all. Ya haven’t spoken to her much since that whole thing on her porch.”
“You kicked Pietro’s ass practically on her front doorstep. What am I supposed to say?”
“I already told Scooter I was sorry. Seems like that should make things less ugly, eh?”
“If you like.” She continued to punch the dough.
“Are you two not getting along?”
“Eh.”
“Eh?”
“Eh.” Thud. Whack. Bop. Knead, knead, knead. Whack!
“Why aren’tcha talkin’?”
“Sometimes we don’t talk. No big deal.”
“I saw what looked like a message from her number on the answering machine. Ain’t ya gonna call her back?”
“No. Not really.”
“Er, ‘Ro, not like I wanna tell ya how ta be with yer friends, but ain’t she yer best friend?” WHACK! She dough was doubled up and pummeled into a sorry heap as her shoulders sagged and stilled. She bowed her head over the counter. “’Ro, ya okay over there?”
“No,” she whispered. “Logan, Jean and I aren’t speaking anymore.”
“Didja have a tiff?” His eyes were full of concern, meeting the pain written in hers.
“I don’t trust Jean anymore. It’s probably best that we don’t talk anymore. That’s all.”
“No it ain’t. If she did something ta hurt ya, and she’s still calling, it’d be better if ya either patched things up, or if ya told her once an’ fer all ta fuck off. Don’t just bottle it up, and don’t act like I can’t handle it if yer havin’ a little catfight.”
“Jean was the one who invited Pietro to the party.” That knocked the wind out of his sails.
“Shit.”
“I don’t know what she thought she was doing, Logan. Maybe it was some weird attempt to get us back together again, but whatever it was, it was retarded. And that should tell you what she thinks of you and me.”
“What friggin’ business is it of hers?” The vein in his neck stood out in stark relief, and his nostrils flared.
“None.”
“Good.” He walked off, and she wiped her hands on her apron, knocking off some of the sticky dough and flour caked onto her fingers.
“Where are you going?”
“Ta delete this message where she’s whinin’ at ya ta meet her fer lunch.”
“Shit…WAIT!” She galloped after him and covered the answering machine in the living room with the flat of her palm. “Wait, Logan. I’ll take that.”
“Suit yerself, darlin’,” he muttered, patting her butt and kissing the crown of her cheek. He wiped away a stray smear of flour on her skin. She waited for him to retire upstairs before she hit play.
“Ororo? This is Jean. Hey. Um, I was wondering…could we do lunch, one of these days, maybe on Wednesday? That’s my day off from the spa. I was hoping you could maybe meet me, we could go out to that little pasta café we always talked about?” She heard the tension in her voice. “It’s just that I really miss you, and we haven’t talked for a while, and I don’t think we ended things on a good note last time…Ororo, I’m sorry. I’m SO sorry. Please give me a call, I need to talk to you really badly.” She heard her shuddering breath. “Call me. Bye.” The machine beeped at her and told her the message was erased when she hit the clear button.
“Don’t think we ended things on a good note…no shit, Sherlock,” Ororo muttered under her breath. “Next time stick the panties in your purse, not under my bed, heifer.”
She resumed her work in the kitchen, rolling out clover-leaf rolls and popping them into the prepared muffin pan. She was weary and aggravated, and just about ready to kick something.
It wasn’t just that Jean had slept with Pietro. It was that she’d acted like there was nothing wrong with it. That she could say “Oops, baby’s been bad,” and everything would be fine. The longer she thought about it, the angrier Ororo got. She’d been in her wedding, with herself and Pietro standing up for Jean and Scott like next-in-lines. It was such a farce. She’d thrown her the shower. She’d helped her pick out dresses. She’d been nothing but a good friend when Jean had cold feet.
It was worse when she thought back to the months after Pietro had left during their first breakup. Jean had been all “aw, poor baby” and “he’ll come around” in the wake of heartbreak, coming over with mocha almond fudge and offering to turn old photos of him into a custom-made dartboard, all the while validating that Ororo wasn’t wrong to love him. She’d been following the girlfriend’s code: Hate him when you hate him, love him when you love him, and nary a bad word shall be spoken when he acts like an ass.
How long had she been diddling her man behind her back?
If Logan was unsettled by how quiet Ororo was during dinner, he didn’t press it. He simply ate, complimented the food, and helped clear the table when it was done. He made himself her pillow when they adjourned to the couch to watch CSI, stroking her long hair and kneading her neck.
“Don’t let her make ya feel bad, ‘Ro. If ya want, I can call her myself and tell her I was wrong ta do what I did that night.”
“Don’t. You don’t have to.” She stared ahead and snuggled more deeply into his lap. “This isn’t actually about you.”
“Yer confusing me, babe.”
“Sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this.” He tugged a lock of her hair to get her to look up at him. She met his eyes, noticing he still looked unconvinced. “I’ll fix it, Logan.”
“Okay.” He bent down to kiss her, lingering over it like an after-dinner glass of wine.
~0~
7:00PM
Piotr felt knots clenching at his gut on his climb up Sage’s apartment steps, deciding he could walk off some of his nerves by skipping the elevator. The bouquet stems were digging into his palm as he tightened his grip; the cellophane wrap made his fingers sweat at the seams. He counted the row of doors, searching for unit 6C. He found it three doors down on the left.
He knocked on her door briskly, peering at the pinpoint of light through the peephole. His throat closed up momentarily, and he bent over to wipe a smudge of something off of his good shoes. When he straightened up, he noticed the brief blackening of that prick of light through the lens, and he heard the dead bolts being unfastened, and a chain sliding back. He stepped back courteously, prepared to find Sage dressed and ready to go.
He peered down at her outfit. Bunny slippers peered back up at him with googly eyes. Her hair was slightly tousled and still in its bun, but tendrils hung down around her face, and her clothes were in disarray.
“Piotr…I wanted to call you. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it out tonight.”
“Why?” He studied her. “Are you sick?”
“No, no, it’s not that, I’m okay. It’s crazy…here, come on in, make yourself at home, you came all this way.” She led him inside and locked up after him, then looked guiltily at the flowers. “You really took this one shot thing seriously.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
“Not really.” She smiled sheepishly at him, and then turned toward the tiny voice calling out from her living room.
“Mama! Want juice!” The voice was plaintive, and Piotr was shocked when Sage answered the call as though she had always responded to that name, and that function.
“Boszhe moi,” Piotr muttered. Wordlessly, he followed her as she padded back to the living room, which was softly lit with two floor lamps and the glow from the television set. A Blues Clues episode was playing, and a stirred the couch cushions. Piotr held his breath and circled the couch, unable to describe what he saw.
An adorable girl of about five, with caramel brown skin and bouncing, wiry chestnut curls peered weakly at him from a cocoon of blankets. She wore pink Dora the Explorer pajamas, and she was piquantly beautiful. Sage’s features squinted and twisted with curiosity when he seated himself on the recliner.
“Who’s he, Mama?”
“He’s my friend, sweetie, he was going to take me out tonight. His name is Mister Rasputin.”
“That’s a funny name,” she remarked casually. Piotr fought a tiny smile pulling at him.
“That isn’t nice to say,” Sage reminded her.
“He’s so big.”
“Is that so?” Piotr replied. He stood to his full height, looked himself over, and announced, “Well, sonofagun, look at that, I’m HUGE!” She giggled, despite looking exhausted. “How did I get all the way up here?”
“He drank his milk and took his vitamins,” Sage explained, taking the opportunity to enforce the rules of the house when it presented itself. “Aliyah has a fever. It just came on out of nowhere. I already called her pede, and they called in a prescription a little while ago, I have to run out and pick it up.”
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, snowflake,” he murmured soothingly. He shucked his overcoat and laid it on the recliner before lumbering over to the couch. He knelt beside her and said “Did you tell those nasty germs to go away and quit spoiling your fun?”
“No. Germs don’t have ears, silly,” she pouted, and Piotr chuckled, quite taken by the little cherub educating him properly.
“She just walked up to me and announced that her tummy hurt, then threw up everything she ate before I could even call the sitter. It was awful.”
“I know. It’s hard when the ones we care about don’t feel well.”
“I’m the one my mama cares about,” Aliyah bragged smugly, clutching her teddy bear more tightly.
“I know,” Piotr replied, gently laying his large palm over her forehead. “She’s quite warm, Sage.” He stood and loped off to her kitchen. “Do you have any juice?” He was already in her tiny kitchen before she could even resume the task herself, looking in her cupboards for cups. She retrieved a plastic sippy cup from the dishrack and pressed it into his hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Suddenly she hated her outfit and messy hair, and those horrid slippers, but there was no help for it. Her earlier fantasy of wanting to meet him at the door was squashed. She settled for taking the flowers and putting them in water. Red Shasta daisies with yellow centers erupted in a burst of color from the squat vase she found after she trimmed the stems and dropped an aspirin tablet into the water.
Piotr, on the other hand, was managing just fine with the night’s development. She looked soft and vulnerable, naturally beautiful with her face scrubbed clean of any makeup. Her navy sweats and Gap tee were slightly loose but didn’t hide her generous curves; the jersey was stretched snugly across her breasts and flat belly. Her dark blue eyes looked tired, he noticed, and worried.
Piotr took the juice to Aliyah and offered it to her, suggesting she sit up to drink it.
“Piotr, you don’t have to stay.”
“I know. I was actually wondering if you needed anything? You have to pick up that prescription, right?” He was already shrugging back into his overcoat.
“Well…yes, but-“
“Stay here with your little girl. Don’t take her out tonight, it’s chilly. I don’t want her to get any sicker. Sit tight, Sage.” He cupped her shoulder, letting his hand caress the length of her arm reassuringly. She felt a funny, warm tingle in her stomach at his touch.
“Okay.”
“Lock up after me.”
A half an hour later, Sage heard the low knock at her door. She hurried to answer it on light feet, and unbolted it before she even looked out the peephole this time. Piotr didn’t disappoint her. He smiled through the crack in the door before she let him in, carrying a few shopping bags and a pastry box.
“You didn’t just stop at the pharmacy,” she remarked.
“We missed dinner tonight,” he replied, handing her the box as he stepped inside. “I decided to pick up dessert.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she exclaimed, peeking under the lid. “Oh, you really idn’t have to do that, you stinker!” There was a gorgeous array of pastries, most of them chocolate, each one richer and more decadent than the last. Her eyes twinkled up at him, leaving him with a flush of warm fuzzies.
“How is she? Sage looked less fretful than she had before, and he noticed the apartment was silent.
“It’s all right. Come on,” she beckoned. He followed her into the living room. “She’s asleep,” Sage whispered. They tiptoed around the couch and peered down at her. “She talked about you a mile a minute while you were gone. I just gave her a dose of Motrin a few minutes ago, so she should rest easily.” Her cheeks were still flushed, andher eyelids reminded him of flower petals. Long, curling lashes fanned her cheeks, and she rolled slightly, gently smacking her lips.
“Here was our Princess Poppy girl, right here,” he mused. His smiled was full of quiet wonder. “When’s her birthday?”
“August first. She’s a Leo.”
“I thought as much.” He knelt down and straightened her blanket, and she moaned, scrubbing her palm across her face. Piotr suppressed a laugh. “She’s so much like you.”
“I see bits of her father in her when she laughs, or when she gets angry.”
“How often do you see her father?”
“It’s been six months. He hasn’t called in at least three.” She unburied her daughter from the covers and gently sat her up, fumbling with the childproof bottle of pink liquid and the measuring spoon. Aliyah mumbled something into her mother’s neck and plucked at her as she poured the dose. “C’mon, sweetie, just a quick drink, that’s my good girl.” Sage’s voice was tender and persuasive. She managed to feed her daughter the medicine without spilling more than a dribble from the corner of her mouth. Sage wiped away the pink drippings on her shirt.
“Time for night-night, Mimi,” she murmured. Piotr swept the covers aside and followed Sage as she carried her sleeping daughter to the bedroom at the end of the hall. He opened the door for her, earning a nod of thanks from her. He turned down the covers as she tucked her in, curling her teddy bear into the crook of her arm.
“Does she have a night light?” She pointed to it, and she flicked the little switch, illuminating that corner of the rom with a soft glow. He felt a hollow pang at the cover, shaped like Elmo. He had been Illyana’s favorite.
“She’ll sleep like a bear,” she whispered, tiptoeing back out and leaving the door slightly ajar. They were silend until they reached the kitchen. Sage flicked on the light over the oven range and asked him, “How about we sampled one of those goodies, if I haven’t scared you off?”
“Only if you’re up to it. You look exhausted.”
“I’m okay, I just need to unwind.”
“Want me to go?”
“No. I could use the company and some adult conversation, just for a little while. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She welcomes him to sit while she gathered plates and napkins and fished through the other shopping bags.
“What all did you get?” she inquired, pawing through the first sack. “This looks good, how did you know I liked Chardonnay?” She held the bottle aloft and beamed.
“Shot in the dark.”
“I’m not trendy about my wine. I only like what I like, not what other people say is good. Merlot tasted like paint thinner to me.”
“I’ve never had any.”
“You aren’t missing anything,” she promised, extracting two slightly mismatched goblets from the cupboard and filling them both halfway.
“Cheers,” he offered, toasting her once she sat down. The faint clink resonated in the dimly lit kitchen as she took a sip.
“This is lovely.”
“One more detail,” he pointed out. “Sit.” She obeyed and watched him move through her kitchen, as though he were already comfortable in her home. He opened her small utility drawer and found a box of matches.
“What are you doing?”
“Setting up the ambience I brought with me,” he joked. He pulled out two fat pillar candles and unwrapped them. She made a sound of delighted surprise.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” He lit them and watched them cast flickering shadows dancing along the walls. Sage was beautiful by candlelight, her skin flawless and luminous, her features patrician and delicately rendered. “This wasn’t how I planned this.” He flipped open the box and selected a small chocolate éclair, setting it on a dessert plate and sliding it to her. The puff pastry was dusted in powdered sugar and looked supremely messy. He peered into the box and lifted out a raspberry tart.
“What did you have planned?”
“Date stuff. Lots of it. I pictured you in a little black dress. Dinner, at a nice restaurant with glassware and cloth napkins.”
“Oooooooooh!” she cooed dramatically, dragging her finger through the fudge sauce and pursing her lips around it. Piotr swallowed stiffly at the gesture, feeling an uncomfortable heaviness in his loins. “What else?”
“Live music. Lila’s going to be at the cabaret on Ninth Street.”
“I love Lila.”
“After that, I would have let you choose.”
“Darts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I could’ve beaten the socks off of you. Little black dress and all.” Her smile was wicked. Piotr snickered.
“I’m not much of a dancer, so that would have been fine. I would have held my own.”
“It would have been too soon.”
“Too soon for what?”
“Going dancing’s more for a third date, once you’ve broken the ice, exchanged embarrassing moments and high school fashion blunders.” She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “Dancing’s fun…it just throws you off balance. When you dance with someone, it says so much about who you are. How close you’re willing to get. How many chances you want to take. How fast you want to move.” She blamed the tingles creeping over her flesh on the wine. “You came here looking for little black dresses, and I give you bunny slippers and kitchen chairs.”
“I’m not complaining. I didn’t have to make small talk “ and this isn’t my idea of it “ and I found out more about within an hour than I would have doing things the old fashioned way.” He watched her fumble with the éclair, attempting to bite into it gracefully and failing miserably. She mumbled around it, and he laughed at her expression. She lapped up a dab of cream from her finger.
“I’m a mess,” she complained. His smile was contemplative, bringing out tiny crinkles around his eyes and dimpleds that tempted her to touch.
“You missed a spot.” Sage hears the faint squeak of the chair against her linoleum as he scooted back from the table. She leaned back in her chair to better lock eyes with him. He looked larger than life, formidable and sturdy, looking for all the world like someone who cold catch her should she fall. He leaned down and reached for the pastry, plucking it up between his finger and thumb. He examined it briefly, his eyes flicking back to hers. “Is it good?” His voice was husky and low, and the sweet tidbit drifted closer to her lips.
“Piotr.” She couldn’t turn away. He was so close, and her fingers itched to reach out and stroke him, to palm his heartbeat. Taste his pulse. Hear and feel his breaths. The cool sticky cream feathered the corner of her mouth, and she instinctively licked it away. The flaky pastry slipped so slowly between her lips, crumbling onto her tongue ,but all she felt was Piotr’s fingertip grazing the barest edge of her teeth, tickling her. He fed her another bite, this time thrilling to her caress of his hand as she guided him back to her mouth. The sight of her mouth opening and closing around him nearly undid him. He stole the last morsel for himself, barely tasting it as he wiped up a stray fleck of cream from her mouth, lapping it up to let it mingle with what he already had. He swalloed the sweet, impatient with how dry it felt in his mouth, and bent down, slowly approaching and zeroing in on her lips, still faintly slicked with a residue of wine and shared treats. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when she met him halfway, tilting her face toward him. Fingertips grazed his jaw, but the attraction sizzling between them pulled them inexorably toward each other, and he couldn’t say which of them grabbed the other first. She didn’t fight it when he grasped her waist, hauling her against him and plundering her mouth, slanting over and over it again, devouring her cries. He stole her breath, drinking her kiss with a thirst unslaked by the wine, and she pressed herself flush against him, so tightly she could almost hear his heartbeat as well as her own hammering in her ears. She took shelter in his embrace, and felt as though she had come home. They stood, and she cupped his face between her hot palms, treasuring him and tangling her fingers in his silky waves.
He couldn’t get enough of her. His hands sought her curves and the soft slopes of her body as his lips danced over her eyelids and cheekbones. The ragged sound he rasped into her ear shivered down her spine before he nibbled her throat, and her arms tightened their hold around him, craving him, wanting his sleek, broad bulk pressing her into the mattress…
A voice of reason screamed in her head that she had a sick child in the next room, and no feasible explanation if her daughter climbed into her bed in the middle of the night and found it occupied.
“All right,” she blurted. “God…Piotr. I…we can’t ““ She never finished her admonition to him. He was already pulling away, panting raggedly and staring down at her with smoldering eyes.
“It’s getting late.” He leaned his forehead against hers, caressing her cheek with his knuckles and freeing a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. “I’d better let you go.” She knew those words were supposed to come out of her own mouth. She was supposed to be the sensible one.
Right?
It was killing her. “All right.” She gently disengaged herself from him, letting her hand slide down the length of his arm to his fingers, watching him back away until they no longer touched.
“Good night.”
“Drive safely.”
“Lock up after me.”
“I will.” She followed slowly after him, not wanting to indignity of chasing him to the door, even though every cell of her body begged him to hang up his coat and turn off the lights. He was nearly out the door, and she couldn’t stand it.
“Piotr!”
“Da? “ Mmmmmph!” She practically tackled him, knocking him against the doorjamb and stealing another kiss that left him weak in the knees. One more for the road.
She didn’t want to admit to herself that if things looked crazy in the morning, this was the last taste of him she’d ever have.
“Good night,” she murmured finally. She straightened the lapels of his coat and backed off. He nodded, looking dazed but pleased as he backed out the door. She waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before she secured her deadbolts.
“ERRRRRRGGGGHHhhhhhhh.” Sage planted her palms against the wall and rapped her forehead against it, just for good measure. Oh, yeah. It was official. She had it bad.
Floored by OriginalCeenote
Ororo’s stomach was growling up a storm. She’d planned it that way.
If worse came to worse, her hands and mouth would be full in the effort not to tear Jean’s hair out at the roots. A public place guaranteed civility, right?
She paced the lobby of the café, politely declining when an older man offered her his seat on the vinyl bench. Nerves made her legs restless and butterflies in her ribcage beat their wings to be let out.
She replayed her conversation with Ali, Anna and Lorna from the day before, guilty that she had only given Logan a non-reply when he asked where she was going. Errands, she’d told him. “Girl crap.” Taking care of business. He’d butted out of it graciously enough, relieved to be off the hook for what sounded like an excursion in feminine indulgence while he watched his fill of “The Best Damned Sports Show” with a roll of Ritz crackers and peanut butter. She vowed to have dinner ready for him before he left for his shift so he could take it with him, and kissed him deeply before heading out the door.
Closure. All she wanted out of this was closure, she told herself.
She’d dressed herself in one of her favorite outfits, ironically one that Jean helped her pick out. Black velveteen slacks, boot-cut and snug, were paired with a sapphire blue satin blouse that Logan had drooled over when she came downstairs. A snugly belted leather jacket warded off the chill, but she still shivered within its confines, scuffing her boot against the edge of the welcome mat and chewing her fingernail.
“Hey,” an out-of-breath voice greeted her. Ororo turned and nodded casually at Jean, pink-cheeked and becomingly tousled from the breezy afternoon. Her heart slammed in her ears at the sight of her. She harvested anger, resentment, anything that would distract her from the past lonely weeks without her best friend.
“I put our names on the list for a table. We’re next.”
“Good. That’s good.” Jean stared at Ororo, who refused to meet her eyes. “Um…I’d better go freshen up, okay? Tell them the table’s for two.”
“I know that,” Ororo snapped. Oops.
Jean hurried away. Ororo used the reprieve to compose herself, and even managed to smile at their hostess when she was escorted to their table, overlooking the street from a sunny window.
She checked her face in her tiny compact, ensuring that she didn’t have a hair out of place. She wanted to feel confident. It didn’t help that no matter what the outcome of the day’s get-together, nothing would ever be the same again. Ororo had grown wiser against her will; ignorance was bliss. Oh, was it ever.
Jean approached, beautiful in her green skirt and tunic set made from viridian slinky knit that shimmered whenever she moved. Her hair was swept up into a bun with long bangs, and her wedding set glittered from her finger. She looked every inch the affluent wife who lunches, Ororo thought nastily. She draped her black jacket with its fur-trimmed collar over the back of her chair and seated herself.
“It’s good to see you,” she began, attempting to smile. Ororo uneasily rubbed her nape and reached for a menu. “I know me calling you was out of the blue-“
“Why did you?”
“I couldn’t just let this thing sit between us. I needed to talk to you, and explain what happened. I never meant to hurt you, Ororo.”
“Sure,” she drawled, still avoiding Jean’s eyes. She felt tension spring into Jean’s spine as she straightened up and began perusing her own menu. The waitress took their order for drinks, bringing them each an iced water with lemon. “Sure you didn’t.”
“Things were crazy back when it happened.”
“Crazy.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Fine. I’ll let you have that. Just goes to show I don’t clean out under the bed often enough,” Ororo snorted. “So what happened? Did you just trip and fall and land between my sheets with my man? Are you gonna tell me this was an accident? I’m fine with hearing it was a mistake, Jean, but not an accident.” That was a lie, too, Ororo decided. She’d never be fine with it.
“I knew you were going to get defensive.”
“Pfft. No shit.” Ororo huffed and stared out the window, watching the traffice for a moment while she composed herself. She toyed with the wedge of lemon in her drink and concentrated on their setting. Jean’s expensive perfume tickled her nostrils, making her stomach twist and her head ache. “I’m defensive. I’m not supposed to be defensive when my best friend sleeps with my boyfriend, in my bed, and has the nerve to ask me to be in her wedding? If you give a damn about the years we spent being friends, Jean, you’ll be honest with me. How many times were you with Pietro?”
“Ororo…it’s not like we were having a fling or anything.”
“That didn’t answer my question. How many times did you sleep with Pietro?”
“Ororo, come on, now, will knowing that really make-“
“Have lunch by yourself, then, I don’t fucking care,” she snapped, standing in a flash and reaching for her coat.
“Ororo, no, DON’T GO! PLEASE…please,” she pleaded, lowering her voice once Ororo finally met her eyes again, even though they were blazing with a mixture of annoyance and disgust. Things weren’t going the way she’d hoped. “Fine. You want to know, then I’ll tell you. Pietro and I got closer to each other about six months ago.”
“Was that when you fucked him?”
“Language, for God’s sake! People have ears, Ororo!” Jean hissed, eyes large and beseeching and she tightened her lips into a mulish line. Ororo eased herself back into her seat but still occupied the edge. She templed her hands in front of herself protectively.
“You two got closer?”
“Yes. We talked from time to time. Sometimes Pietro would stop by to see Scott when he was at my house, while he was running errands. No big deal. We’d chat once in a while about things in general.” Jean sipped her water and fished out the lemon wedge with a spoon, using it to chase a stray seed that popped free and floated on top. “Scott had a conference that he needed to attend for his continuing education units in cardiology and acute care. He was gone for a week. I decided to spend some time with the girls. Emma and Betsy,” she mentioned.
“Well, isn’t that nice.” Jean could see the wheels turning: What part had they played in this mess, and when could she go back to kick their asses?
“We got plastered. We were just having fun, it was no big deal. I couldn’t drive.” Then Jean’s face took on a sympathetic expression that Ororo wanted to slap off of her. “Pietro was at Harry’s. Said he wanted to watch the football game at the bar, instead of hanging out and bothering you at home with it. I asked him if you had kicked him out.”
“Of course you did. I’m such an ogre,” Ororo muttered dismissively. “He made me look like a real bitch, didn’t he? Did you feel sorry for him?”
“Not like that,” Jean murmured. “He saw what kind of condition I was in. He noticed that Emma and Betsy had bailed, and that I was without a ride. He was being chivalrous with me. I had no one to dance with, so he danced with me for a few songs.” Her face softened and her mind looked like it was in a different place. “It was nice.”
“I bet. You’re still not giving me any reason to keep sitting here.” Ororo’s skin tightened over her skull at the image of Jean dancing provocatively, hanging tipsily over him, draping her arms around his neck. She remembered the night of the bachelorette party, how chummy Jean had been. How loose-limbed and flirty, wearing a dress that fit like a handkerchief. Slobbery kisses. Sloppier true confessions. Oh, she knew how easily she could have cozied up to Pietro.
“He took me home,” she explained. “He wanted to make sure I got inside okay and locked up. Then he offered to make me some coffee.”
“That was nice of him.”
“I told him he didn’t have to go to the trouble.” She swallowed nervously. “He wasn’t in the mood to go home yet. He just seemed to want to stay up and talk. So I turned on the TV, went upstairs to change into my robe, and we watched TV. Just so I could sober up a little and hit the sack. I didn’t think much about it. We talked about his job. He told me about the game. He mentioned a weekend trip to Atlantic City that he and Scott were planning, and he asked me if I was fine with it. I knew Scott had been looking forward to it. Then he started teasing me about how much Scott would miss me while he was gone, and was I going to be lonely without him. I just laughed it off. Then he just looked sad. He told me, ‘Ororo sometimes acts like she doesn’t want me to come back home. We fight all the time.’ I told him that was bullshit. I said ‘Ro loves you, ‘Tro, you don’t even know how much. She worries all the time about making what you have together work out.’ Ororo, he didn’t feel like you wanted to get past what happened when you both broke up before.”
“Like you’re the frigging expert? Are you kidding? You’re going to just take his side of the story?”
“You said yourself that the two of you were having problems,” Jean reasoned.
“I said that to you. I thought you were on my side, not sitting up there agreeing with my man that I was trippin’,” she snapped.
“I didn’t say that. I do think you were hard on him sometimes, though. You can be demanding when you want. He likes to do things with his family, and sometimes you don’t.”
“Bullshit. I get along fine with his dad, or at least I did, so thanks a lot, Jean. You’re a pal. To me and to Pietro. You’re more of one to him now, though.” Their waiter returned and took Ororo’s terse order of the soup of the day. Jean ordered a salad with dressing on the side. “You don’t know what it was like, wondering if Pietro was going to step up and act right when he came back. I let him back in, knowing he could hurt me again, knowing that was the last straw if he did. Fool me once, fuck you. Fool me twice, fuck you. You don’t get a third chance or get away with that shit. He knew that. I thought he’d changed, and grown up a little, but he still did the same old shit. Bossed me around, criticized me, had his hang-ups about my job, never planned long-term even though he knew I wanted the whole for better or for worse, til death do you part package. We’re apart; that means Pietro should be dead. So now, here you come, telling me all these things Pietro filled your ear with, acting like I’m suddenly Miss Played and Tired?”
“I didn’t say that.” Jean straightened, and her faltering attempts at keeping her face serene dried up. Her brows beetled and she arched one high in the air. Ororo felt her fingers clench into a ball in her lap, and blood rushed through her ears. That look begged to be wiped off her face…
“No. You were just telling me that you didn’t mean to sleep with my man, right? That was the whole point of this little…whatever this is.”
“It started off innocently enough. I was just about to let him out. He told me to get some sleep. He thanked me for letting him fill my ear. He leaned in and kissed my cheek. I thought that was it. Then he looked at me like a light went on, and he came at me with a kiss that made me weak in the knees. Pietro. My husband’s best friend, kissing me like we were under the mistletoe.”
“Your best friend’s man, don’t forget that. Her LIVE-IN boyfriend, not like that’s pertinent.”
“Do I need to go on?”
“What were you thinking, Jean?” Ororo’s voice was full of quiet rage. “What the hell were you thinking? Did you even think for a moment that Scott would be hurt if he knew? Or that this was just a little one-nighter that didn’t really mean anything if you swept it under the rug?”
“It meant something. I had a hard time dealing with it. I was worried that Pietro felt that way, too.” She sighed, letting out months of pent-up guilt in that breath, allowing her chest to deflate like a smith’s bellows. “He didn’t stay over that night, because I didn’t want Scott to find out.”
“You weren’t so careful your own damned self.” Ororo allowed the waiter a civil smile as he brought their plates, warning Ororo that her bowl was hot. Jean dropped small dollops of her poppyseed dressing onto her spinach greens with her fork. Once their host was out of earshot, Ororo hissed, “Did you get your rocks off, Jean?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you,” she sniffed.
“Did he let you get off? You can be honest. It makes sense, in hindsight, since he never could save enough for me. Come on, Jean. No sense in keeping it a secret. Did you enjoy fucking my man? Did you get off on the fact that you two were sneaking around behind my back? Or behind Scott’s? How do you even fucking sleep at night, you stupid, selfish, punk-ass heifer?” Ororo’s voice cracked once she realized how much it had risen. Jean’s cheeks flamed scarlet, and she threw her fork onto her plate with a clang.
“I knew you’d only think about yourself, and your needs, and how no one can hurt poor little Ororo! Pietro said you’d be like this! He said he always worried about you taking everything too hard, and how you always panic! You just loved to manipulate him with your little sugar and stress episodes and make him fret over you! He never could be completely honest with you when he thought you were just going to have an attack. God forbid you ever own up and talk things out with him!”
“Where.Do.You.Get.Off.” Ororo sat back in her chair, arm dangling over the back as she rocked it back on the pegs in defiance. “Look,” she barked, neck roll in effect, finger pointing daggerlike toward Jean’s heart, “leave my sugar out of this, bitch. It has nothing to do with anything. I wouldn’t have half of those ‘episodes’ of mine if he wasn’t always stepping out, being inconsistent about where he’s been. Or in this case, if certain friends weren’t leaving behind souvenirs for me to find. Seriously Jean, under my damned bed? Bright red thong panties?”
“Sure, go ahead and attack me. You wanted answers.”
“You’re giving me bullshit disguised as an alibi, and nothing resembling an apology that I can believe. You bring Pietro’s beef with me to the table, and you’re sitting up here, acting like he had reason to cheat, and like you weren’t wrong for diddling around behind Scott’s back.”
“You didn’t give Pietro what he needed!” Jean cried, and her eyes welled up before she jerked her head away, trying to master it. “And he was sweet, and tender, and caring, and you don’t deserve him if you can’t concern yourself with his needs, Ororo, Miss High and Mighty! You think you’re so innocent, and so blameless in all of this,” she rasped. “Pietro knew how important my wedding was, and how much it meant to Scott and me that the two of you be in it. All you did was act like it was killing you to pull bridesmaid duty. Emma and Betsy told me some of the crap you said about it, about how you wouldn’t make people jump though those kind of hoops when you and ‘Tro tied the knot.”
“Look where Pietro being helpful got us. How long have you been holding this little grudge? A few weeks? Months? Since Pietro and I got back together? Is this how you get me back?”
“I didn’t want it to be like this. I even thought…maybe if you had the chance to talk with him again, you could fix things. He was angry when the two of you broke up, Ororo. You threw him out.”
“I had every right! Don’t you get it?”
“You threw it all away, Ororo. Five years isn’t just something you toss out like so much dirty bathwater.”
“He was the one who acted like what we had was garbage, and you wiped your own feet all over it. Why did it matter so much to you for us to get back together, if you were tipping around with Pietro? Was it just convenient for you? Did you get some sick thrill out of being with him if he was ‘taken’ already?”
Jean weighed the silence between them, and let the other shoe drop. “If you and Pietro came around together, I could still see him. I could enjoy his company, without being a third wheel when he came over to hang out with Scott.” Ororo felt the blood drain away so quickly from her head that she felt the room spin.
“Well, there you go.” She shook her head, letting her hair bob over her shoulders with the motion. “You finally came out with it. How long did you think you were gonna let it play out?” Ororo grabbed her purse and jerked it open, fishing for her wallet. She grabbed a twenty and threw the crumpled twenty onto the table. “I’m done. This is bullshit! I’m not gonna hear this mess for one more second, d’ya hear?” The faint tailwind of Ororo whipping her jacket off the back of the chair and spinning around in a huff made Jean’s bangs fly up off her forehead.
“Ororo…DON’T! I’m not finished, come back…”
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” Ororo chanted under her breath as she exited the restaurant. “Gonna even fuck up doing a decent job of being guilty,” she mocked. She didn’t care that people were staring at her for talking to herself as she muttered and cursed her way down the street.
Roughly a minute later, Ororo heard heavy footsteps of someone walking hell-for-leather on a pair of stiletto heels and working up their heart rate in the process. Ororo felt a slender hand grip her arm through the leather of her jacket, and Jean jerked her back around, panting and looking indignant.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to run off?”
“You expected me to stay for more?”
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly, “but you wanted to hear my reasons for what I did.”
“They weren’t good enough. Truth be told, they never would have been good enough. Jean, I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect much out of this lunch. Logan convinced me I should talk to you, since you called up in a panic. He thought you were still mad about what happened at the party. I told him he shouldn’t have worried, since you have been acting like you don’t think much of him since the day the two of you were even really introduced at Harry’s.”
“What’s the big deal how I feel about Logan? I don’t care about him,” she sneered. “If you want to throw everything you had away on him, for some little rebound fling, that’s none of my business.”
“But you’ll sabotage it by inviting Pietro to your party, knowing Logan was likely to be there.” Ororo punched the button for the walk light insistently, then took off like a shot when it turned white.
Jean continued to walk one and a half paces behind Ororo, practically chasing her toward the parking garage where Ororo kept her Honda. “I guess you can blame me if you want, Ororo. When I went to see Pietro that night, I just wanted someone to talk to. One thing led to another. I begged him not to tell Scott what happened between us, and that we had to leave it at that. Pietro just looked at me, like he really saw me, and said ‘What if I don’t want to leave it at that? What if it meant more to me than that, Jeannie?’ He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. He said that I was beautiful and that Scott was a lucky man, and if I really felt that what happened was better off being ignored, and that he didn’t mean anything to me, that he would be fine with me just walking out that door.” Ororo sighed, exhausted with her flight, and just about ready to tell Jean what she thought about it all. “I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. He said that even if he had any regrets about it in the morning, he’d deal with it. He just wanted one more night.” She swallowed thickly. “And it was worth it. Oh, God, it was so worth it,” she groaned.
“That’s all I needed to hear. That it was worth you screwing me over, just to get what you thought you needed from my man, when you already had everything.” Ororo stalked away, her feet clopping across the concrete as she trekked to her floor and subsection and clicked her keyring. Her car chirped back at her, and she was ready to drive away far and fast.
“Nobody has everything,” Jean reasoned. “I don’t want to walk away with this hanging between us.”
“There’s nothing hanging between the two of us. I’m never speaking to your lying, cheating ass again, Jean Grey-Fucking-Summers. This was it. This was your last chance, and you blew it BIG time.”
“God, you’re dramatic,” Jean huffed. “Fine, be that way. I don’t know why I knocked myself out. I guess I just felt horrible watching you feel hurt.”
“This was your idea of doing me a favor?” Ororo was incredulous. Her heart hammered away, making her feel lightheaded and sending tingles through her veins. Her hands twitched before balling themselves into fists. Jean turned her back on Ororo, giving her the cut direct.
“Please. Goodbye,” she threw over her shoulder. All Ororo saw was that proud, upswept hair drifting away, her green skirts swirling out behind her like peacock’s feathers.
ooooooo, that was it…
It was satisfying, Ororo thought in hindsight, giving Jean that one first, mighty shove, so hard she practically fell of her heels. Jean’s hair wrapped snugly around her fingers in strangling ropes as she yanked it from its tidy French knot. Jean had the decency to put up a fight, surprise and shock turning to rage as they went at it. Nails clawed. Palms slapped. Ororo’s fist found the bridge of Jean’s nose with a crack that left her knuckles stinging; she knew that’d hurt like a bitch in the morning, but she just didn’t care, doggone it. They scuffled, their shoes scraping raggedly across the concrete, and Jean fell back against Ororo’s Honda when she gave her another savage shove, setting off the car alarm with the contact. It blared in a rattling cacophony, but they were heedless of anyone coming to investigate it. It was an everyday occurrence; in the back of her mind, Ororo knew the parking garage guard was still in the booth reading the latest Steven King novel.
“You sorry bitch,” Ororo cried, sobbing and screaming in the same breath. “Are you sorry? Huh? Are you SORRY, Jean?”
“Let me go! Go to hell! Get off me!” Jean managed to backhand Ororo across her already sore lip, and she tasted blood spurting across her teeth. She slapped Jean back, just for good measure. From the next bank of cars, Ororo heard three teenage boys hooting their approval and yelling out, “c’mon, Red, don’t let her take you like that!” Ororo shook Jean’s hands off of her when she tried to tear at Ororo’s hair, which was already looking rough. They finally parted, straightening themselves. Jean turned her back again, tugging her hair into order as she left.
“See how sorry I feel now,” Jean cursed. “Frigid bitch.”
“Skank,” Ororo railed, wanting the last word. She opened her car and jammed the key into the ignition, starting it before she even closed the door. She unrolled the window, and marinated in the fog of resentment and fury that still wrapped her up like a straightjacket.
“No wonder he cheated on you,” Jean flung back.
“Keep stepping, Jean, just keep stepping,” she snarled. She lurched into drive, leaning on her horn and letting it blare at Jean as she drove past, practically scaring her off her shoes again.
She flipped her the bird in the rearview mirror. She was far enough out of view by the time she reached the ramp at the exit not to see Jean’s reaction as she grabbed her ticket and paid her fee.
She cursed and cried the rest of the way home, wondering how in the hell she was going to explain to Logan why she looked like she was dragged through a hedge backwards.
Two hours later:
“Something sure smells good, baby doll,” Logan rumbled from the front doorway as he shrugged out of his jacket.
“Hang that up,” Ororo called, stirring the skillet of stir-fried chicken and vegetables with a wooden spatula, adding a healthy dose of black pepper.
“I know; sheesh, let a guy come in an’ get…holy SHIT. Ororo, what the flamin’ hell happened ta yer face?”
“Logan…it’s complicated.”
“Spill,” he demanded, pulling up a kitchen stool and parking himself beside her in the kitchen. He caught her wrist and pulled her away from the stove, nudging her between his open knees for closer inspection. “Ouch,” he murmured. “Wasn’t it you telling me not to act the donkey just because someone made ya mad last time?”
“Don’t start, please,” she begged, averting her gaze.
“Uh-uh. I’m gonna start, all right. Ya don’t come home looking like ya went five rounds with Mike Tyson and his lawnmower and then not explain yerself.” He probed the back of her hand, tsking over the Ace bandage wrapped around her wrist and the Band-Aids across her knuckles, looking like she’d depleted the supply in the medicine cabinet.
“Lunch with Jean didn’t go well,” she explained around her fat lip.
“No shit,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around her waist and snaking his ankle around the back of her legs to prevent her escape. “At least I’m not talkin’ to ya on yer one phone call from the clink, that’s a good sign.” She sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. “Kiddo? ‘Ro? You okay?” She shook her head, and tears dripped onto his pants legs. “Aw, shit, come here, baby,” he crooned, snuggling her close. She merely shook for the first few seconds, trying to catch her breath and absorbing his solid warmth, letting his masculine scent comfort her. A shivering, gasping sob tore from her throat, and his embrace tightened around her. He murmured platitudes into her hair and rocked her. Everything spilled out in a rush.
“Sh-she slept with Pietro, Logan. I found out the night of the party, an-and she admitted it, those panties I found were hers, and she had the nerve to act like I wasn’t supposed to say anything, just so she wouldn’t look BAD. Can you believe that? And, what’s shitty about it is, I was still trying to be a good friend! I didn’t say anything, I tried not to make a scene…” She sobbed and wailed up a ruckus, thoroughly wetting his shirt and neck.
“Well, we made a scene anyway, darlin’, couldn’t be helped,” he reminded her gently.
“It damn well could have been, we didn’t have to even GO!” she jabbed. “It would have been one thing if she had only been with him once. I know she’s slept with him twice, at least what she owned up to today. It’s just…Jean was my friend, you know? For years. I could tell her everything. I DID tell her everything about Pietro and me, because that’s what friends do.”
“Might wanna rethink that going forward, eh?”
“Oh, God…Logan, that sounded crappy, I know,” she recanted, pulling back long enough to scrub her palms over her cheeks roughly. His eyes scanned her cuts, wincing at a wicked bruise under her eye. “Probably sounds like I just run to my friends with my dirty laundry.”
“Depends on what ya call dirty, darlin’. Guess I just hope that if we ever have problems, ya might wanna come ta me first.”
“I always thought he was cheating, in the back of my mind. Just a weird feeling, y’know?” She tugged herself from his addictive warmth and went back to stirring dinner.
“Ya weren’t wrong ta feel that way.”
“Why? Did you have some little ‘playa intuition’ or other radar to know he was running around?”
“Didn’t need it. I caught him, darlin’, red-handed one night at Harry’s.”
Ororo’s entire body locked up, every joint and muscle perfectly still. Logan suddenly heard nothing but the sizzle of the food in the pan and the ticking of the kitchen wall clock.
“When?” Her voice was eerily calm. She planted her hands on the edge of the stove, but one shook as she lowered the spatula to the ceramic spoon rest.
“Darlin, it was a long time ago…”
“When, Logan?” she insisted. He cleared his throat.
“That first night when ya went out with Jean. The two of ya had just left. I was hangin’ out with Petey and his lady, and in walked Pietro.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Ain’t many guys who look like that, or women who look like you, ‘Ro. When I met ya in the E/R, the two of ya were a package deal. I remembered him pretty well.”
“Well. I guess I should be flattered, that I made that kind of impression with you back then, Logan, but I guess I have to ask, why did you wait so long to tell me?”
“HUH?”
He clawed his fingers through the back of his hair, completely flummoxed.
“Ororo, when was I gonna tell you? Ya already took off; what was I supposed ta do?”
“You could have said something the night of the reception.” Logan ice-skated in the frying pan for a few more strokes, wishing he’d have kicked Pietro’s ass twice as hard.
“Darlin’, no way was I gonna kick ya while ya were already down. What would that prove, huh? Ya were already cryin’ about how ya found a leftover from his little piece on the side under the bed! Did ya want me ta rub it in? Ya knew what he was about.”
She knew he was right. Her ego was bruised, maybe even more than her lip, and more damaging words kept leaking from it like poison.
“I had a feeling. I never really knew until that day. But you let me take you to Jean’s house, and spent time with me, and never said anything about this whole mess until now!”
“I was only tryin’ ta make ya feel better; I was worried. Ya came back looking like ya just finished a bar brawl, fallin’ apart about how yer best girlfriend did ya dirty, ‘Ro. Ya ended up betrayed, and I ain’t the one who betrayed ya.”
“This isn’t making me feel better, Logan.”
“That ain’t my fault, either.” He kicked the stool out of his way, letting it skitter into the counter. He was moving very, very fast, retrieving his jacket and helmet from the couch before Ororo could even blink.
“Yer mad, ‘Ro, I got that. But I ain’t the one ya need ta be mad at. Don’t lay blame at my doorstep because of what happened between you and ‘Tro. I care about ya,” he exclaimed grimly, turning back to stare at her from the doorway. Fading sunlight filtered through his hair, bringing out glints of auburn in his dark waves. He looked so hurt that her gut twisted into a hard ltitle knot. “But remember, darlin’, back when we met, I found ya and did something I didn’t plan on doin’, namely gettin’ in the middle of somethin’ that was endin’ on an ugly note. I knew it was impossible, Ororo, the moment that I met ya, that we’d ever end up together. I didn’t think ya’d give me a second glance. I saw the kinda man ya were already with, and thought ya were way outta my league, even if he ended up being an ass in the long run, but think of how it looked to me, back then. Think of what was going through my thick head.” Her lip quivered, and she folded her arms under her breasts, staring at the floor.
She was breathing harshly through her nose as he continued. “I wanted ta help ya. I felt like a heel, because I thought I was takin’ advantage of ya when ya were vulnerable. I hated feeling that way, but I dealt with it, because ya made me crazy, ‘Ro. There wasn’t any turning back, because I was hooked. I wanted ya so badly, and I felt ya wantin’ me just as bad. I thought, maybe we could make something of it. Something good, and solid, and throw away all the bad stuff and leave it behind us. Instead, it just seems like we’ve been hauling around all that baggage you joked about having before. Now, ya have me helping ya haul it around, too, and I can’t bear up under that weight, darlin’.” She wept openly now, sniffling into her cupped hand and letting her tears roll down in shining runnels, creating a chill on her neck.
“I’ve already been through drama, ‘Ro. Yer so damned sweet, and ya’ve been so good ta me, and I can’t wait ta spend time with ya every day, and see ya the moment I wake up, next ta me and lookin’ like yer just as happy as I am. Yer special, and I thought I told ya that already, and I want ya ta believe it. I’m not Pietro. I’ve been run around on before, and I know ya know how that feels.” She sobbed miserably, shoulders quaking, but he wouldn’t hold her.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whimpered. Those tourmaline blue eyes were bloodshot and practically weakened his resolve.
“I don’t wanna leave; but I can’t stay if ya feel like ya can’t trust me.”
“Logan…I do trust you, it’s just-“
Just then, the smoke alarm went off.
“Dinner’s burning,” he muttered. He flexed his fingers before shoving them into his jacket pocket. “Bye, ‘Ro.” The door swished shut after him.
Ororo woodenly strode back into the kitchen, numb and raw as she grabbed the frying pan off the burner and dumped the whole thing into the sink. She stared back at the door, unable to believe what had just happened. She opened her kitchen windows and leaned her elbows over the kitchen counter, crying raggedly until the cool evening air silenced the chime of her smoke alarm.
Cheek to Cheek by OriginalCeenote
“It’s drivin’ me plumb crazy,” Anna complained, and Ororo heard her munching on something in the background. She leaned her face more deeply into the handset as she sat crooked over her keyboard, tweaking a Flash GIF file, slowing down the speed so that the blinking wouldn’t irritate sensitive viewers visiting the new portal.
“Whatsamatter, kid?” Ororo tried to push a smile into her voice, but was struggling. “Man trouble?”
“Gawd Almighty.” Ororo could hear Anna’s eye roll as plain as day.
“Oops.”
“It’d be one thing if he was just actin’ like a dickhead. Ah can handle that. But he ain’t.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Ya mean what AIN’T he doin’!”
“Come again?”
“ME! He ain’t doin’ ME! It’s…just…WEIRD! Ah mean, he likes me. I know that. It’s been a coupla months that we’ve been callin’ and goin’ out and just hangin’ out with each other. But we never get around ta sealin’ the deal!” Ororo nearly choked on her diet Pepsi.
“Gads…don’t do that, you almost made soda come out of my nose. So, you two haven’t-“
“Nope.”
“Wow. Couple of months…?”
“Two months, two weeks, an’ eight of the longest days of mah life, shoog. It’s killin’ me. Ah want the man so BAD, d’ya hear me? He’s so damned sexy, ‘Roro, Ah just can’t stand it! Ah mean, we’re healthy, compatible, red-blooded adults. He sweet-talks me. Ah get whim-whams, fer cryin’ out loud!”
“Whim-whams?”
“Yeah, shoog. Y’know, that little bubbly, soda pop feeling in yer gut when a guy ya like first asks ya out, or when ya kiss him and it feels like firecrackers are gonna fly out the top of your head?”
“Ah. Whim-whams. I understand them now. Man, Anna, that sucks. So what’re you gonna do?”
“Ah don’t know. Ah don’t wanna push the issue. Ah mean, Ah like Remy. He’s nice. He’s funny. He’s damned talented, too; he even made up a little song fer me the other day, and I got ta listen in on one of his jam sessions with his band. He can play. He holds doors. He likes t’go out an’ do stuff, so it ain’t like we have starin’ contests askin’ each other ‘what do you wanna do? Ah dunno, what do YOU wanna do?’ Ah hate that nonsense when Ah’ve had relationships like that. Ah just feel like…he’s holdin’ back something.”
“Like a secret?” Ororo shivered.
“Not so much. Just like he’s bein’ cautious. Ah just enjoy bein’ with him so much. It’s funny. Remy’s all that an’ a bag of chips. Boy’s fine.”
“Mm-hm,” Ororo agreed, keeping her own hormones in check as she remembered back to the bachelorette. “Not a bad dancer, either.”
“HEY! Mind outta the gutter, Munroe.”
“Hey, you mentioned it, not me,” she chuckled slyly.
“Women give him the eye when we go out. It don’t phase him. He’s polite, doesn’t go turning his head, and he pays attention to me like Ah’m the apple of his eye.”
“That’s what he’s supposed to do.” If he wants to stay healthy…
“Ah just wonder if he wants me that way; Ah don’t want it ta end up that he ain’t givin’ me some because he ain’t got anything left ta give, like a woman using him up that Ah don’t know about. Or baggage that he’s carryin’ around, if somebody burned him.”
“Girl, these days, good luck finding a man who hasn’t been burned. All it takes is one woman acting like a heifer and trippin’, to turn Mr. Right into Mr. Jump and Run.” Ororo saved her file and replaced the old file in her directory with the new one. “Remy seems pretty down to earth, Anna. He doesn’t seem like someone who likes to play games. Like you said, he’s gorgeous. He can have any woman he wants, but he doesn’t act like he’s out chasing all of them, or just letting anyone catch HIM. I liked watching you too that day at the mall. He was so cute; he kept staring at you every time you spoke.”
“Aw, shut up!” Anna’s voice was syrupy and full of unreleased giggles. Yup. She had it bad.
“Puppy love,” Ororo trilled, just to get her goat.”
“Gawd, stop that! Ah ain’t that lame, am Ah?”
“No. Whipped, but not lame.”
“Not laid, either, sugah.”
“What are you two doing this weekend?”
“Taking in a stand-up show. We’ve got tickets ta see this guy named Guido Carosella. He’s s’posed ta be pretty funny.”
“I saw him once! He’s a hoot! Guy’s huge,” Ororo murmured. “Try to sit up front.”
“Two drink minimum. Ah hope a little wine warms up a certain Cajun who happens ta already have a hot bod, but we’ll just hafta wait an’ see.”
“Go get him. Shoot, get some for me, too.”
“Please! Girl, ya already got a man.”
“Not really.” Ororo cringed at the shocked silence, followed by a gasp so deep it would have given most people an embolism.
“Oh, mah Gawd! Ororo Munroe, what’s goin’ on? What happened? Don’t tell me you and yer cutie pie are on the outs?”
“Cutie Pie flew the coop, and he left because I was trippin’.”
“Ooh. Fess up, now.”
“I laid the blame where it didn’t belong. Logan mentioned offhand that he saw Pietro out on the town with someone else back before we got together, right before Jean’s wedding. I wigged out.”
“What set ya off, hon?”
“It’s a mess.” Ororo sighed and took another fortifying sip of Pepsi. “Jean and I called ourselves burying the hatchet, and we got into it instead. We threw down in the parking garage.”
“Oooooooooooooooooo…” Anna tsked. “Mnh, mnh, mnh. Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrlll. Why didn’t y’all just leave it alone? She messed up. Ya needed ta be bigger than that, and skip openin’ that can of worms. Now they’re just wigglin’ an’ crawlin’ all over the place! Ya don’t hafta mend fences with her for messin’ with yer man, shoog, but ya don’t hafta let her get the best of ya, either. Yer a strong woman. She ain’t worth it.”
“Oh, Anna…thanks. I hate this. I don’t want it to seem like you have to take sides.”
“Are you kiddin’ me, shoog? Ah don’t want her goin’ after MAH man next!” Ororo snorted and recovered. “Ah love ya. Quit talkin’ that ‘takin sides’ mess. She messed up. Ah’m almost sorry Ah missed the two of ya goin’ at it, Gawd knows Ah ain’t seen a good bitch slappin’ since junior high.”
“Eeergggh.”
“Have ya called Logan?”
“Not really. I do the ring and hang up thing. It sucks. I don’t want to leave a bunch of messages that he doesn’t return. Because then, if he hears my voice, sounding all desperate and stalkerish, and he really DOESN’T want to hear from yours truly, then there I am, all over his voice mail.”
“Right. Crap. Good point. Ah guess emailing him would also be out?”
“He’s not into email. I sent him one once, and it took him a week to even read it, let alone let me know he had gotten it.”
“Then ta heck with it. Don’t beat around the bush. Go get that man, ‘Roro. Ah mean it. If ya feel like ya can just walk away and move on, and call it a done deal that’s one thing, but if ya care about him, and ya just feel like ya need ta talk this out with him, then get to it. It won’t get better with age.”
“It was just…stupid. I don’t know why I did that. Then I had to cry all over him first, just to make things even worse. He’s got to think I’m the PMS-stricken, psycho bitch from hell.”
“It ain’t like ya were breathin’ fire and walkin’ around with chocolate around yer mouth, high on Midol.”
“Nice image.”
“I try.”
“Gads…”
“CALL HIM.” Anna munched on another bite of something from her end of the line.
“What’re you eating?”
“Chocolate chip cookie.”
“Right. Maybe I’m not the one with the PMS…”
“Aw, hush now, you!” Anna’s words were garbled from having taken another mouthful. Ororo cracked up.
“Tell me about the show when you get back from it.” Then she had another thought. “And it wouldn’t hurt to wear something hot.”
“The man’s seen every ‘hot’ thing in mah wardrobe. It ain’t worked yet.”
“Right. We’re talking desperate times, then. C’mon over. You get to borrow my patented ‘gimme some’ outfit. Works every time.”
“Shit. Sounds dangerous.”
“Mmmmmmm.” Ororo’s voice was pure evil.
“Ah need all the help Ah can get. When can Ah come over and get it?”
~0~
Elsewhere, that same afternoon:
“Look, Mr. Rasputin, I’m wearing my Dora shoes!”
“Well, look at that, so you are! VERY fashionable,” he remarked, grinning to beat the band.
“Aliyah, sweetie, let me do your hair, okay? We’re going to be late,” Sage cajoled, looking flustered, and, Piotr thought, stunning. She wore a trim, coral red sweater and tapered black jeans, and her hair was loose for a change, falling in rippling waves past her shoulders. Her makeup was light, and she wore a perfume that made him want to swoop in for a better whiff, around her slender throat, but he held himself in check. Barely.
Mischievous brown eyes flirted with him from the couch as Sage went to work on some of the most stubborn hair ever grown.
“Goodness, it’s tangled fit to break my arm,” Sage grunted, tugging the stiff-bristled brush through Aliyah’s masses of thick, wiry curls. She wriggled and fidgeted, but did not cry out, impressing Piotr and feeding his assumption that both females were used to such a rigorous routine. He watched, intrigued, as Sage paused to slather a generous handful of something called Biosilk on the entire heap and smooth it through with her fingers, unknotting it as she went.
“Mama never used anything like that on Illyana’s hair,” he remarked.
“What kind of hair did she have?”
“Long, straight and blonde.” His mother saved it in a box when she lost most of it during her chemotherapy treatments.
“Well, there you go.” Sage went back to the task at hand, parting Aliyah’s hair into sections. “I had to learn as I went with her hair. The owners of a little hair care shop downtown took pity on me when they saw my earliest attempts at pigtails when she was about two. I was schooled properly about things like cradle cap, tenderheadedness, and the importance of ‘good grease.’ I love Aliyah’s hair. It’s good old-fashioned stuff, and she gets it honest from her father. Me, I wash my hair and go. I had no clue, back in the beginning. I was afraid to hurt her, but I didn’t want to send her out the door looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. Even if I didn’t!” As she chatted with him, Piotr watched her expertly detangling the ends of her hair with a wide-toothed comb one section at a time, and fastening off each section snugly with double-beaded ponytail holders.
“I want pink bobbles, Mommy,” Aliyah said imperiously.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m working on it, Bossy Britches,” Sage nagged back, tickling her. Piotr felt a warm tingle that made his face crack wide open. He couldn’t stop grinning from the moment he walked in the door, even if he couldn’t describe why. Which was why he couldn’t name that other strange little lonely pang, almost of something denied him. He felt deprived.
He shook it off.
Sage began plaiting Aliyah’s curls into neat, snug ropes, fingers deftly flying and making it look deceptively easy.
“Happy Feet, Happy Feet,” Aliyah sang, bouncing up and down in her seat.
“Happy Feet,” Piotr hummed back. Aliyah dissolved into giggles.
“NOOOOOO! Not YOU! You can’t sing!” she insisted. Piotr folded his arms defensively for her benefit.
“Well, of course I can!” Then he opened his mouth, inflating that broad chest and emitted some sound halfway between operatic bellowing and…yodeling. Aliyah hid her widely smiling mouth between her hands.
“Gads…” Sage was at a loss. She bowed her face into her hands and laughed in choking spurts. Moments later, she presented Aliyah, completely coiffed and spiffy.
“Here she comes, Miss America,” Piotr warbled.
“Stop! Mommy, tell him to stop!” Aliyah giggled, jumping up and tackling Piotr around the knee caps. Sage was interrupted from telling her daughter that Piotr was just having fun with her when her cellular rang inside her purse. She dashed over to get it, thinking to tell the person on the other end that she was just headed out the door.
“Hello?” she answered breathlessly.
“Sage…it’s Luke, baby.”
“Don’t call me that.” Her voice was ice. Piotr looked up from Aliyah’s antics, namely letting her hang off his hands and ride on his feet as he trodded around the living room. His eyes met Sage’s with concern, and she turned her back to him to take the conversation out of the room.
“What’s up? I’m in town today.”
“And?”
“Pfft. Don’t be like that. You know what. I wanna see my baby girl.”
“Sure you do. I’ve already got plans for us today.”
“They better include me, then. I want to see her today.” His tone wasn’t as cavalier now, even though he wasn’t raising his voice. They’d had their share of shouting matches before.
“I’m taking her to the movies. She wants to see Happy Feet.”
“Then I’ll take her. She can see it with me.” He offered the suggestion like a command, expecting no argument. Simple solution.
“Piotr already promised her we were going to take her.”
“Then tell ‘Pete’ he doesn’t have to promise her anything, since she’s not his kid.”
“Don’t be indignant. You always do this, Lucas.”
“What, wanting to spend time with my daughter? Sure. If you weren’t always trying to control everything-“
“Oh, no you don’t,” she hissed. “I won’t get into this with you now.” Sage felt unease settle in her stomach, hating how her end of the conversation had to sound to Piotr.
“I’m coming over. I’m picking up Aliyah. Have her ready by the time I get there.”
“Lucas-“ CLICK. Sage rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then stared dejectedly at the dead phone in her hand. She clacked it shut, muttering “fuck, fuckity FUCK, that fucking fucker” under her breath on her way to the bathroom to check her hair one more time. She peered into the mirror. Everything was in place, but now her cheeks looked flushed. She was flustered and already had a building case of indigestion. “Thanks, Lucas. Fucker.”
She was sweetness and light when she walked back out to the living room.
“You look pretty, sweetie. Guess what? Daddy just called.”
“YAY!” Aliyah danced around, momentarily forgetting Piotr as she ran back toward her room. “I’m gonna show him my new Dora shoes and my dollie!”
“Oh…okay, sweetie,” she called back, looking back at Piotr with a sigh on her lips. “Okay. Change of plan. My ex is picking her up.”
“All right.”
“With that in mind, did you still have your heart set on Happy Feet?”
“Not all of us?” He looked appalled. She swatted him.
“Heck, no. Never in a million years.” Then she sobered. “Since this was previously a little outing…how about that ‘date’ date we talked about before?” A light went on in his eyes, and the two of them heard Aliyah’s scrambling footsteps coming back. Piotr leaned down and kissed Sage’s cheek before they were caught.
Aliyah rambled on about her daddy for the next twenty minutes while Sage played one of her Blue’s Clues DVDs to distract her. Piotr listened politely and nodded as she ran off her description of the differences between the two men, which he was starting to realize were vast, to say the least.
“My daddy drives a big truck.”
“My daddy wears his head bald. Mommy says he shaves it.”
“Daddy has a lady friend named Charlotte. She likes to kiss Daddy. It’s yucky. YUCK!” Sage and Piotr shared a measured look over that remark.
“Daddy has brown skin like me. And he has brown eyes. Your eyes aren’t like Daddy’s.” He agreed; no, they weren’t.
“Daddy’s funny. He calls me Pookie Pot Pie.”
“Daddy likes Nike shoes.”
“Daddy’s a poe-leece-man.”
The minutes ticked by restlessly, and Piotr offered to run to the store, in case Sage needed anything.
“I don’t need anything, you don’t have to go.” He heard the urgent, odd little note in her words: Please don’t run off. He felt her tense up in anticipation of the dreaded “daddy” visit and reached out to knead her shoulder soothingly. Slender fingers crept up to cover his and hold them there.
A brisk knock broke through their reverie. Sage hustled over to unlock the dead bolts without bothering to check the peephole.
“Where’s my baby girl?” a smooth baritone called out without preamble, and Piotr heard heavy footsteps cross the threshold.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! DADDY!” Aliyah’s footsteps were light and fleet and she zipped by Piotr and her mother, launching herself into her father’s arms. Noisy kisses found their way onto her soft little cheek.
“How long were you wanting to keep her, Lucas?”
“I was thinking a movie. I might take her to dinner. I’m not sure yet.” His posture was relaxed, but his expression held a hint of a smirk of someone who didn’t feel he had to answer to anyone but himself.
“It would be nice if you could give us some insight, so we can plan our own afternoon,” Sage snapped, near the end of her tether. “I’ll have my cell phone on.”
“What, are you and Homeboy here leaving town?” he retorted nastily. Piotr repressed the urge to smack him upside the head, even while imagining the possibilities of doing just that. He craved time with Sage to get to know each other better.
So far, time spent with her was also time spent with Aliyah. He had no regrets, since those outings, dinners, movies, trips to the park and rides taken at Coney Island went from being “just getting our feet wet” to “I could really get used to this.” He’d initially been daunted, when he found out that Sage had someone to support, and he’d wondered where he would fit into their lives.
Now, he had already built memories out of those times together that he enjoyed, and wanted to build some more.
Seeing Lucas holding his daughter possessively in the crook of his arm, balanced expertly on his hip, made him wonder how many other opportunities he would have.
“I’ll have my cell phone turned on,” she replied crisply. “You can enjoy your movie. Just let me know when you want to bring her back to me. Mimi, if you miss Mommy, tell Daddy you want to give me a call, he knows how.” She leaned over and kissed her daughter, who returned it with a puckery little smooch of her own.
To his credit, Lucas looked good. Tall, but not as tall as Piotr. Just as buff, but he distributed his muscle differently, carrying a lot of power in his limbs and neck. Sage once marveled that he had a backside she could bounce a quarter off of, but she stopped those thoughts when he started acting hardheaded. Now she just wanted to drop him on his butt instead. He’d shaved his head smooth and trimmed his goatee. He filled Sage’s narrow hallway with the scent of his Drakkar aftershave and looked ready to stomp in new Nike cross-trainers and a host of other designer labels winking out from his jeans, tee, and hoodie. A small gold hoop winked out from his earlobe. He had dimples when he smiled, but he saved those for Aliyah, not caring what impression he made for the two that he was depriving of her company.
“Charlotte’s waiting in the car,” Lucas murmured, already turning his back.”
“Let me know if you change your plans,” Sage suggested.
“When I get around to it,” he shot over his shoulder, and took his leave, letting the door slam behind him. Piotr rubbed his neck and took in Sage’s growl under her breath with dismay.
“Okay, now that our day’s been turned upside down, what do you feel like “ MMmmmppphh!” Piotr decided there was only one way to take the tension and irritation from her with the least amount of awkwardness. She looked too good not to kiss, and kiss deeply. If the tightening of her fingers clutching his shirt and they way her tongue swirled around his was any indication, swallowing his tiny growl of triumph, she wasn’t unhappy with his choice of relaxation techniques. Not unhappy at all.
“We can look for a little tidbit for Mimi while we’re out and about,” Piotr suggested, nuzzling Sage’s neck.
“O-kay,” she gasped, going a little weak in the knees. Damn, he tasted good. “Right. Out and about.” Her bedroom was only a few steps away, but she smacked all of the sinful little voices in her mind over the head with a rolled-up newspaper and yelled “Down, heathens!”
After all, a woman had to eat.
“Let’s figure out lunch first.” So that was what they did. A twenty minute ride in Piotr’s car found them lunching at a small delicatessen on heroes with potato chips. Sage licked crystals of salt and grease from her fingers as she peppered Piotr with questions, which he didn’t seem to mind.
“When did she get leukemia?”
“She was four. Mother took her to her well-child checkup, and they found a strange growth in her neck when they felt her glands. After that, it all became a blur. Lab work, MRI scans, tests on her bone marrow, which were horrible…” his voice drifted off, and he pushed his plate back for a moment, scrubbing his face with his palm.
“God, Piotr…I’m sorry. That’s awful for you.”
“She was just a child. No one that little should suffer so much,” he murmured. “Knowing she would die was bad enough. Watching her hurt was a different version of hell. Having that last hope taken away when her doctors told Mama that the chemo wasn’t working anymore destroyed us. I miss her voice talking to me a mile a minute. I miss tripping over her toys. I miss hearing her ask me for piggy back rides on my shoulders. It’s not the same since she’s been gone. You always think your brothers and sisters will be on this earth at least as long as you will, that you’re all the other has until this life is over.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.” Sage got up and gathered up her plate and tossed her crumpled napkins on top, nodding at his. He handed it to her before she leaned over to the trash and discarded the leavings neatly, brushing off her hands. “We’re not supposed to have to say goodbye to the ones we love before we’re good and ready. It never quite works out that way. God and I had words when he took my parents.”
“How did that work out?” That kind of pain he could relate to.
“God, two; me, zero. It took me a while to grow up and realize that he still loved me, even if my parents were gone. They were the most tangible form of that love. I stopped shaking my fist at him, and he gave me Aliyah. She has so many qualities of my parents. I see my mom’s smile on her face, see my dad’s walk whenever we go anywhere, and I feel like I found my purpose when she came into my life. What I had with her father didn’t last, but I have no regrets.”
“I only have one regret,” Piotr mentioned.
“What’s that?”
“That Illyana never met her. She would have loved her.” Piotr held the door for her and they held hands, enjoying the briskly cold afternoon full of possibilities.
They stopped at a midway fair set up in a shopping center parking lot and played games for an hour. Neither of them won anything except a small, beanbag-stuffed red bear that looked positively flammable that Piotr walked away with after popping two out of three balloons with weighted darts. They eventually decided on a movie, deciding on an independent film Sage had been curious about in a dilapidated theater that was nearly deserted for the matinee. They sat in the back, both agreeing that it wasn’t something they would pay money to see full price as a nighttime feature. Sage was on tenterhooks, wondering when Lucas would call. Piotr felt her radiating anxiety again, and he continued to hold her hand, playing with her fingers.
“We could head home, if you like.”
“Piotr…”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty being out with me when you don’t know when she’s coming home.”
“She’s my world.”
“I know. I don’t blame you for a minute.” He dug into the popcorn with his free hand. “Sage?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there any room in your world for one more?” Her heart skipped a beat.
“Who?” She met his eyes in the darkened theater, and the illumination from the screen lit his features, making him ethereally beautiful.
He answered her with another searching kiss, this one slower and sweeter than the one in her apartment. His lips were hot, fastening onto hers firmly and demanding a taste. She tilted her head up and let him have his way with her mouth, feeling his fingers cradle her jaw before combing through her hair. She gave herself up to the sensations and thrilled to his touch, suddenly hating the armrest that separated them.
“Piotr,” she gasped when they came up for breath.
“Da?”
“We weren’t really watching this crap anyway,” she announced.
“Nyet.” They shrugged into their coats and chucked the half-empty bucket of popcorn into the trash. The walk back to the car was clipped and quick. Piotr impatiently clicked open his doors with the chirp from his key ring, but couldn’t wait that long. Before letting Sage inside, he spun her around and backed her into the door, kissing the breath out of her, his palms holding her hot cheeks while he took what he wanted. She moaned raggedly, fisting her hands in the lapels of his coat. She felt something deliciously hard pressing insistently against her through her jeans and nearly cried mercy.
“One for the road,” he whispered, licking a tantalizing but too-short path up the side of her throat, suckling her tender lobe. She shivered.
“You’re killing me,” she cried.
“Misery loves company.” His palm crept up to fleetingly stroke her breast, testing the weight of the perfect globe teasingly.
“Oh, God!” They were inside and buckled safely in next to no time, waiting impatiently through every red light that seemed to pick right then to flash.
The ride home was too long, though it only took minutes. The walk up to Sage’s apartment was too long, though it only took seconds. The ritual of relocking the deadbolts was torture, even though it was necessary, even vital. And they wore far, far too many clothes for their collective sanity. Here a coat, there a jacket, everywhere a sock, sock…Sage’s fingers fumbled with the hem of his jersey, hauling it up, up and off, baring him and leaving her speechless. He was solid, rippling, and beautiful, skin smooth except for a faint sprinkling of dark hair on his chest and forearms, and a narrow trail of hair leading below his waistband. He had an inny, she noticed, making a note to nibble it when she had a moment.
Piotr encouraged her, laying her hands on his chest as he kissed her senseless again, backing her against the wall for better balance while he divested her of her clothes, unhooking the clasp at her waist, unzipping her and letting her jeans fall to her ankles in a puddle. Cool air kissed her skin, and she felt shivers of delight when he reached down to touch her, teasing her softness, wrapped temptingly in black satin bikini briefs. She moaned at him, and he felt the sound in his gut, feeling a manly thrill at her response to him and how silky she felt. Her sweater joined her jeans, and he scooped her up, wrapping her legs around his waist before he strode to her bedroom.
It was a small suite, appointed simply but elegantly in soft neutrals and oak furniture. A tall, well-stocked bookcase and a tiny computer desk graced one wall. A picture of Aliyah as a baby took the place of honor on the nightstand. The bed was queen-sized and covered with a down duvet in a pale green with cream-colored roses. A fat ceramic lamp with a muslin shade sat on the dresser, but it was still slightly light outside, just enough to allow them to see each other without turning it on.
Piotr set her down tenderly, kissing her because he couldn’t NOT kiss her. He broke away long enough to stand, and was about to drop his briefs.
“Wait. Let me.” Hers stilled them, and her fingers worked their way beneath the waistband of the well-laundered cotton, prizing them down the length of his taut, well-muscled thighs. His manhood bobbed free, tumescent and flushed with color, impossibly smooth amidst the nest of dark curls. She leaned forward and nipped his stomach, relishing how hot he felt beneath her hands and lips. He sucked in a breath as she continued to tease and taste his abdomen while snuggling him in her grip.
“Boszhe moi,” he groaned. He stepped between her thighs and came closer, letting her lead the way to paradise. She stroked her hand through the thatch of hair as she brushed a hot, wet kiss over the plump head, tasting the drop of salty sweetness pooled there, just for her. She wrapped her ankle around the back of his calf to lock him there while she made love to him with her mouth, languorously driving him out of his mind. He was buffeted against the walls of her cheeks, caressed by the raspy velvet of her tongue, and welcomed by the sweetness of her plump lips, bumping against the roof of her mouth. He clutched at her hair, no longer worried about mussing it. He leaned into it, crying out how good she felt.
“Oh, Lord…yes,” he gasped. “So good. Feels so good. Please, Sage,” he pleaded. He reached for her bra straps and nudged one off her shoulder, exposing her creamy flesh. “I need to see you.” He fumbled with the clasp of her bra before she obliged him, reaching back with one hand and unhooking it with one yank. He slid it off and tossed it aside, and she never broke her grip on him, merely adjusting herself and pacing each plunge carefully so as not to cause him discomfort. Her breasts were free for him to explore, and he plucked at one, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb. She emitted a cry from around his flesh, and he felt the sound all the way to his toes. He felt himself about to fall over the edge, but he wanted her too much to allow her to bring him to completion.
“If you want me to have anything left, you’ll lie back,” he cautioned her. “It feels too good when you do that. I want you.” His eyes were full of dark, sinful promise. He extracted himself from her sweet grip and knelt between her legs, kissing her, trailing his mouth down her throat. He nuzzled her ear, whispering into it, “If you like how I make you feel, I want to hear it.” He bent down and tugged her nipple into his waiting mouth, laving the stiff, rosy peak. Her arms snagged him there, and she was lost, crying out brokenly for him not to stop. They tumbled back onto the bed, alternately groping each other and mutually scooting their way toward the pillows until they were well situated. She sighed in relief at the feel of his body against hers, savoring the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. They were a writhing tangle of limbs, two people slowly melding into one with every touch and caress. She arched up into him, beckoning to him to rub his solid thickness against her damp core through the scrap of satin. He kissed a fiery path between her breasts, pausing only to spiral his tongue around each peak on his way down. His tongue trailed over her ribs and the soft curve of her belly, dipping into her navel. She quivered helplessly, desperate for what was next.
His breath scorched her through the satin, and she fought for some semblance of reason when his lips found her. He lapped at her essence, discovering her most precious secrets. The tip of his tongue danced wantonly with the hidden pearl, and he groaned with need. He wanted more. This still wasn’t enough. He had to have all of her. He nipped at her again, this time drawing down her panties with his teeth. “So beautiful,” he assured her, studying the picture she made, chest heaving, nipples flooded with color from his kisses, her dark thatch of curls in a tiny triangle, pointing like an arrow to buried treasure. Her hips were full and womanly, spreading out from the narrow dip of her waist, and her legs were lissome and splayed open for him, trembling as she waited for him. He kissed each thigh, looking up at her wantonly as he lowered his lips to her again, drinking nectar from her flower.
She writhed and flung her hands above her head, twisting them in the pillows.
“Yes.” The word shuddered out of her. She repeated it with every stroke of his tongue, filling the room with it.
She heard an odd little trill. Her purse was in the hallway, forgotten.
Shit.
“I wish you didn’t have to get that,” Piotr sighed in dismay, dragging himself up and staring at her imploringly. She sat up and leaned back on her elbows. They eyed each other, and he kissed her stomach.
“Stay. Don’t move,” she ordered imperiously, getting up and patting the space she just vacated. Instead, she heard his low footsteps padding after her as she went to retrieve her phone. She dug it out and picked it up before the last ring.
“Hello?”
“Took you long enough, woman. Baby girl wanted to say hi. Tell Momma what we’re going to do right now, sweetie.” Aliyah came to the phone, breathless and smiling from the sound of it.
“We’re gonna have a slumber party! Charlotte buyed me Cinderella! We’re gonna bake COOKIES!”
“Bought you Cinderella,” Sage corrected. She felt Piotr’s warm body enveloping her from behind, and his breath stirred the hair at her temple. “And that’s nice, Mimi.”
“Here’s Daddy,” she announced. Lucas came back on the phone, all charm. “Don’t you and your date worry your little heads about it. I’ll bring her back in the morning.”
“You didn’t pack a bag.”
“Charlotte took her shopping. Later,” he barked. She folded it shut and tucked it back into her purse, her mood slightly dashed until she realized one important thing.
“That was Luke,” she informed him.
“And?” He nuzzled her, and they began walking in a lazy stumble back to her room.
“And we can take our time,” she purred.
“Where were we?” Her answer got lost as they fell back into bed. She saved him a place where he left off, and he milked cries from her as the final rays of the sunset bathed the room in a rosy glow. She was getting closer to that fever pitch when he surprised her, jack-knifing his body until his legs were by her head. She was rolled neatly onto his abdomen, and he tugged her thighs until her knees were resting alongside his ears.
“Piotr, what…? OH,” she gasped, feeling him lapping at her from a newer, exciting angle that inflamed nerve endings she didn’t know she had. She leaned down and realized she could return the favor, engulfing him again in her mouth. He made her skin tingle and her heart sing, cherishing every inch of her, giving her such a sense of completion. She felt the stirrings of an orgasm, rushing over her from the peaks of her breasts to the walls of her cervix, and it rocked through her in a rush. She bucked against his mouth, releasing him from hers long enough to cry out. She lay shuddering on top of him trying to catch her breath, gripping him loosely against her cheek. He began to tug on her legs, this time kissing his way back up, baptizing her nipples in his mouth one last time before he was out from beneath her. He caught her wrist, and her world was turned upside down again as he righted her, urging her to lie on him. She obeyed his wish, and sheathed him within her. She felt so full, stretched, and finally whole, squeezing herself around him and following his silent command when his fingers bit into her hips. She shunted over him, riding him in long, smooth strokes, and this time she watched his face contort and relax, blissful and precious to her. Her body rippled like a cresting wave, and it was an erotic sight, watching her plunge down on him, seeing himself disappear into her depths again and again. Her breasts begged for his hands to cover them. He stroked her skin, enhancing their journey together when he reached between them and stroked her pearl sinuously, dragging moans from her as she sped up the pace. Heat and friction built and blossomed, pushing her over the edge, and she knew it was okay to fall. He was there to catch her, and she felt him stiffen and convulse, veins straining in his neck.
“God, please…YES!” His cries were ragged as he found his fulfillment. She pistoned, rubbing herself against him for a few last, tingling strokes before she, too exploded, jerking over him as delicious spasms rocketed through her.
“Piotr!” she whispered, spent, collapsing against him in a quivering heap. They lay there, panting and unable to move until their breath gradually slowed and synchronized. They enjoyed the shared exhaustion and glow and lay holding each other in the dusk. Sage was afraid to say anything that would break the spell, and she obediently crawled beneath the covers at Piotr’s urging, snuggling up to him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. He stroked her arm lazily, nibbling kisses at the bridge of her nose. She sighed in contentment, and he stared down at her curiously for a moment, smoothing her hair back from her face.
“What?” he pried.
“Piotr…I wanted this. I did. I do. You’re so…I don’t even know what to say right now.”
“I’d like to stay the night.”
“All right.” She nearly cheered. She settled back down against him, settling her body into the nooks and planes of his with ease.
“Sage?”
“Hmm?”
“I’d like to stay tomorrow night, too.” A girlish thrill of joy erupted in her belly.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you like me or something, Piotr,” she chuckled.
“Or something,” he murmured, kissing her languorously, his embrace possessive and greedy. “I might take the liberty of staying the night after that, too. Better yet…just block out every night on your calendar and stay ahead of the game.”
“Every night?” Her eyes danced with mischief.
“We’ve already managed that ‘one shot’ to give it a go that you stipulated before.”
“I stipulated it…I guess I did. Huh. There I go. Stipulating things,” she mused. “I said one shot, huh?”
“Da. Yes, you did.”
“What the hell was I saying?” His chest rumbled under her palm with laughter that made her feel soft and gooey inside.
“I didn’t want to question it. I didn’t want you to say no, so it was best at the time to shut my mouth and agree.”
“I knew there was a reason why I liked you. Well, make that two. You’re ridiculously sexy.”
“Spaceeba,” he murmured, burying his lips in her hair and inhaling the scent. “You’re not bad yourself.” She pinched him. “All right. I take that back. You blew my mind.”
“That’s better,” she answered dreamily, grinning in loose-limbed bliss. She felt signs of life in him, shifting her and caressing her more intently as he made his case.
“Your rules. No games, no bullshit, no I-told-you-sos. No regrets.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I didn’t want to need you.”
“Neither did I.” She nipped the pulse in his wrist and saw herself reflected in his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t.” Her fingers feathered through the hair at his temples. “And Piotr,” she cooed, “I don’t regret it.” A peaceful contentment stole over him as she teased him, nuzzling the tip of his nose with hers and kissing him as if to seal a promise.
They made love again, less frenzied but with just as much hunger. Sage fell asleep with Piotr wrapped in her arms, plastered against her chest and with his head nestled beneath her chin. She never wanted to let him go.
She was terrified of the day that she ever had to.
~0~
Anna and Ali pulled up to Ororo’s home and parked out front, turning down the CD that they’d enjoyed at louder volume than necessary as they drove across town.
“Weird,” Ali remarked, noting that her front porch was dark, the light extinguished as though she wasn’t expecting company. “You called her to let her know I was coming with you, right?”
“She’s fine with it. She didn’t say she was headed out tonight,” Anna Marie murmured. “Her Honda’s here.” They got out of the car and tripped up the front walk cheerfully, hoping to bring Ororo out of the doldrums.
“Hope she’s doing okay.” Ali had gotten an earful of Anna’s account of “The Bitch Slap Heard Round the World.”
“She’s fine, or she’ll be fine, once she kisses and makes up with her sweetie pie,” Anna drawled. She knocked on Ororo’s door, calling out to her. “Roro, Ali an’ I are here!” No answer. She knocked again. She tried the knob, and noticed it swung open easily.
Anna let herself in, then noticed that the living room was also dark. The only illumination came from her hallway upstairs. No TV, no computer, no music from the stereo.
“Ororo? C’mon, girlfriend, where are ya?”
“Maybe she’s out back?”
“Ah guess. Let’s peek upstairs.” She hoped she hadn’t caught her in the shower; Anna hated to give her a scare. They made their way up the steps, heading toward the light, realizing it came from her bedroom.
“It’s still so bare in here. Well, that looks new,” Ali remarked, noticing a framed picture of Ororo and Logan, with her grinning from his lap. It looked like it was taken at Harry’s. “Cute!” she gushed. “They look good together. Complete opposites, but good.”
“Yup. ‘RORO! Ya told me ya’d let me borrow that come-an-get-it outfit of- OH, MAH GAWD!” Anna’s voice was choked and filled with horror.
Ororo was lying on the floor, arm flung over her head and her body spasming in jerking convulsions. Her blue eyes were rolled eerily back, and her lip was clenched between her teeth, oozing a trickle of blood.
“Shit,” Ali hissed, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Go! Run downstairs, Ali, and grab some juice, soda, anything that looks sweet,” Anna barked. “Ah’m stayin’ with her, and Ah’m callin’ 911!” Ali’s feet flew down the stairs, and she took a corner too fast, banging her leg against the seam of the wall on her way into the kitchen. She cursed and staggered to Ororo’s fridge, yanking it open and looking for drinks. All she saw was a carton of milk with a half a swallow left in the bottom. She tried the cupboards, thinking to mix a glass of water and sugar, or something else that was sweet, and she gratefully snatched the jar of Tang powder and dumped some into a souvenir cup from a fast food restaurant, her hands shaking as she worked the tap. She hustled back upstairs, slopping some over the rim of the glass as she made her way back to the room.
Ororo’s face was gray, and her heart was stuttering in her chest. “Oh, Anna! She looks awful! Here!” She shoved the glass into Anna’s hands, and tried to help steady Ororo from jerking so forcefully while Anna managed to get some of the liquid into her mouth. Her eyelids twitched, and Anna heard the hollow sound of her throat muscles trying to work it down. She was was still jerking, but Anna managed to get her to swallow some more, another short sip.
“She’s takin’ it, Ah think it’s helpin’! Here, grab something ta nudge under her head, like that shirt on the bed,” Anna advised.
“Not a pillow?”
“Naw. Just somethin’ soft and flat,” she urged. Anna got her to take a bit more Tang, and Ororo sputtered and coughed, drawing a breath that helped quell the growing hysteria blooming in Anna’s chest. With the shirt folded once beneath her cheek, they managed to steady her, urging her to roll to her side with her knees slightly curled. Ororo’s eyes were glassy when she opened them, and she began shivering, but she was no longer flinging herself back and forth. She moved her lips, her face full of questions and horror.
“It’s okay, baby, just rest, now.” Ali watched her from the bed, her cell in her hand, trying to force calmness she didn’t feel into her voice as she spoke to the dispatcher on the other end. She gave them the address and sighed as she described how they found her.
“They’re coming,” she announced weakly. “Hey, kiddo,” she breathed.
“A-Anna,” she whispered hoarsely. “What ha-happ…?” She shivered again, and Anna rubbed her back soothingly.
“Al, grab her a blanket.” Ali got up and whisked the comforter from the bed, draping it around Ororo and tucking it snugly around her body. She rubbed her back and swept her sweaty hair from her forehead, noticing it was drenched. “Ya took a bad fall, kiddo,” Anna explained. She didn’t want to throw her into a panic yet.
“We were worried about you. Your lights weren’t on.”
“I…can’t…remember,” she stammered. Her voice was rife with frustration, and Anna could see it in her eyes that she was trying to rebuild her day and what happened from square one.
“Don’t force it yet,” she suggested.
“I’m going downstairs to turn on the lights,” Ali mentioned numbly, still shaken. “I’ll get you a cool cloth for your lip, too, sweetie. Don’t move.”
“I can’t,” Ororo muttered. Anna stifled a chuckle before hugging her close and kissing her cheek. She took a good look at Ororo, noting the dark circles under her eyes. She held her hand and frowned at how thin her arms seemed, how bony her fingers felt in her grip.
“Ya don’t look like yerself,” Anna grumbled. “What’s been goin’ on, girl?”
“I’m tired, Anna Marie. Tired, and just plain sick of myself.”
“Hush,” Anna scolded gently. “Yer talkin’ crazy.”
“No’m not,” she whined, sniffling. Anna’s eyes welled up when she saw that Ororo was crying. “This “ THIS is what’s crazy. I guess I let Pietro off the hook,” she cried.
“Are you kiddin’?”
“Jean was right; s-she said that he didn’t want to d-deal with this,” Ororo stammered. “My low sugar, and our relationship, and trying to make it work. He thought I didn’t look after his needs.”
“Ya didn’t hafta. He was lookin’ out fer number one, from where Ah was sittin’.” Anna tsked and stroked her arm. “Ya did the best ya could.”
“I wouldn’t let it go. I wasn’t looking ahead. I just thought we would be married, and we would have our own happily ever after. And Jean was right. I was jealous of her. Not for Pietro and him schtupping her. That was just the last straw that broke this camel, Anna. I didn’t really want to be in her wedding. We were already having problems. I knew Pietro thought I was pushing him, even when I tried to give him room. But when you have to give a guy room, Anna, what does that say? He just plain doesn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be HERE!” Her face was blotchy and streaked in tears. Ali came to the rescue with the damp cloth. Anna folded it in half and cleaned her face before pressing it to her lip.
“Paramedics are here,” she announced, finally less fretful and relieved to hear Ororo’s voice, weak though it was. At least she was coherent.
“Ya didn’t need Pietro if he was gonna mess around. Ya can’t help who ya are, or havin’ a problem with yer sugah, shoog.” Ali smiled, even though her eyes were damp when she saw her friends looking a blubbering mess. “Everyone’s got something ta deal with that makes life more challenging. Ya gotta take betta care of yerself, kiddo. Don’t make me hafta kick yer butt into shape.”
“I haven’t been hungry lately. I didn’t think about it. I haven’t been spending as much time at home. I hate coming home to an empty house,” she admitted. She heard the tread of footsteps coming through her hallway. Two young man entered in dark blue jumpsuits and navy parkas. A young woman followed with a small kit and wheeling an oxygen tank.
“We heard you took a little fall,” she remarked, nodding to the half-empty Tang glass. “Good, you got some fluids, boosted your glucose a little? That’s a nasty cut on your lip,” she winced.
“We’ll get outta the way, shoog,” Anna assured her.
“Not yet,” Ororo beckoned.
“Whaddya need, shoog?”
“I need you to dial Logan for me.”
~0~
Logan was tired. Shadows smudge his eyes and he had constant aches and pains from too many nights of too little sleep. He paced the ward restlessly, waiting for anyone to turn on their light. He’d already read the magazines at the nurse’s station until the Sports Illustrated issue was dog-eared.
It sucked to go home to his empty apartment. He’d worn a groove in the pavement up Ororo’s front walk. It was physically painful to stay away, even though he told himself it was for the best if she didn’t trust him.
He wanted to tell himself that it wasn’t her, ringing his phone and hanging up. Logan was stuck in the Bronze Age and still didn’t have a phone with caller ID, and his messages were blank. He craved her. He hated the chill at his back at night, instead of having her draped over him like a blanket, her breath stirring at his nape. He missed hearing her talk in her sleep. He’d grown so accustomed to little rituals he’d developed over the past few weeks: Keeping Kool-Aid in his cabinet and hard candies in his jacket pockets, eating meals that actually included “ gasp! “ vegetables, stocking his shower with bath gel and conditioner instead of plain bar soap and Head and Shoulders.
It chafed him. What they had was barely budding and new, raw, rough around the edges, and damned exciting, like riding a rollercoaster. He was terrified, but he couldn’t wait to see what was over the next slope, even if his stomach was lodged up where his heart was supposed to be.
Ororo had walked off with his heart, and wasn’t keen on giving it back. He sipped the last gulp of flat Pepsi and chucked the can into the recycle bin.
Logan felt a rush of cold air from the loading dock down the ramp. “Incoming!” he heard Nate shout from the break room, craning his neck as the ambulance opened its bay doors. Logan sighed, grateful and dismayed at his last peaceful moment of the night ending so quickly.
“Need me ta prep a suite?”
“Uh-uh, just an exam room,” one of the EMTs, Rory Campbell, informed him, tugging his end of the gurney. His partner on the night shift, Arthur, wheeled the IV pole beside it, so Logan’s view of the occupant was obscured until he approached. All he saw was a lean body draped in a blanket and a slender brown hand laying limply over the woman’s belly.
“What happened?”
“Diabetic seizure. She fell pretty hard. Her friends were visiting and found her upstairs in her room. She never answered the door, and she was expecting them, so thank God they got there when they did,” Art muttered.
“Yeah, no sh-“ Logan was robbed of speech, breath, and reason when he peered down into the face of the woman he loved. “RO?”
“Logan!” she exclaimed, and the waterworks started again. She dashed tears from her eyes from around the oxygen cannula strapped to her face. Her color finally looked less desperate, but her arm hurt from the IV of saline.
“I wanted ta see ya,” Logan choked, “but damn it, darlin’, this wasn’t how.”
Slipping Up by OriginalCeenote
Logan pedaled his way through an episode of the Best Damned Sports Show from the recumbent LifeCycle at the gym, breathing his own sweat and a cloud of women’s cologne that he ended up downwind of, with three PTA moms using the StairMasters in front of him, in varying stages of “improvement.” Not one of them wore a tee shirt long enough to cover the expanse of their hips, he mused, trying to focus on his show and turning up the volume of the headphones.
“Whatcha doin’ over here, runt?” Vic drawled, his hair dark blond and glistening from a recent shower, slick with grooves left from his comb when he skinned it back into his customary ponytail. His face was ruddy and brutally lean, veins standing out faintly along his jaw. “Not liftin’ today?”
“Eh.” He shucked his headphones and plowed his hand through his hair, leaning back after he put the bike on pause. “Ain’t in the mood. Felt like workin’ up a sweat. Might hit the courts at three.”
“Eh,” Vic echoed. “Why the fuck not? I’ll meetcha out there.” He held out his knuckles for a brief tap, and Logan obliged.
“Loser buys dinner,” he offered.
“Bring yer wallet, runt.” His parting smile resembled a shark’s as he trekked off to the weights. Logan sighed. He didn’t know why he took him up on the game, but decided it would pass the time until he went over to Ororo’s house.
She’d felt soft and sweet against him this morning. She woke up and stretched, making that tiny little mewing sound in her throat that he loved right before plastering herself against his back, tucking her bent knees into the crook of his and tangling their ankles together.
“C’mon, ‘Ro, ya gotta get up,” he grumbled hoarsely, and reluctantly as she caressed his pecs and nibbled the space between his shoulder and neck. Damn, she felt good.
“Errggh. No,” she moaned petulantly. “I ain’t budging, buddy.” He snorted out a rusty chuckle through his nose and wriggled his back into her gut, and she reflexively pressed her hips into his backside, taking umbrage when he told her to stop by removing one of her hands and lightly biting her knuckle. “OW!”
“Up an’ at ‘em. Ya know what ya gotta do today, baby doll,” he reminded her, turning in her embrace and rearranging her, draping her over his chest. He combed his fingers through her hair, absorbing her sign against his flesh.
“I know,” she admitted. “Doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”
“You’ll like the Sweet Success class,” he promised. She made a sound of disagreement at him. “Give it a chance, kiddo. All the nutritionists who teach it are a kick in the pants. That fancy health coverage o’ yours pays for it without that much of an out-of-pocket hit ta yer wallet.”
“I know,” she agreed, less grudgingly. “This is it. Everything’s different now. Exchange diet, needles, insulin, finger pokes, the whole nine yards.” She toyed with the hair on his chest while his lips warmed her forehead. “I promise I won’t do my shots at the dinner table.”
“Do ‘em wherever ya want, darlin’, I just wanna make sure yer never far from yer kit, and that ya keep a sane schedule when ya eat. No more waitin’ forever ta eat, no more manic workouts without packin’ a snack, no more guzzling mocha javas til yer eyeballs are swimmin’ in caffeine.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that,” she murmured. She stroked him thoughtfully before asking, “Have you given any more thought about what we talked about yesterday?”
“Yeah,” he rumbled back, and he urged her to lean up so he could look her in the eye. She was tousled and sexy, her lips still swollen from sleep, and her eyes still had that “bedroom” look that drove him nuts. “I have.”
“And?”
“And I already changed my shift. Spoke ta the HR office about it right before they closed.” Her face split into a grin that he found himself returning right before she squealed.
“No more night shift?”
“Not unless they need me really, really badly on NOC. So no more sleeping away the day and taking off right after dinner. Yer gonna get sick of me,” he promised.
“Sure I will,” she purred, leaning down to gobble his lips and blocking his further efforts at speech.
“Mmmmm…o-KAY…c’mon, ‘Ro, yer s’posed ta be getting ready,” he groaned, making only half-hearted attempts at fighting off her possession, feeling her hips ripple and stroke him beneath the covers into a growing frenzy. Her breasts settled into his chest, and she caged him, her forearms flanking the sides of his head as she teased him, playing a game of connect the dots, dropping kisses in a string from his forehead to his chin. “Ya gotta have time fer breakfast!”
“This is breakfast,” she assured him simply, nudging him with her nose to give her access to his ear. His groin tightened convulsively as she attacked it, and he felt her growing slick against him in the process. He grew so wrapped up in her efforts at seducing him “ not much of an effort, he’d wanted her anyway, from the moment she stirred awake “ that he’d almost forgotten his other piece of good news.
“Hey, you, one more thing,” he insisted, gripping her shoulders and nabbing one more kiss from her, suckling her lower lip and keeping her propped against him. Her eyes twinkled back with mischief and impatience.
“What?”
“I also applied fer a transfer ta Salem Medical Center.”
“Wait, I thought you liked where you were,” she muttered, her brow crumpling. “Why the move?”
“I dunno if the hospital’s big enough fer me and Summers after what happened,” he remarked. She sighed and tried to turn her eyes away, but he caught her chin between his fingers and made her look at him. “Things weren’t gonna be all rosy when he found out, ‘Ro. We both knew that.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell him,” she said broodingly.
“It was bound ta come out. C’mon, ‘Ro, the guy’s got an MD after his name, he ain’t an idiot.”
“And Pietro was never that subtle, either. Man, I just hate this. It shouldn’t have come to this.”
“I know, darlin’. Ya ain’t gotta worry about that kinda drama from yers truly.” His chest was inflated with pride as he tackled her again, rolling her to her back and pinning her in a wild tangle of sheets and limbs.
“So what kind of drama do I have to worry about?”
“Me throwin’ a tantrum if I don’t get some pretty soon.”
“I think I can handle that,” she sighed. His face twisted, dropping its smirk as she reached for him and guided him toward her heat, encouraging him to rub his shaft against her sweet spot.
“Show me where it feels good, darlin’,” he rasped, and bliss splashed its way across his features as she instigated a rhythm beneath him, undulating his hips and skimming him through the streaky wetness, kissing him with her other lips with growing heat, teasing them both. He plundered her mouth, drinking up her sweetness and releasing a guttural cry when he couldn’t take it anymore and allowed himself to slip inside, sinking in to the hilt. He rocked himself into her insistently, loathe to pull away, then grateful to plunge back into her silky warmth. Her words were garbled, faint, then eventually unnecessary as he made love to her. Their breathing was harsh and interspersed with cries of each other’s names and prayers not to stop.
“More,” she whimpered into his neck, clinging to him and clutching handfuls of his luxuriously thick hair. He gathered speed and momentum, delving deeply inside of her, rocking the bedsprings and wordlessly rejoicing at the impact of his flesh meeting hers. She reveled in the sweet sting of her muscles, splayed open and welcoming each thrust of his hips. He gave her more of what she craved, devouring a fiery trail down her neck before he leaned back, letting the bedding cascade from them so he could loop her legs over his shoulders. The change in angle made her feel deliciously split apart as he pumped himself into her harder, sending sensations rippling into her womb.
Curses leapt from his lips, so strangled she could barely make them out, and his eyes darked with desire and fulfillment as he rode her. “Fuck,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Feel so damned good, baby! Oh, God, ‘Ro! Can’t…get enough-“ his voice was cut off in a gurgle of completion as he spasmed, reaching his joy and taking her with him. He came, jerking and pistoning those last few strokes, pouring out everything he had as she clenched herself around him in a loving, viselike grip. Every wave of sensation surging through him jerked his hips in that final dance, making his eyes widen in wonder, pinning her with that gaze pledging that only she had this effect on him. Her womb answered that cry, and she caught him as he tumbled forward against her, spent, as her own contractions had their way with her and she held him for dear life.
They were limp, panting and sated moments later, before Ororo murmured something into his hair that he almost didn’t hear over his own ragged breath.
“Hm?”
“…love you.”
“Ororo?” That made him lean up and stare into her face. She swallowed around a lump in her throat.
“I love you, Logan.” How she found the strength to reach up and cup his cheek like that when he could barely move, he didn’t know.
“Damn,” he chuckled, lightly stroking her wrist and tickling the pulse before he bent his lips into it.
“I can’t help it. That’s how I feel.”
“Ya didn’t hear me sayin’ I wanted ya ta help it, didja?” He silenced her, nipping at her lips before giving her a deeper kiss that she felt down to her toes. “Speaking of which…ya still need ta get ready.” She stared at him like he just farted as he tugged himself away from her and yanked her unceremoniously out of bed. “Yer not gettin’ outta goin’ ta yer class.” He took some of the bluntness from his words by waltzing them into the shower, never letting go of her as they stepped into the warm spray.
“Party pooper,” she accused, securing the bottle of shower gel and scrubbing his back. Her body grew slippery as she leaned around him, raking suds through his chest hair just to enflame him and tease him toward round two.
“Bad girl,” he growled, capturing her hands and wiggling his butt into her belly, just to be funny. He turned and wrestled the shower gel from her, nudging her under the spray so he could work on her hair.
“It was worth a try.”
“Tonight’s my last NOC til my new schedule starts. Do whatcha want fer lunch, darlin’. I’m taking ya out fer dinner. Just eat on time,” he nagged, wagging his finger at her sternly. She kissed the tip of it, then engulfed it just to get his goat. He growled at her. She grinned. With more fumbling, teasing efforts at toweling each other off, they eventually made their way into their clothes.
That brought him here. Logan was at the gym, waiting for Ororo to call or text him that she was on her way out. He still had a lot on his mind.
That night in the E/R burned memories into his brain that kept him up at night for three weeks.
Art and Rory got her settled into the exam room and had the admin at the nurse’s station pull Ororo’s chart. They asked her the battery of the usual questions, and Logan felt a strange burst of pride bloom in his chest when they asked her who her person to notify was.
“That’s him right there,” she murmured, wincing at that IV in her arm as the adhesive tape tugged at her skin.
“And with that in mind, we’ll get another nurse in here in a sec,” Art chuckled. “Sorry, buddy. Just following the rules.”
“I know. I’ll come back when I’m off the clock, namely when I ain’t a nurse,” he agreed, but he remained long enough to explain to the nurse relieving him that he would be on hand to take Ororo home when it was time for her to be discharged. He held her hand and stroked her knuckles while she gave the nurse her history and allergies, medications and insurance information. Her voice was still weak, and Logan fluffed her pillows before taking his leave.
“What happened, ‘Ro?”
“I was waiting for Anna. I had a big mocha latte late in the afternoon. I even thought about going out. It’s been…frustrating.” She gazed at him searchingly, hating the look of worry in his dark eyes. She missed the spare, rugged beauty of his face. “And lonely. I missed you.”
“Why didn’t ya call me?” Then it occurred to him. “Was that you hanging up?”
“Shit,” she hissed, shaking her head limply.
“Darlin’…man. We’re a pair of idiots,” he grumbled. “Ya know I’ve practically worn a groove into yer sidewalk, just from comin’ ta yer front door every night? Ya know how weird it feels not doin’ that?” He was thankful that Art and Rory weren’t there listening in. “I can’t sleep.”
“Why?” He reached down to smooth back her hair,
“Yer not there. And yer bed’s more comfy than mine. And it just ain’t the same. Darlin’, I’m sorry about what happened and that I never told ya sooner about what I saw. I just didn’t think ya’d believe me if ya heard it from me. I didn’t know what good it’d do if I said anything. I didn’t wanna ruin yer relationship. What sucks, though, is that I was already feelin’ guilty.” He sighed heavily, then frowned at her when he noticed the shadows under her eyes. “I already had a thing for ya, baby. That ain’t something ya wanna have come across when ya’ve already met a woman’s boyfriend face ta face, or when yer tryin’ ta tell her that ya caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, y’know?”
“I’m just so sorry,” she insisted. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I was mad at Jean. Pietro pissed me off, and he cheated, but the worst thing was hearing Jean go at it, telling me all these things about how he felt about me and…this,” she floundered, waving her hand at the IV and the bed she reclined on. “Apparently he filled her ear while they were getting cozy together. I know he used to worry about my condition, and when I would have attacks, but I guess I jumped the gun, thinking he could handle it. He didn’t think I could handle it, either. Jean said he thought I was manipulating him to make him stay.”
“That’s bullshit,” Logan growled. Another tear leaked its way down her cheek, and he leaned over to flick it away. “Ya can handle yerself just fine. And ya were, too, til he started actin’ like a jackass. Who needs that shit?”
“Maybe…you don’t need it.”
“Don’t say that, ‘Ro.” His face was thunderous, and he squeezed her hand to get her to face him. “Don’t sit here telling me what I don’t need. I know what I need,” he informed her. “I missed you,” he grumbled, “so friggin’ much. Don’t listen ta Jeannie spoutin’ off at the mouth fer one second. She ain’t worth it, she lied, and she stabbed ya in the back. Ya didn’t drive Pietro away, and there wasn’t any value in what she had ta say.”
“What she had to say about what?” Neither of them had been paying attention to the comings and goings of the housekeeper working her way through the room, two student nurses who came in to check Ororo’s pulse and check her chart, or to the general noise and clamor in the hall. But Scott wandered inside, wearing his dark blue scrubs and white lab coat, hugging his clipboard against his chest and watching them with curious eyes. “Ororo, are you okay? Art told me they brought someone in matching your description while I was up on the pedes ward.”
“She’s all right, Scooter,” Logan replied, still holding her hand. Scott nodded, even though he wasn’t convinced.
“You look like someone did a number on you, kiddo.”
“I didn’t get the number of that truck,” she offered feebly. His answering smile was tidy and brief.
“Jeannie came home upset and looking like hell a little while back, the same day that you guys went out to lunch.”
“This ain’t the time ta talk about that, Scooter,” Logan warned him.
“Maybe not,” he considered soberly. “But when my wife comes home crying, looking like she had a fight, and suddenly isn’t speaking to her best friend from college, I get a little concerned.”
“Ororo ain’t the one ya need ta be concerned about, bub.” Logan’s spine was stiff, and he raised himself up to his full height. Ororo felt him bristling, and her gut clenched into a snug knot.
“She is if she hurt my wife,” Scott shot back. “You were her maid of honor, Ororo. You don’t just let anger between you build up like this. She went to lunch with you that day so you could talk about what’s been going on since the night of the party. You just left all of the sudden, and then Logan and Pietro got into it. We all know what happened then.”
“I already told ya I was sorry, Scooter.”
“It never should have come to that.”
“Jeannie didn’t exactly kiss and make up when they had their little get-together,” Logan continued. “And ya didn’t exactly get a reason outta Jean fer invitin’ ‘Ro’s ex ta yer shindig?”
“Logan,” Ororo snapped, but he stood his ground. She was torn between wanting to slug him and kiss him. She felt him tense up and relax again under her grip on his wrist.
“She didn’t think it would be a problem. We’re all adults,” Scott reasoned, but Logan could tell it had pricked him sharply. His jaw was tight, and his eyes narrowed over flaring nostrils. “’Tro and I could have gotten together some other time to hang out, so it wasn’t necessary for him to be there, okay? Fine.” He shrugged as though that solved the problem for the next time.
“Scott, my friendship with Jean is a thing of the past. It just won’t work for the two of us to spend time together anymore. That’s nothing against you, but that’s as much as I’m going to say about that. I can’t trust Jean anymore. Don’t get involved in this, please?”
Scott looked confused and hurt. She hated that look, but he eventually stared down at his clipboard. It made her ache, but she wouldn’t be the one to destroy his faith in Jean when he loved her so much. And suddenly, she knew what it was like to be in Logan’s shoes that night at Harry’s. A light went on, and she made up her mind.
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try to help and make things better. Jean meant well. She wanted you to be happy, Ororo. Never doubt that.”
“Have ya said yer piece, Summers?’ Ororo saw by the set of his shoulders and the defeat in Logan’s voice that he felt like she did. He wouldn’t be the one to let this particular ax fall.
“Yeah.” He turned to leave, but hover by the door to mutter, “Nate will come and check you out. He wants a CT scan, since that seizure was more severe than spells you’ve had before, Ororo. Listen to what he has to say, follow his instructions, and get some rest.” She chafed at the concern she heard in his voice before he left. She fell back against the pillows and crumpled, pressing her knuckles into her mouth to muffle her burgeoning cries.
“It’s okay,” Logan insisted, stroking her soothingly. “Ya didn’t go on the attack. Ya didn’t show him how ugly his wife acted to ya, even though ya could have. I know what ya were feeling, ‘Ro. That don’t mean he won’t find out. Now, he’s got some more reason ta suspect something’s rotten under his own roof, and it ain’t last week’s pot roast. Summers’ll settle her hash.”
“It hurts,” Ororo whimpered. “He’s so good to her.”
“I ain’t worried about Summers. He’ll get through this.” He settled her blankets over her more firmly, tucking her in. “I’m worried about you. I’ll be back in a little while, kiddo. I’ve gotta do my rounds and check my orders at the desk, then I’ll clock out.”
~0~
Meanwhile, back at Ororo’s house:
“Oh, Gawd, it was just awful, Remy,” Anna cried.
“I never want to walk in and see that happen again,” Ali shivered. “I was so worried for her. You would have been proud of Anna, though,” Ali boasted, patting Anna’s knee from her end of the couch. The three of them were crowded around the TV, watching the handset of the phone laying on the coffee table and waiting for Ororo to ring. Attempts at reaching Logan had been futile, so Anna called Remy to let him know she was canceling their date. Once he pried it from her why, he’d raced over, practically running red lights and cutting off a cabbie who flipped him the bird.
Anna greeted him at Ororo’s front door, eyes red and her fair skin covered in splotches from crying. Ali was in similar shape as she neatened up Ororo’s kitchen in the hopes that they would have her house looking nice for her when she came home. Anna didn’t resist when he pulled her into his arms, holding her snugly and rocking her until her shaking subsided. He cajoled the full story of what happened out of them, listening to each of them chiming in with their account, of how desperate Ororo had looked, and that she hadn’t seemed like herself for a while.
“Anna just knew what to do, and barked out orders like a drill seargeant,” Ali continued, finishing up the dishes in the sink and putting away Ororo’s heavy skillet.
“Ah was scared ta death,” Anna Marie admitted.
“Ah’m proud of ya. Ya did what needed ta be done,” Remy replied. “That’s m’girl. I’d expect nuthin’ less.”
“Ah was so afraid that we wouldn’t get her help on time. Think of what woulda happened if Ah hadn’t been on mah way here.”
“Don’t think about it. It’ll just make ya more upset, cher.”
“It’s hard not ta think about it. Ah’m whupped.” Anna was still wired and trying to defuse from the night’s events.
“So why didja come over here?”
“It’s nuthin,’ baby,” she murmured.
“Like heck it is,” Ali kidded. “Anna was coming over to borrow an outfit from Ororo to knock your eyes out tonight!”
“ALI!” Anna reached for a couch cushion and brandished it high. Ali laughed heartily, glad at last to have a reason to after what she witnessed.
“Ororo guaranteed her little get-up would do its job,”Ali grinned. She ducked, guarding herself ineffectively as Anna let her have it with the pillow.
“An’ what job was that, cher?” Remy quirked one sexy dark brow and gave Anna the eyeball. She still wasn’t done with Ali, though, if her repeated beatings with Ororo’s blue cushion were any indication.
“Ooh! Quit it, Anna! You KNOW what job! OOF!” BOP!
“Let her up fuh air, cher,” Remy chuckled, hauling Anna Marie onto his lap and relieving her of the pillow, chucking it aside. He wrestled her into his embrace, holding her arms across her chest while Ali stuck out her tongue at them both.
“I’m heading upstairs to fix Ororo’s room,” Ali announced. “I’m gonna make sure she doesn’t walk in on it looking like a disaster area.”
“That’s fine wit’ me,” Remy murmured after her. His eyes swung back to Anna’s and probed them, mischief twinkling in their depths. “What’s goin’ on, baby doll?”
“She’s just messin’ around in my shit,” Anna accused, settling herself more comfortably against him. He smelled good, still fresh from a shower he took just as Anna had rung him on the phone. He was garbed in jeans so worn they were velvety and a green Eagles tee shirt that brought out the auburn glints in his hair. His jaw was scraped clean of its customary stubble, and it looked like he had a recent haircut. His waves were tamed and shorter than usual, but a careless lock of it still fell over his brow. “Ya look nice,” Anna whispered.
“D’ya like it?”
“Yeah. A lot.” She feathered her fingers through his hair, enjoying how silky it felt sliding through them. “Remy?”
“Yeah, cher?”
“Why…what is it about you an’ me? Ah mean, we’ve been goin’ out fer a while, an’ it wouldn’t be premature t’say we’re attracted ta each other…Ah mean, Ah’m attracted ta you, anyway, and right about now, it wouldn’t be too soon if we wanted, uh, ta maybe…y’know?” She felt herself blushing ten shades of red and looked away.
And found her face tilted back toward his just as quickly. She felt his reaction in every muscle of his body.
“Hold on now, cher,” he interrupted. “First of all, yeah, I’m attracted ta you, if the hard-on yer experiencin’ under yer sweet little tail ain’t an easy enough sign fuh ya t’interpret.” She blushed even more furiously as she acknowledged the indeed, noticeable, rising stiffness nudging at her just where he’d mentioned. She cleared her throat and felt her voice become a funny little squeak. She HATED when that happened. “And fer the record, cher…it ain’t so much that I thought it was too soon. I was just havin’ too much fun, an’ I was enjoyin’ yer comp’ny. It’s hard sometimes, girl.”
“What’s hard, Remy?”
“Sometimes…when I meet a new lady, an’ we hit it off, but her first impression is of me struttin’ m’stuff, gettin’ all down an’ dirty when I’m not wearin’ all that much, that don’t always leave a lot of room fuh the basics. Y’know, the little things, like small talk. Real dates wit’ real conversation. Gettin’ past a woman undressin’ me with her eyes. When I go out wit’ a woman, I want her ta notice me fuh who I am. I don’t wanna hafta perform.”
“Oh.” Anna suddenly felt very, very guilty, fighting off little tingles of shame washing over her flesh.
“Cher…”
“Yer right. Ah didn’t wanna treat ya like an object.”
“Ya neva did, cher. I have fun wit’ you. That’s what makes it hard,” he went on, his voice like thick, dark syrup. His hand crept up to knead her neck, relaxing her when she was about to make a move to leave his lap. “Cuz I already wantcha. Stick around fer a while, will ya?”
“Awright,” she stammered, licking her lips.
“Hold that pose, too, baby,” he suggested, tangling his fingers in her hair and tugging her to him for a kiss that rocked her socks.
“MMMpppphhhh!” she breathed, bracing herself against him and letting his mouth wreak sweet havoc, listening to each little voice that had been nagging her before sighing in fulfillment.
“All right, I just changed the bed, Anna; where does Ororo keep the laundry soap…OH!” Ali froze in chagrin and was about to turn tail and run back up the steps at the sight of Anna doing her level best to taste Remy’s tonsils. “Gads…SO didn’t need to see that!”
Anna broke away at the sound of Ali’s voice, heaving for breath and staring at Remy with a wild look in her eye before meeting Ali’s look. Yup. Arms crossed, foot tapping, smirking like the Chesire cat. About what she expected.
“Put yer eyes back in yer head, shoog,” Anna carped. “Aintcha never seen a woman tryin’ ta keep her man from chokin’? He swallowed a crumb, an’ I was just takin’ a closer look, tryin’ t’fish it out!”
“With your tongue. Sure. Best method I can think of.” The three of them were startled the rest of the way out of the blazing awkwardness of the moment by the jangling of the handset. Anna dove for it first.
“LOGAN!” she shrieked. “Oh, mah Gawd, it’s such a relief ta hear from ya! Where the hell have ya been, sugah?!?” Remy drilled his pinky into his ear, which took the brunt of her bellow, and he allowed Anna to sink onto the couch next to him while she spoke. He still held her hand, though, Ali noticed.
“He’s in the E/R,” Anna mouthed to Remy for a moment.
“Figured as much. He works NOCs in Radiology,” Remy supplied. “Is ‘Ro with him now?”
“He just checked in on her. He wants to know if one of us can get over there and trade him a car for his bike ta pick her up and take her home.”
“That’s easy,” Ali decided. “Remy, you take your Mustang. Anna, you go ahead and take me home and then meet him at the hospital in your car.”
“Works fuh me.”
“Ya know ya wanna see Ororo with yer own two eyes, dontcha, Al? C’mon, I’ll drop ya off at home on our way back.”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” Ali reasoned, but she was right.
“You’ll sleep better if ya see that she’s fine. C’mon.” There were no further arguments as they locked up, taking Ororo’s spare of housekeys off the hook.
Ororo was indeed looking a sight better, and her nurse was just helping her to sit up and detaching the IV from her arm, pressing firmly on a wad of folded gauze at the crease of her elbow. In the meantime, her lip was fat, black and blue, and would have an ugly scab in the morning.
“Hey, sweetie,” Ali waved from the doorway.
“What’re you two doing here?” Ororo looked grateful, wincing as she smiled. Her whole head still hurt now that she was sitting up.
“Remy’s in the lobby. We got Logan’s call, and we wanted to make sure you made it home.”
“He was here as soon as I got in,” Ororo mused.
“Thank Gawd,” Anna sighed, shaking her head. “Now y’all can start speakin’ again. No more of this ‘Ah don’t know if Ah kin call him or not, what if he doesn’t wanna hear from me’ crap!”
“He called up in a lather, all worried about you tonight,” Ali announced briskly.
“We talked ta him a while ago when we signed in at the desk in the lobby. Ya shoulda seen him, ‘Roro. The man cares about ya.”
“Heck yeah, he does,” Ali chimed in.
“I’m not letting Jean anywhere near him,” Ororo pouted under her breath, wincing again as her frown made different muscles in her face hurt. “Ow.” Ali dissolved into giggles while Anna just grinned and shook her head.
Logan was waiting with her nurse and had a wheelchair ready and waiting to go. He was back in his street clothes, looking worn and thoughtful.
“We parked in section E; here’s Remy’s keys,” Anna offered. “Ah’m takin’ Ali here home. Let us know if ya need anything.”
“Anna?”
“Yeah, Al?”
“Can we stop at that vending machine by the break room? I wanna see if that cute blond paramedic is still in there.”
“He’s single. Name’s Art,” Logan offered, chuckling. “Has a great three-point shot, too. That’s why we call him Longshot. We cleaned Salem Medical’s clock at our last company game.”
“Hot dog!” Ali crowed, yanking Anna after her.
“Bye, ‘Ro!”
“Bye,” she waved weakly. The nurse escorted them out to Remy’s car, and Logan bundled her inside.
They didn’t talk much on the way inside the house. Logan opened the door with her spare key and was pleased to smell the faint aroma of cleaning products wafting from the kitchen. At least Ororo’s house was in fit shape for her to relax and get settled in.
“Easy, kiddo,” he muttered, helping her up the stairs. They made it to her room, and Logan began doing little things out of habit; searching through her upper drawer for her favorite nightshirt, turning down the bed, cracking the window to let in just a hint of fresh air.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine,” she began.
“I’m stayin’ and I don’t wanna hear ya tellin’ me otherwise.”
That settled that. She watched him continue to fuss over her as he helped her into her night clothes and fetched her some Tylenol. He nagged her into wearing socks, going as far as putting them on for her after rubbing her favorite lotion into her feet.
“You’re spoiling me,” she accused. His only reply was to turn off the lights. She felt the mattress sag beneath his weight, and heard his shoes hit the floor with one thud, then another. His clothes made a sliding sound as he shucked them in the dark, and she felt the brief flap of cool air against her as he crawled under the covers and tugged her to him. His embrace was solid and snug and oh, so cozy. She rubbed her cheek against him, enjoying the familiar feel of the crisp hairs on his chest and inhaling his scent. She’d missed him so much.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, ‘Ro?”
“I do trust you.” His chest rose in a gusty sigh of satisfaction, and her breathing rhythms began to match his as they neared sleep. “Please don’t leave me again.” The ball of tension finally dissipated from her chest.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, darlin’.” Those big, wonderful hands caressed her into a drowsy stupor. “Yer stuck with me.”
~0~
And that brought him back here, listening to Vic blather. It just helped, having a distraction to keep from the restlessness that had been plaguing him all day.
“So what’s goin’ on with you and yer girl, bub?”
“She had a spill a little while back. She’s doin’ better now. She had a self-management training class today.”
“No shit? What happened?”
“She has type one diabetes now. She’d been fighting it for a while. Now she’s learnin’ how ta deal with it.”
“Damn. That’s rough. Guess yer little Florence Nightingale job comes in handy for this shit, huh?” For once Logan agreed with him.
“She’s gonna learn how ta take care of a lot of that stuff herself. Don’t mean I won’t be there backin’ her up, though.”
“Listen t’you! ‘Don’t mean I won’t be there backin’ her up!’” Victor mimicked. “Yer so fuckin’ whipped, bro.” Then he mellowed a bit. “That’s cool, dude. Ya’ve been with her a while, eh?”
“Yep.” Logan wiped down the seat of the Lifecycle and unplugged his headphones from the cardiotheater. “I plan on bein’ with her a long time.”
“Damn. Sounds serious. We talkin’ you two movin’ in and shacking up together, keepin’ more’n a toothbrush at her place?”
“I’m talkin’ sharin’ bills, laundry, and eventually bringin’ little rugrats into the world that look like her. I’m poppin’ the question.” Victor was silent for once. Then, suddenly…
“DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE!” WHACK! Vic pounded him on the back, making Logan bite his tongue in surprise. “Are ya shittin’ me? Holy crap, wait’ll I tell St. John about this!” Vic was in rare form. “The runt’s gonna pop the question and get himself a ball an’chain! Friggin’ excellent! This I gotta see,” he mused. “Whooooooooo!” He gulped water from his sports bottle and swabbed his forehead with the back of his fist.
“It ain’t like it was never gonna happen,” Logan huffed, “ya prick.”
“Just didn’t seem like it was ever gonna happen ta you, runt!” Then he sobered again. “She ain’t like Mary?”
“She’s nothin’ like her,” Logan insisted gruffly. “Don’t even question it. Their names don’t even deserve ta be mentioned in the same fuckin’ breath.”
“Got it,” Vic agreed.
“Good,” Logan grunted, reaching for the loaded curling bar and starting his reps. “Otherwise, I was gonna hafta kick yer sorry ass.” Vic barked out a laugh. “Steroid shriveled dick and all,” he added, just to get his goat once Vic was securely pinned to the weight bench beneath a loaded barbell, defeating his chance to take umbrage properly.
Their game of meatball out on the court yielded similar outcomes: Logan, ten; Victor, zip.
~0~
Still elsewhere:
Pietro was having a bad day. She repressed the urge to flip off every person who cut him off on his way over to Scott and Jean’s, doing a less than stellar job parking his Jeep in their driveway before galloping up the front walk.
His father’s bellows still blistered his ears from their talk. He just wanted to kick something. Who did Crystal think she was? What the fuck gave Ororo the right to interfere?
“What’s going on, Dad?” he drawled into the phone, hoping he would make it quick. He promised to head to Jean’s in a half an hour; he and Scott were going to watch the game, and Jean was making her famous beef stew. Warmth swept through his gut at the thought of her, her sheaves of red hair flowing long and loose, looking good enough to eat.
“Something very upsetting came to my attention a few weeks back, Pietro. I was wondering if you could clear the air.”
“What’s so upsetting?”
“Son…I received a letter a while ago from a young woman who sent me a photograph of a child she claims is your daughter.” The blood rushed away from Pietro’s face, and his fingertips felt cold and numb. A dizzy wave of tingles made him sit down in the middle of drying his hair out of the shower.
“You’re joking,” he murmured.
“No. I’m not. So tell me, is it true?”
“Dad, you can’t just trust some stranger who contacts you with pic-“
“You didn’t answer my question. Is it true?” A long, heavy silence that Pietro could cut with a knife followed before he cleared his throat and mastered the urge to groan.
“It was a long time ago. Crystal and I, we were together a long time ago.” Pietro was breathing harshly through his nose, gusting, unsteady breaths. “We agreed to go our separate ways?”
“Pietro, is Luna your daughter?” Eric’s voice brooked no further delay.
“Yes,” he answered at last. “Crystal got pregnant with Luna while she and I were together. You could say she’s mine.”
“I can see she’s yours, Pietro,” Eric barked, laughing over the irony. “Before I even finished reading the letter, I knew who that child was. She’s perfect. She looks exactly like your mother did as a child. She’s Magda, and even Wanda, all over again. How would you think I would have any doubts, Pietro?” Shame fluttered in his chest, and his heart knocked hollowly against his ribs.
“Dad…”
“If you wanted to keep her a secret, that was one thing. But I can’t allow another day to go by without letting her know she has family who want to know her and be a part of her young life. You had the benefit of having two parents who loved you growing up, Pietro. We gave you everything a boy could ever ask, to the best extent that we could.” Pietro laughed harshly, the sound uncannily like his father’s.
“You think you did right by me? You rode me every day, Dad! You didn’t want a son; you wanted a yes man! You wanted someone who would be just like you, say all the right things, and who wouldn’t embarrass you! You never treated Wanda like you treated me!”
“So this is how you decide to treat me now, son? I want to see my granddaughter. Regularly. But I can’t intrude on Crystal’s life if you aren’t doing your part to support her and take any responsibility. Crystal mentioned in her letter that you never signed any declaration of paternity, even though she listed you on the birth certificate as the father. So as a formality, I want a DNA test taken, and I want you to sign one.”
“The hell I will,” Pietro muttered. “Why should I do all this for your benefit, Dad?”
“You’ll do it for Luna’s,” Eric snapped. “She deserves better than what you’ve given her. My God, Pietro, have you even been a presence in her life? Have you been in contact with her at all?”
“Dad…it’s complicated, and I don’t see where it’s any of your business.”
“Tell that to my attorney. I expect you at a meeting I’m having next week with him. Bring along your own, if you like. I’m making provision for Luna in my will, pending completion of a DNA test proving she’s your daughter and my grandchild. Once that is finished, I’m contacting Crystal to invite her to come and bring Luna for a visit with Aleytys and me. If you’re smart, you’ll be there for that, too.” Pietro’s stomach turned over.
“What are you going to do, disinherit me?” he scoffed, even though he was terrified of what his father seemed to be suggesting. “Don’t interfere, old man. This is none of your business,” he repeated, but the starch left his voice, and he slumped defeatedly on the bed, cradling his forehead into his hand.
“I’m not disinheriting you, son. I love you. That hasn’t changed.” He heard his father sigh before he continued. “I’m just exercising my rights as a grandparent to have contact with my granddaughter. With that being said, if you don’t comply, I plan to sue you for fraudulently letting me believe that you’ve been childless all this time.”
“I can’t fucking believe this. I’m going to contest this,” Pietro insisted. “You can’t just do this…on a whim, goddamn it!”
“I’m old, Pietro. I’ve lived a long, good life. I’ve built a strong living and I have a lot of money. I can do whatever I darn well please. Aleytys is planning on serving lasagna next week. Be on time.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You have to take accountability. Pietro, you’ve done nothing but establish this mad pattern of hurting people. You push me away, you push Wanda away, you push Aleytys away whenever anyone tries to question some of your actions. Ororo was a lovely woman. I know you two had your problems, but it seemed like you walked out on her on a ‘whim,’ so to speak, and then got back together with her just to dangle her. You could have been married to her by now, with a home and children with her!”
“You wanted that. Not me,” he shot back. “Just…not now. We were fine the way we were; you and Ororo were always so damned cozy, you just had my life planned out and wrapped up in a little bow!”
“I hate to think of what will happen if I let you continue this path you’re on, Pietro,” Eric intoned. With that, he hung up.
It was all he could focus on as he waited for Scott to answer the door. His palms were still sweating. He eased his face into calm lines as Scott opened the door. “Hey, buddy.” He strode in, clapping Scott on the back as he entered the foyer. Scott’s expression was measured and calm, and his smile was only riding at half-mast, but Pietro ignored it. “Something sure smells good! Where’s Jeannie?”
“In the kitchen. C’mon. The game’s about to start,” Scott urged, beckoning for him to follow him into the den. Pietro felt himself relax a notch among the cozy, familiar surroundings of his best friend’s home. He winced silently at an old photo of Jean, Scott, Ororo and Pietro still hanging framed in the hallway. He considered the restraining order, still in effect for another month. He hadn’t violated it “ much “ since Ororo had him served, but he decided he might have reason to break his silence in light of her involvement with shoving Crystal under his father’s nose. How fucking dare she? Better yet, how did she even find out about her?
He was still fanning the flames of his indignance as Scott handed him a beer. He popped the top and took a grateful gulp as they settled in. A random thought interrupted him once the ref called a flag on the play.
“Hey, Scott,” he piped up, “do you still have that DVD I brought over here?”
“Which one? You haven’t brought any discs over here for a while, ‘Tro,” Scott murmured over his beer.
“You know, ‘Anger Management.’ That Sandler flick.”
“I never borrowed it from you.”
“Sure you did. I know I left it here, it wasn’t in my stuff when I moved out of Ororo’s place, I would have packed it up with the others,” he nagged.
“I’m pretty sure you didn-“
“PIETRO! Hon, I’m pretty sure it’s in our DVD rack upstairs,” Jean called as she made her way down the hall with a bowl of pretzels. She looked invitingly pretty in a lightweight, pink cotton dress with a richly embroidered hem that she bought on their honeymoon in St. Maarten, and her feet were bare. She smiled at him fondly as she set the bowl down on the coffee table. Then she laughed at a particularly silly memory and broke into song with hammy aplomb: “I feel charming…oh, so charming…” and she warbled the lyrics to the song from the duet scene on the bridge. A scene Scott wasn’t familiar with, but that didn’t stop Pietro breaking into the same refrain.
“Who’s that pretty girl in the mirror there? What mirror, where?” he chimed in on a comical falsetto.
“God, I love it when you sing that part!” Jean giggled. “Let me go grab it before you leave, you can take it with you on your way out.” Scott just turned back to the set and scratched an itch behind his ear. “Ya gotta love Sandler.”
“Eh. Actually, I don’t. I think his movies suck. I hated The Water Boy.”
“You’re crazy, Scott. He rocks. I love Anger Management.”
“I know, ‘Tro.” Scott set down his beer, then leaned over his knees in his recliner, staring at his friend with an odd look. “I wouldn’t have borrowed that movie from you.”
“Well…I might have told Jeannie about it, then. I remember bringing it over here. It’s been a while, I haven’t thought about it for a while.” Jean padded back into the study, still smiling brightly as she handed Pietro the DVD.
“You didn’t bring it the night of the housewarming,” Scott pointed out. He seemed to be trying to isolate any possible incidence when Pietro would have come over specifically for a movie night. “Last time the four of us got together was for Scrabble,” he murmured.
“The last time we played Scrabble, honey, was when Ororo brought Logan here,” Jean corrected him absently as she reached for a pretzel and popped it into her mouth. She came to lean on the arm of his chair, and looked slightly surprised and put out when he rose instead of letting her drape her arm around him like he usually did.
“Pietro…Ororo mentioned that night that you weren’t supposed to come within a hundred feet of her. I kinda came in on the end of it.”
“It was no big deal. She served me with an order to stay away from her, even though I didn’t do anything,” he scoffed. “What’s your deal, Scott? Why the game of twenty questions?”
“Because I read Jean’s guest list when she sent out the invitations. She told me Ororo was coming over. I figured you and I could hang out some other time, so I was kinda surprised when you showed up, all dressed and looking like you knew there was a party at my place.”
“Scott…you’re my bro, dude. My best friend. Sorry if that didn’t apply to coming to a party at your place,” Pietro huffed, smiling to cover up the fact that he was slightly taken aback.
“Just not one where your ex is already planning on showing up.”
“Not like she even stayed long,” Jean sniffed. “She just walked out on a huff. Not that I’d put it past her, anyway, after the wedding. She left early then, too.” She reached for another pretzel and munched it casually, but Scott was growing increasingly uncomfortable. He got up and left the den without excusing himself. Pietro and Jean stared after him for a moment, then gave each other a measured look. Neither one of them wanted to acknowledge the elephant sitting in the room.
Scott came back to the den with the rest of the six-pack dangling from his hand, and he pressed a diet cola into Jean’s before sitting back down in his recliner. Jean noticed that both men were pointedly ignoring her, so she left to check on the food in the kitchen, but she felt Pietro’s eyes following her on her way out.
Halftime found both men reaching for another beer. Pietro had been pretty quiet up until then, but a revelation struck him.
“I know when it was now!” He snapped his fingers impatiently, as though urging Scott to remember along with him. “I dropped Jeannie off that night! From Harry’s. Last spring,” Pietro offered.
“Dropped her off?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Man, was she smashed! Emma and Betsy ran off. Leave it to them to do something like that; chicks can be so flighty about that shit. I was out with Alex that night,” he explained. “Jeannie asked me if I could take her home.”
“Really?” Scott’s voice dripped with interest. “That’s funny,” he remarked.
“What? She needed a ride,” Pietro added, as though it were the most sensible outcome in the world.
“No. She wouldn’t have. I would have been home, waiting for her to call.” Scott’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. “Even if I was out with my friends, she would have called me on her cell.”
“She didn’t have to, I was already ther-“
“When was this?”
“It was a while ago, dude.”
”When?”
“Last spring,” Pietro replied quietly, wondering why Scott had such a hard look in his eye. “That second week in March.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Jean trilled from the hallway. She paused in the doorway, watching them have what looked like a staring contest while their halftime show played in the background. “Who’s winning?”
“Jean…do you remember about when you watched the movie the first time? Say, about mid-March?”
“Sure,” she agreed, and it dawned on her. “Exactly!” she crowed, shaking her finger. “THAT’S when ‘Tro brought it over! All you had to do was remind me, Pietro, and I would have brought it back sooner.”
“Sure you would have,” Scott muttered.
“What?” Her auburn brows drew together in a little scowl, and Scott almost laughed aloud.
“God…I should have known.”
“Scott, what are you…?”
“It makes sense now. You, coming home looking like you’d been attacked. Nice, friendly little lunch with Ororo. This after she left in a big rush from our house without explaining why the night of the party.”
“Ororo’s psycho. She’s got issues, Scott, so why give Jean a hard time if Ororo made a scene and ran off?”
“She wasn’t the one who made a scene, ‘Tro. You did.”
“Scott, why are you acting like this? I said dinner’s ready, let’s just sit down and eat-“
“I’m not finished.” Scott brushed his hair back impatient and measured them both. “Jean…you’ve been acting weird these past few weeks. Back before we got married, I just marked it up to cold feet and jitters. But this puts a different spin on things. You went out and Pietro gave you a ride home that night during the week I was away on my conference. You watched that movie with him that same week, obviously more than once, if you can quote the song, crap that it is,” he shrugged.
“It was just a movie,” she said calmly, but her voice drifted off. “Why is this important, Scott?”
“Because you and Ororo never had a fight like the one you had this last time, Jean. And you never explained why she flew off the handle.”
“Because she’s psycho,” Pietro quipped, repeating himself.
“Fine. But I just saw Ororo in the E/R a few weeks ago.”
“What happened?” Scott had Pietro’s attention, but Jean eyes were pinned to Pietro.
“She had a diabetic seizure. She’s okay now, but she took a bad fall while she was home alone. Ali and Anna Marie somehow got there and called an ambulance, and I was there when she was brought in.”
“You never said anything.” Jean sounded offended.
“Ororo wouldn’t have wanted me to. She had some interesting things to say. I overheard her talking to Logan. Logan was assuring her that what you said didn’t mean anything, and that she shouldn’t believe what you had to say about Pietro since you lied and stabbed her in the back? And then Ororo told me not to worry about the fight when I asked her about it, since I had to get straight answer out of someone, right? Then she says ‘I can’t trust her anymore, Scott.’ So that leaves me wondering then, much like it does now, why can’t Ororo trust Jean?” He exhaled a pent-up breath and set his beer down. “Jean, I think you and Pietro snuck around behind my back.”
Jean shook her head, but her eyes were already brimming with tears. “Scott, it’s not what you-“
“Don’t lie,” he snapped.
“Don’t speak to her like that, Scott! Who are you gonna believe, Ororo? She ran out on me at the wedding, and went straight to bed with Logan the same night! She had the nerve to have a restraining order on my front doorstep as soon as I had my last box packed!”
“Why did she run out of the wedding?”
“She came back with this cockamamie story about Pietro cheating on her,” Jean piped up, not realizing she was digging herself in deeper. “Right when we came back from the honeymoon! She said she found panties under the bed. They were probably hers.” Pietro’s blood ran cold. She’d said too much.
And it was too late, because Scott saw the look on his face. Pietro resembled a proud lion who’d found himself caught in the crosshairs of a hunting rifle, moments too late to move.
“Scott,” Jean implored, “let’s just go have dinner, you don’t mean any of this, I know you don’t!”
“Bullshit,” he roared, and Jean stepped back, aghast. She’d never seen him like this.
“Please,” she begged, reaching for him. Scott slapped her hand away, and she cradled it against her, still feeling the sting as tears dripped onto the bodice of her pink dress, leaving stains that looked almost red.
“Don’t.Fucking.Touch.ME.” He turned to Pietro. “Get the fuck out of my house, you sonofabitch.” He nodded at the DVD case. “Take that piece of shit movie with you.”
“Scott…you don’t get it, nothing happ-“
BAM! In a flash, Scott’s fist connected with Pietro’s jaw, sending him reeling. He tripped over the ottoman and his head hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack.
“SCOTT!” Jean cried in horror, covering her mouth with shaking hands. She turned to him beseechingly, face pale and blotchy, her eyes glassy and red as it dawned on her that the day she’d feared had finally come to pass. She whimpered when he threw up his open palm as though to slap her when she tried to reach for him again. Then Scott’s face crumpled, and he let his hand drop in defeat.
“Just get out, ‘Tro,” Scott muttered, and he stomped off. Jean hurried to Pietro’s side solicitously, shivering when she heard the front door slam. Her tearstained face filled his vision when he finally opened his eyes.
Kick Down by OriginalCeenote
“Open yer eyes, chere.” Anna exhaled a shaky breath as Remy lifted away his hands from her eyes.
~0~
The living room offered no obstacles impeding her trip to his little “surprise,” thanks to surreptitious cleaning and rearranging following their call. His kiss at the door was gentle and lingering, still warming her lips as he pulled her back, stopping her from heading to the kitchen.
“Got somethin’ I wantcha t’see, baby doll,” he drawled, mischief and affection shining in his beautiful dark eyes. Before she even formed the question, he clamped his palms over her eyes, and she felt the press of his firm chest at her back. “No peekin’, now.”
“Hey!” she yelped indignantly. He grinned as he guided her, stumbling, where he wanted her to go.
Anna heard the creak of the door, and different, sweet aromas tickled her nostrils. The anticipation was killing her.
~0~
“Oh…mah Gawd, Rem. Look at whatcha did,” she gasped.
Remy’s bedroom was glowing with candles. Fat pillars, votives and tapers flanked the side tables and bureau in varying shades of green, peach and cream. She recognized two fragrances in particular, bamboo and sugar cane, as scents she had mentioned she loved when they’d perused a bath shop at the galleria.
Every pile of sheet music was packed away, and his cherished guitar hung from pegs on the wall. Nothing interfered with the new bedding or the arrangements of flowers around the room. A bottle green brocade comforter and matching pillowcases trimmed in black satin ribbon dressed Remy’s queen-sized bed. Smaller, elegant pillows in pleated shams added to the charm. An Oriental rug in the same shades as the candles covered his hardwood floor, and green tab-top panels over cream blinds streamed down the windows.
“D’ya like it, chere?” His voice was low and thick, a sultry husk by the crest of her ear. “I’ll change it if ya don’t. Wantcha t’be comfy here, and t’feel welcome.” His hands crept down to her waist, slowly caressing her flat belly before following them with his arms. His embrace was addictive and felt right.
“Remy, it’s beautiful. Ah love it. All of it. This was sweet.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder and peered up into his eyes, feeling a flush of pleasure as he nibbled her cheekbone. “What made ya do all this?”
“It’s been on m’mind fuh a while, sweet pea,” he murmured. “I wanted t’surprise ya with somethin’ nice. I’ll admit it, gal, y’surprised ol’ Remy. Askin’ me when we’d go the next step, so t’speak. Tickled me pink when y’tol’ me ‘bout borrowin’ something’ slinky from Ororo t’warm me up. Truth is, chere, yer so damned sweet, an’ so beautiful, that I’m havin’ a hard time turnin’ myself off when I’m with ya. Been thinkin’ boutcha a lot. Nobody else makes me feel like you do, chere. Y’build me up and y’make me look at the big picture. Y’make me dream bigger and make plans instead of occasional ideas that never amount t’much. Y’believe in Remy. Man can’t resist that in a woman.” He was driving reason from her with his lips, nuzzling her neck until he found her sweet spot. Her breath exploded from her in a shuddering gasp, and he felt a wave of masculine satisfaction as she arched against him.
“Careful, chere, I haven’t gotten t’the best part yet,” he chuckled, reluctantly releasing her. He urged her to sit, and she sank down to the mattres, her lips still slack from the pleasure of his touch.
“Ah’m startin’ ta like that about ya, shoog. Ya keep on bringin’ on these surprises, just when Ah think Ah have ya figured out.”
“Hope yer hungry, baby doll.” The side table held a small tray, covered by a linen cloth. He whisked it away with a flourish. A crystal-cut glass bowl of thick whipped cream and a dish of chocolate-dipped strawberries evoked a stunned giggle from Anna.
“Oh, Remy…yer a wicked, wicked man,” she scolded. Desire burned in her eyes as he sat beside her, closing the gap between them as he snaked his arm around her waist.
“Gotta get m’own back, baby doll. Got me pretty good with that body shot favor at that little hen party.” His nose bumped hers teasingly. “That cream was cold!” he nagged.
“Awwww…” She traced his jaw with her fingertip, stroking his lower lip before leaning over to suck it into her mouth. Heat surged through them both as she had her way with him, tangling her fingers in his shirt. He regained control, breaking away and gently prying himself from her grip. He was breathing hard, she noticed.
“Take a load off, chere!” He eased off the bed and knelt at her feet, and she giggled when he unfastened her sandals, tugging them off. “I’ve waited a long time f’r this, petit. Ya’ve already seen ol’ Remy without his clothes.” He tickled her foot, and she suppressed a squeal that became a frenzied plea for him to stop. His touch became a caress, and he traced a path along the slope of her calf, feathering and teasing the sensitive hollow hehind her knee. His touch felt exquisite through the fine mesh of her silk stockings, traling fire in his wake. She clasped his cheeks between her hot palms and stole another languorous kiss full of longing. She didn’t want to stop; he didn’t want her to stop. He backed away, his eyes dark with need, and reached for the remote on the bureau. Anna heard the faint chirp of the power feeding the amplifiers, and watched the orange glow of the treble and bass bars ripple up and down on the tiny display. The opening chords to “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing” by Chris Isaak pulled at her, and Remy eyed her, sin written across his features as he folded his arms expectantly.
“Dance fuh me, chere.”
“Ah ain’t got any fancy costumes.”
“Don’t need ‘em. All they’re good for is strippin’ ‘em off, anyhow. G’wan, baby doll.”
“All right.” She rose from the bed. “But maybe you should sit back, shoog.” She led him back to the bed and gave him a gentle shove. Slowly, she moved to the music, tempting him. Every muscle rippled and undulated like a snake’s, and he watched her, rapt as she reached up to undo one of the tiny white buttons on her blouse. She danced, allowing her palms to skim her curves and planes, her eyes promising that it was his turn next.
She swiveled and turned her back to him, treating him to the sway of her hips as she dropped and gyrated her way back up.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, feeling the early threatening signs of drool. She peeked back over her shoulder with her best sloe-eyed look, thinking it failed when he merely grinned back.
She got him back as her skirt hit the floor in a swish of denim.
“Baby did a bad, bad thing,” he murmured wryly. Her creamy, fair skin was smooth and gleamed beneath the glow of the candles.
“You know it, sugah,” she assured him. She isolated each muscle, letting the wave flow through the arch of her chest, down through her narrow ribs, down into her abdomen and finally, into those round, sweet glutes. As she turned to face him again, her blouse began to work its way open, and the last button was hanging on by a thread. Faint shadows cast by the flaps of her blouse obscured his view of her tiny bikinis, but the emerald satin of her bra winked out at him, molded sumptuously against breasts both generous and, Remy knew, perfect.
“Bring it home t’Daddy, baby doll,” he beckoned, and she sashayed over on catlike feet, trailing her fingers down his chest before pivoting and sinking down onto his lap. Her silky hair tickled his lips, and she heard his smothered, breathless curse as she began to move, thowing out his assumption that it couldn’t get any better. She swayed, letting her slender, tapered thighs splay slightly, enticingly, as she stroked his ankle nimbly with the tops of her toes.
“Ya can’t touch me,” she purred, “but Ah kin touch you, Daddy.” She jutted back against him, teasing him and reaching back, barely letting her lips whisper against his as the back of her finger skimmed his cheek.
“Anna,” he grated hoarsely. She leaned back against him with her whole body this time, flinging her hair back in a wild tumble over his shoulder as she rode him, letting the rough denim of his jeans rasp against her skin. Tension and heat flooded her core, and she felt him grow hard again beneath her, more intensely than he had that night at Ororo’s townhouse. She felt him drop his head over her shoulder, craving the sight her body. Her blouse was gaping open now, but her hands shielded her treasures from him. His lips barely grazed her shoulder, but Anna’s skin had grown highly sensitized beneath his hot gaze, with him being so close, hearing his sultry voice.
She surprised him by sliding off his lap onto the floor.
“What’re y’up to, sweet pea?” The music plucked at them both, swirling in their veins like a slow drink of whiskey.
“Lemme show ya, shoog,” she offered, swiveling to face him and arching back to allow her blouse to slide down her arms to the floor. Remy felt the clench in his gut at the sight she made.
“Y’make me ache, baby doll,” he groaned. “S’a crime, t’be as hot as y’look right now.”
Anna, unbeknownst to all save her girlfriends who’d kept her naughtiest secrets, had gone through a “flighty phase.” She’d changed majors three times, left a trail of unfinished internships in her wake, and had taken more electives than you could shake a stick at. Introduction to Middle Eastern Dance 3A, Winter Session, had been her favorite. She slowly leaned back, kneeling impossibly low, knees spread, and Remy exhaled a sharp breath as her buttocks touched the floor. She supported herself on her elbows, and he felt his jaw drop into his lap as she rotated her hips in a flawless series of figure eights. Each muscle executed the movement with precision and grace, catching the glow of the firelight, which seemed to love her. Her hair was a gleaming corona of tousled auburn waves, and her eyes sang him a siren song that he couldn’t resist for another second.
Anna Marie shivered at the look of stark, unbridled need in his eyes as he leaned down and grasped her hands, hoisting her to her feet in one impatient tug. “Remy!” she breathed, right before his mouth claimed her. She was flush against his body, every taut muscle fitted to her hollows.
“Y’owe me a body shot,” he growled around her lips. His left her weaker in the knees than her last move, and he scooped her into his arms, hooking her legs around his waist. He carried her to the other side of the bed and he plunked them down roughly; Anna just missed biting her tongue with the impact, and Remy soothed her with another kiss that was liquid and hot.
Remy plunged his two fingers into the bowl of cream, scooping out a dollop and giving Anna a wolfish smile.
“Need any help, shoog?”
“Naw. Think I kin manage just fine, petit,” he drawled, echoing her words from their first encounter. He tasted the cream, lipping up a dab and smack them. “Hmm. That might taste nice wi’ a lil’ o’ this,” he suggested, fingerpainting the column of her throat after sweeping her hair aside. His tongue rasped against her, laving her flesh clean, and her body shuddered. “Don’t think I got it all, baby doll.” His fingers painted her shoulder, and he lapped away the cream, leaving a glistening sheen. His tongue continued to swirl against it, and she ground against him wantonly, moaning his name as the song changed to a slower balled by LeAnne Rimes that Anna loved. “Have a taste, Anna.” She read the intent on his face and followed his silent demand, engulfing his fingers in the heat of her mouth. She suckled him, taking her sweet time and darting the tip of her tongue into the webbing between them to ensure she got it all.
He thanked her by promptly loading his fingers up again and smearing a dollop over the valley of her breasts. Her fingers tunneled through his hair as he consumed her, and a ragged moan escaped her lips.
“If ya care about me, even a little…Gawd, Remy, Ah can’t take it any more!”
“Aw, I think y’can,” he insisted. “Might make it easier if ya lie back.” He rolled her onto her back and she sprawled limply before him. He selected a strawberry from the bowl, coated in dark chocolate, and dipped it into the cream. He proceeded to use it as a paintbrush, daubing mounds of it into a familiar design. Mounds of whipped cream topped each of her breasts. A small dollop crowned her navel, and a sloppy smile grinned up from her belly. He set aside the fruit and helped himself. She writhed as she felt him suckle her through the satin cups, the contrast of the cool cream and his hot mouth enflaming her. His tongue darted into her navel, retrieving a choked giggle as he literally “wiped the smile” from her body, but was speechless as he tugged her panties off with his teeth.
“Remy,” she cried softly. “Want ya so bad.” His hands reverently cupped her breasts, testing their fullness before he pried open the tiny clasp.
“Like I want you, baby doll?” he whispered, before gripping the hem of his shirt one-handed and yanking it over his head. She watched him with unquenched hunger as he jerked open the fly of his jeans and shimmied out of them, dragging off his boxers with them. He was statuesque, rippling and gloriously naked, his manhood already tumescent and engorged, nestled in a thatch of dark curls. She felt the mattress dip as he crawled his way up her body like a jungle cat, where their lips finally met. Every inch of Anna’s body fell under Remy’s tender scrutiny, leaving nothing unexplored, nor untasted. She was wild for him, and she gave a shout of triumph when he thrust into her, stretching and filling her. Remy’s face was wreathed in rapture, his eyes closing with the slick, snug grip she had on him, like she was made for him. They moved together, setting a pace that allowed them to measure the effects of each touch, of even the most minute flick of the hips.
“Y’feel so damned good, Anna!” He strained against her, swept off on a tide of yearning to possess her, to take them both higher as he thrust faster, harder.
“OhmahGAWDohmahGAWD…” she chanted. He heard his own name amidst her prayers for release, and his grip on her hips tightened as he loved her. He wanted more. He wanted her to lose control and topple over the edge with him, and he reared back, never leaving her depths as he jerked her legs over his shoulders, letting her heels rest against his back, where they bounced each time he pistoned his hips. Delicious friction built up within him, and he shared it, spiraling his thumb over her swollen pearl and coating it with her own juices. “Don’t stop,” she cried, letting her eyes drift shut in pleasure as his hands swept over her skin, skimming over her breasts, her abdomen, combing through the curls covering her mound and creating more friction, for her this time.
“Holy - !” He was so close, and she was how he’d always imagined her, beautiful in her yearning, pleading with him to end his torment, however sweet. She reached for his hand and slid it over her clitoris, until his fingers stroked her in the same rhythm as hers. She arched and moaned beneath him, her face flushed and strained. And that was all he needed.
Remy bucked and spasmed as pleasure claimed him, draining him within her quivering depths. His fingers clutched her thighs, squeezing them as he roared triumphantly over the music. Anna bit her lip against the shocks and tremors in her womb until Remy pleaded with her, “Come fer me, Anna.” He dipped his fingers into the juices coating them where they were joined before anointing her pearl one last time, and she shattered, letting her legs fall slack, sliding them off his shoulders. He in turn collapsed into her embrace, listening to her breathing calm to a slower, sleepier rhythm.
“Now this is what I don’t get,” Remy huffed. “If I’m the one who strips fuh a living…how is it my girlfriend’s freakier than I am ‘tween the sheets?” Anna pinched him.
“That’s just what this lil’ ol’ country gal wants ta hear,” she carped, but she stroked him thoughtfully, enjoying the furtive press of his lips along her collarbone. “Ah ain’t a freak.”
“The hell ya ain’t!” he raised up and supported himself on his elbows, cupping her face like she was very precious to him. “Naw, y’ain’t. Ya just know how t’drive this Cajun crazy." He reached for the strawberry again and dangled it by its stem, and she bit into it with enthusiasm. “That move ya did on the floor’s gotta be illegal in about ten different states, chere, ya know that, right?”
“Eleven, if ya count New Mexico,” she joked. He bit into the fruit, consuming her teethmarks before retrieving the bowl. They crawled beneath the covers and fed one another the treats until Anna grew drowsy, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. She was practically plastered to him, and she enjoyed their lazy sprawl to the fullest.
“Ya still gonna call me in the morning, bub?”
“Naw,” he admitted. She emitted a disgusted tsk, scowling up at him until he feathered teasing strokes along her arm, enjoying how right she felt. “Ain’t gonna have a chance. Gonna steal ya away. Everyone else’ll hafta call you, cuz y’gonna be with Remy 24-7. And I plan on puttin’ m’phone on forward, even if they do call.” His voice sounded smug.
“Pretty sure of yaself, ain’t ya?”
“I’m sure of you,” he rumbled, and Anna’s eyes misted over. “Everything about ya, Anna.”
“Ya ain’t just makin’ some pretty pillow talk, are ya, Remy?”
“I decided I was in love with ya that day in the mall, petit. Either that, or I came down with somethin’ that wouldn’t let me think straight unless it was about you. Kept hearin’ yer voice in m’head, and I couldn’t focus on a damned thing.” Anna was awake again now, staring at him incredulously and swallowing around a lump. “Wanted t’be sure ya felt the same, chere,” he murmured.
“Gawd,” she whispered. She cradled his jaw in her hand and gazed down into his face, awed at the love and admiration she found there. “And here Ah was feelin’ scared as all get-out, thinking ya might be turned off if Ah felt that way about ya. Ah didn’t think it’d be like this, but Ah ain’t fightin’ it, Remy. Ah love you, too. Don’t move,” she ordered briskly, throwing back the covers and letting herself out of the bed.
“What’re y’doin’, chere?”
“Unplugging the damned phone.”
~0~
The next afternoon:
The lights in the jewelry store were warm and relatively dim, Logan figured, to better let the gemstones in their tidy glass cases catch the customer’s eye. The saleswoman had been stalking him, pacing behind each counter and telepathically scanning his wallet since he walked in. So far, she seemed less than impressed, and had cleared her throat loudly when he made the mistake of leaning against the glass case to get a better look at the selection of blue topaz. He’d been about ready to walk out, until a barrel-chested salesman in a striped necktie and knife-pleated slacks stopped him mid-step, his voice deep and solicitous.
“Sir, have you been helped?”
“Not so much,” Logan mused. He peeked at his watch. He had forty minutes til he had to get to back to work, and his lunch wasn’t long enough to peruse the other two jewelry stores’ offerings.
“Did you have anything in particular that you were shopping for?”
“I’m lookin’ fer something nice in a lady’s engagement ring,” he rumbled. “Something ya don’t see every day.” The salesman’s face lit up, and dollar signs danced in his eyes. He clapped his hands for emphasis.
“Just what I like to hear. This way!” He waved him toward the back of the store, where Snooty Britches looked absolutely sick that she just missed a possible commission. He led him to a narrow case and used a key hooked onto a coiled wire lanyard around his wrist to open it from the back. He reached for a small, velvet display pedestal and set it atop the counter. “These just came in last week. They weren’t in our usual circular,” he added. Logan’s fingers immediately crept to the first one that caught his eye. “That’s very elegant. Very eye-catching, isn’t it? That would make an excellent choice,” he beamed.
“This is the one,” he announced.
“You don’t want to take a look at any of the-“
“Nope. Wrap it up, bub. I’ve made up my mind. It wasn’t hard,” he smirked. “I know the ring that I wanna see on the hand of the woman I love fer the next fifty years, and this is it.”
“How would you like to pay for this? We have in-store credit options, or you can pay it off over three months-“
“Ain’t no need. Could ya put a pretty bow on it, while you’re at it, bub?” Logan reached into his pocket for his wallet and peeled off several hundreds from a thick wad. The salesman’s eyes bulged slightly before he muttered something about writing up a sales slip and an in-store warranty for free cleanings and insurance. Logan continued to hold the ring, admiring it under the light, turning it this way and that while the other rings were replaced in the case and his purchase was rung up. He barely heard the spiel about the quality and satisfaction guarantee, and shook his head when he was asked if he needed anything else.
“Just an angel sitting on my shoulder. I’m takin’ my girl out ta dinner.”
“Best of luck and God bless,” the salesman grinned, clapping Logan on the shoulder before he made his way out into the mall corridor. He rolled the small, blue bag up around the ringbox and tucked it into his pocket, zipping it shut. He almost had enough time to take it back to his apartment for safekeeping if he didn’t hit any red lights. Briefly he regretted that Remy hadn’t answered his phone when he called; it would’ve been nice to have someone to boast to about the leap he was about to take, and Remy would have been the ideal audience and cheering section. He could have hit the gym and shown Vic, but he could hear the “dude, yer such a flamin’ pussy; yer whipped, man!” speech ringing in his ears already. And Piotr was stuck in meetings all day, or he would have had a partner in crime to help him pick one out, but at least his choice was easy.
Ororo had been busy enough as it was. More checkups, more visits with her nutritionist and internist, and more clients wanting redesigns of their site pages were keeping her hopping and had her spending more time at the office. Logan had teased her that now that he was working days, he saw even less of her than he had while he worked the night shift.
“Back to the grind,” she shrugged, leaning down and kissing the tip of his nose playfully and twining her arms around his neck. “Still beats only really seeing you at the crack of dawn.”
“Hey, don’t knock crack of dawn nookie,” he complained, nuzzling her neck and drinking in the faint scent of her cologne and shampoo. “Speaking of which, don’t cook anything tonight, darlin’; I’m taking us out ta dinner. Wear something nice.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise. Be ready by six.” He took one more kiss from the road and gave her tush a fond squeeze before he was off. She sighed and shook her head, wondering what the man was up to…
She pondered that all day during meetings with the steering committee and her manager and while she answered her email. Every now and again, she considered her wardrobe at home, mentally discarding each outfit one by one. She decided she needed a quick trip to the mall before she came home.
The house was empty when she got back, with a note from Logan saying he was going to be running late, and that Piotr was helping him with an errand. His voice mail was silly, to her delight, when she hit the message button.
“I know ya ain’t ready yet, so don’t worry, darlin’. Wear something nice, but be warned, babe, it’s just gonna end up looking pretty lying in a puddle in the corner when we get back tonight! Love ya. Bye.” She grinned and hugged herself, taking her shopping bag upstairs so she could start her shower.
Logan showed up at six-forty, just as Ororo was putting the finishing touches on her lipstick. She greeted him at the door, and he looked suitably awestruck, not to mention delicious in his dress shirt and slacks, topped off with a trench coat he’d never worn before.
Logan was still riding on the heady rush of what he had planned for that night, and the sinful promise in Ororo’s smile excited him, making him tingle.
“Ya really mean it when ya get dressed fer dinner, darlin’,” he marveled. Tonight she wore a stunning white wrap dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a neckline that plunged, creating the perfect backdrop for the dainty crystal pendant nestled just below her collarbones. Her hair was swept back from her face with a mother-of-pearl barrette he’d only seen her wear once, and strappy high heels shod her slender feet.
“You like?” she purred.
“Mmmmh…” It was so tempting to abandon dinner and kick the door shut behind him. He contented himself with steaming the column of her throat with his lips. “I like.” He let her go, twining their fingers together and leading her outside, where she had her second surprise of the night.
“There was a midnight blue Toyota Camry that looked like it came straight from the dealership lot parked outside. Logan’s bike was nowhere in sight.
“Logan…where’s Lulubelle?”
“She left me; took up with a young guy in college who professes his undyin’ love fer her. She always was fickle that way.” He led her to the passenger door, clicking open the locks with his keyring. “I cleaned him out of about five years of allowance and lunch money, and put a down payment on Betsy, here.”
“So I still have to compete for your affections?”
“Not on yer life. But don’t hurt her feelings, she’s sensitive.” She continued to stare agape at the dash and the plush interior, inhaling the new-car smell.
“She’s beautiful.”
“You look good in her. Let’s crank this baby up and see what she’ll do.”
“What made you do this?”
“I was sick of not bein’ able ta just take ya where we needed ta go and puttin’ all those miles on yer ride, darlin’.” He paused in keying the ignition to run the backs of his knuckles down her cheek fondly. “Thought it was time for a change.”
Logan cruised downtown through relatively light evening traffic and parked the car on the street, helping Ororo out of the car before he fed the meter. Ororo’s smile lit up her face when she saw that the restaurant was a bistro that she had promised herself she would try, when she got around to it.
“It’s nice.”
“Let’s see if the food measures up ta the window dressing,” he suggested, threading her arm through his as they entered the opulent lobby. Logan checked their coats and let the hostess know that there would be two for dinner. They sat back on an upholstered bench, leaning into each other and enjoying the delicious scents wafting out from the dining room. Logan could barely restrain himself from fidgeting. He felt like a kid out on a prom date.
“What?” Ororo prodded, her voice slightly amused.
“Nuthin’, darlin’, just relax,” he suggested, letting his eyes sweep over her again with possessive pride before sneaking a quick peck. He played with her fingers until the hostess let them know their table was ready. Logan pulled out all the stops, pulling out her chair before she sat. She was at ease and seemed to glow in the ambience of their surroundings as he stole looks at her over the edge of their menus. Their server came over and took their order for drinks, and Logan surprised Ororo again by ordering a bottle of champagne, despite the exhorbitant price tag. They skipped the ritual of sniffing the cork and just let their server pour, tucking the bottle back into the ice bucket and giving them more time to make up their minds.
“I’m not used to seeing you this dressed up,” Ororo chuckled. “You look so…dashing,” she teased.
“Dashing enough ta gimme some when we get home?” He waggled his eyebrows knowingly, and she released a sigh of feigned weariness.
“Oh, if I must,” she replied with a roll of her eyes, but she felt a happy tingle of anticipation. “Taking me out to dinner that I don’t have to cook is a tremendous aphrodisiac, bub. Don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. Might get hungry for something else before the night is up.” He felt the low throb of heat surging into his loins.
“Yer a wicked, wicked woman.”
“I know.”She sipped her wine. “This is nice.” The dining room was decorated in warm, rich tones of coffee brown and gold, with framed paintings hanging on the brick red walls done by local artists. Then the thought occurred to her. “Logan…I forgot to take my shot.” She set down her glass and rummaged through her purse.
“Shit. Ask the lady where the women’s room is,” he offered.
“I saw it on our way in. I’ll only be a minute. If they come back, I want the salmon.” She stood and excused herself, reaching down and caressing Logan’s jaw on the way out. He watched her depart, enjoying the sight of her walk in that sexy dress, and sighed.
He’d been THAT close. The ringbox seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. A few minutes later, their server came back and he ordered for them both, thanking her when she deposited a basket of warm rolls and butter. He distractedly tore one of them apart while he waited for Ororo to return, growing more and more antsy.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a husky, female voice snuck up on his left side, coupled with the tang of spicy perfume.
“Logan?” He let the bread drop from his fingers back onto the plate, scarcely believing his ears. He twisted in his chair, craning his head up to stare Mary in the eye for the first time in longer than he wanted to remember. She was dressed to kill in a snug, ankle-length slip dress with a flared hem, made from bright red satin crepe. Her glossy brown hair was shorter now, framing her face in a jaw-length blunt cut that she’d teased for more volume. Gold bangles laddered up her wrist, and she wore a diamond pendant around her slender neck. Kohl lined her eyes, and she’d glossed her lips into a rosy pout that held no appeal for him anymore, but other restaurant goers snuck looks at her surreptitiously, craving an explanation to her appearance that Logan couldn’t give, and couldn’t give two rats about.
“What’re ya doin’ here, Mary?”
“Stopping by to say hi,” she replied. “So, hi.”
“Bye,” he snarled. She didn’t obey him, choosing instead to sit opposite him in the chair that Ororo had abandoned. “What the fuck d’ya think yer doin’, woman? Ya don’t belong here.”
“I wanted to talk to you. I never expected to see you here, in a place like this.”
“Look who’s talkin’. Are ya here fer business or pleasure? Or do ya still blur that line?”
“I came out with my friend Elektra,” she nodded, drawing his attention to a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman across the room who raised her glass and smiled seductively at him. Logan suppressed a grimace; she was dressed in a similar outfit, but hers was black and even more low-cut.
“That her real name?”
“Actually, it is.”
“Big whoop. Don’t leave her all by her lonesome.”
“Logan…I wanted to talk with you. I never cleared things up back when we-“
“There was no way in hell ya could ever clear that up, Mary. Ya were a whore, and ya stuck me in the middle of what ya had with that sonofabitch that put me in the hospital!”
“Mistress,” she hissed, and her face settled into a hard glare that diminished her beauty. “I told you about it. Things are different now. I have a new job now. I still model now, and I’ve even had some acting jobs here and there. Elektra’s my agent.”
“Sure she is.” He swirled his glass idly by its stem. “Acting. Ya told me ya modeled back when ya were doin’ yer old job. Acting isn’t that big a stretch from modeling, is it? D’ya act on yer back? Or on all fours?”
“That’s nice; real mature, Logan,” she huffed.
“Ya didn’t argue with me.”
“I’m doing fine. I’m not with Wade anymore. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Go do fine elsewhere. I’m waiting for my date.” He flicked his head toward the other side of the room. “Go back t’yers.”
“Your date.”
“I moved on. Had ta kinda figure I would.”
“I see.” She leaned over the table against her elbows, her cleavage straining more prominently against her neckline. Logan’s face was flushed with aggravation and embarrassment, and he felt like he was going to have to do something desperate. “What’s she like?”
“None of yer goddamned business.” She seized the opportunity to prick him.
“Does she get you off? Do you still make that growling noise right before you come, Logan?”
“Woman, if ya value yer life, yer gonna get yer bony ass up outta that seat and get the fuck outta here!” he hissed. “She ain’t like you. She don’t keep me guessing as ta her intentions. I don’t hafta wonder when she’s gonna get home at night, or if she’s gonna bring some fucking maniac home ta try ta kill me.”
“So it keeps coming back to that,” she muttered, shaking her head until her dangling earrings danced. “We used to be really good together.”
“We weren’t really together, Mary. I was with you, but you were with every friggin’ Tom, Dick and Harry. With the emphasis on the Dick.” He leaned forward and let a hint of menace creep into his tone. “Ya ain’t gonna get in my way with this shit. I have someone special. Someone who loves me, an’ only ME, d’ya get me? Ya don’t treat a man like ya did me. Ya just don’t. I’m done with games, and lies, and ten kinds of bullshit that ya had no right ta bring back up. Sing that song ta somebody else. I never really knew who ya were, Mary. Ya haven’t shown me any reason why I wanna try anymore.” She deflated slightly, nostrils flared at his threatening posture and indignance.
“Whatever,” she scoffed. “You’ll never have what you had with me with anyone else.”
“Get out.”
“Not until I meet this little paragon of virtue first.”
“Ya didn’t hear me, then.” Logan rose from the table, thunder in his eyes, and Mary changed her mind, backing her chair away from the table and rising, preening her ruffled feathers and smoothing back a wisp of her hair. Her back was ramrod straight as she left in the general direction of the lobby. Logan sat back, trying to suppress the tightening in his chest, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. Damn.
“What did you say to her?” Elektra stood with her hands on her hips, having witnessed the confrontation and her friend’s hasty exit to the lobby.
“Do ya really want me ta tell ya? She didn’t belong over here. Neither do you, sweet cheeks.” He waved her away dismissively.
“Asshole,” she hissed, stalking off.
In the women’s rest room lounge, Ororo was refreshing her makeup and zipping her insulin kit back into her purse. She mentally planned her meal and counted her exchanges for the day. She’d skipped a cookie break at work, anticipating their dinner.
What was Logan up to? She nudged her hair into place, tugging on a few loose tendrils that escaped her clip. She smoothed her dress and got ready to go back to Logan, before the door swung open, letting in two women chattering like magpies.
“What was that all about? What did he say?”
“He’s here with some skank,” the woman in red replied snappishly, striding into the stall with loudly clacking heels.
“Did you get to see her?”
“Pfft. No. I know she’s nothing to write home about.”
“Whatever. Do you even really care?”
“Sure I care. It sucked for me after he left. Everything just went to shit after that. Logan was gone, Wade was still acting psycho…I needed him. At least when Wade came around, or any of my other clients started getting ideas about me and trying to get too personal and hands-on, I had Logan.”
“He’s not bad-looking,” Elektra admitted. “How long were you with him?”
“Months.” Her voice sounded slightly wistful. “Gotta hand it to him, he seemed like he cared.” Ororo heard the faint flush of the commode and wanted to flee, but her feet seemed glued on the spot.
“That’s because he wasn’t one of your clients. You could care about him.”
“The man was fuckable, I’ll give him that. He was an animal in bed. There aren’t too many women in this world that could handle him.” Beneath the brashness and sass, her voice held a slightly wistful and mournful note.
“Shit. Listen to you.”
“It’s true. He left me walking funny more often than not. I couldn’t give him enough. His girlfriend better be a real brick house if she wants to keep up with him.”
“Did you get a look at him when he came in, to see who he came in with?” Ororo heard the faint hiss of a can of hair spray.
“Uh-uh. I just happened to notice him after his waitress dropped off the bread. I’d like to know how they got here. He used to have a sweet motorcycle. The only thing better than sex with Logan, was sex with Logan after riding with him on the back of that bike!” Ororo’s palms began to sweat. He’d never taken her anywhere on that bike, claiming he didn’t want to risk her for the sake of a ride, even when she offered to get a helmet.
Well.
“So what happened after Wade ran him down?”
“I went to see him in the hospital. I told him I wanted to be there for him. Once he started feeling better, though, that was the end of it. He said ‘Why do I want ya if I can’t trust ya? If yer just gonna run around with men that treat ya like property and then shove me between the two of ya?’ He went on and on about how he hadn’t been comfortable with me for a while, even before Wade. The thing is, he kept on coming back.”
“Guys don’t just come back after a car wreck, Mare. It just isn’t done. Too bad, though.”
“Logan just is the way that he is. Sure, he’s jealous, but he won’t settle down. Not if he feels like every woman in the world is out to get him. That’s the tune he was singing when he broke it off.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Ororo, still making slow progress with checking her hair and dress, cheeks and throat burning, had no way of knowing how much of the account she overheard was embellished.
Mary’s words already sank their teeth into her heart: If yer just gonna run around with men that treat ya like property and then shove me between the two of ya?
Ororo rushed out, barely offering the other two occupants of the rest room lounge a glimpse of swirling white skirts and a ripple of white hair disappearing around the corner of the swinging door.
Memories of her first intimate conversation with Logan echoed through her thoughts, chilling her now.
“You probably heard me before I ran out.”
“Not all of it.” Just enough ta know he didn’t appreciate ya ‘mingling’ with me. Tell me something.”
“Whatever you want to know.”
“Was I just a means to an end? Did ya plan t’make him mad by spending time with me?”
“I was already angry with him before we even left the house. He cheated on me. I guess I already knew, but I had my head buried in the sand... The signs were there.”
“Ya love him, though.”
“More fool me. He walked out on me once. I was stupid enough to take him back.” And then, her own cavalier dismissal: “We won’t talk about this. No more drama.”
The irony of it was choking her, clogging her chest.
She rushed back to the table, her gait stiff and awkward. Logan was looking strangely ill at ease, picking apart a dinner roll until he saw her, when relief flooded his features.
“Thought ya got lost on the way back, darl…baby? Ya okay?” His smile faded when he saw the grim set of her mouth.
“I lost my appetite, Logan; can you take me home?” His brows beetled together and he clenched his fists until the blood drained from his knuckles, whitening them starkly.
“We just got here,” he jibed, but his voice rang hollow with disbelief. “Thought we were gonna have a nice night out, ‘Ro.”
She swallowed around a lump, offering no other reply than to push her chair back under the table and step back.
“I see,” he shrugged, even though he didn’t. “Fine.” He scrubbed at his nape in frustration. “Ya don’t even wanna explain why?”
Things weren’t supposed to be like this, he fumed. This was right about when they were supposed to be grinning at each other over the appetizers and making jokes. Teasing her about his plans for when they got home. A little dinner. An overpriced dessert. Then, naturally, a speech that was gonna sound all wrong to his own ears, no matter how he planned it, but that he’d remember every day of his life even when they were both old enough to have forgotten everything else. He was still champing at the bit, craving the sight of the ring glinting up from her finger, her hand clasped in his.
He continued to stare at her. “Can’t ya just sit down, ‘Ro?” He saw the faint tremble of her chin before she straightened her shoulders proudly; she was wavering over the decision, he knew. “Why are ya like this all of the sudden?”
Her sigh was forlorn. “Logan, do you trust me?”
“Whaddya mean-“ A flash of red caught his eye. Mary and Elektra sauntered back to their table, and he caught Mary flicking her eyes furtively over Ororo from the back. Elektra followed her friend’s gaze, then added insult to injury by peering up at Logan. She bowed her head away from the accusing blaze of comprehension in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I trust ya, Ororo?”
“Maybe I’ve given you reason not to,” she murmured. Their server arrived again, this time looking slightly bewildered by Ororo’s position beside the table with her purse over her shoulder. She moved aside and let him set the heavy tray on the foldout rack and set their plates down neatly, warning them that they were hot. Logan grunted a dispassionate “no thanks” when they were offered fresh pepper. “Could you leave us the check now, please?” she pleaded. The server promised to be back with it in a moment, scurrying off.
“Yer killin’ me. Ororo, did ya talk ta anybody on the way back here? Why are ya bringing up stuff like this now, and acting like ya don’t wanna talk ta me?”
“Why did you sell your motorcycle?” she blurted out.
“What the fuck?!”
“Why did you sell Lulubelle? Because you wanted to get a car, or because it was a conflict, since you couldn’t take me anywhere on it? Or did it have other memories attached to it?”
“Other memories?” He was incredulous.
“Or other women?” He shook his head.
“Ya didn’t answer my question, darlin’. Did ya run into anybody who filled yer ear?”
“You tell me.” He struggled, knowing he was fighting the battle uphill and still stumbling back a few paces.
“Okay. My ex is here tonight. I saw her.”
“Okay,” she admitted sadly. “I heard her.”
“Shit, I knew it!” Annoyance bit at him, making him taste metal, but at least now, it all made sense. Their server placed the bill back on the table and nodded. “Siddown, ‘Ro.”
“I don’t want- “
“SIT!”
He got up from the table flanked her back, reaching around her to pull out her chair. “Stay,” he muttered, his breath warm against her shoulder.
She sat. He collected her purse, placing it on the end of the table facing the wall.
“Ororo, all ya have ta go by is what ya heard, whatever ya heard, and my side of the story, which I’m gonna tell ya now. And let me tell ya, darlin’, this ain’t how I pictured tonight happening. Not by a longshot.” She sipped her wine before picking up her fork, toying with a bit of her salmon.
“How did you picture tonight happening?” Her voice was flat, but he saw interest in her eyes, and the set of her shoulders softened slightly. He was still bursting, and the ring was still burning a hole in his pocket. He held himself in check. He needed to clear the air first. They both did.
“It could still happen. But just hear me out.” He took a bite of his baked potato, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. He swallowed it with a gulp of ice water. “My ex’s name was Mary. I met her at a different point in my life. The way ya see me now, well, that ain’t the way I was back then.” She ate a bite of salmon before picking up her lemon wedge to drizzle some over the filet. “I wasn’t doing much of anything with my life. When I wasn’t driving all night in my cab, I drank the rest of it away at the bars. Started bouncing. Kept rougher company. Didn’t really have anyone ta come home to, but that don’t mean I didn’t take women home.” Ororo sighed heavily. “Bear with me.”
“Fine,” she replied briskly.
“Mary and I had a complicated relationship. She came home with me. I fell for her. Pretty damned hard, too, but she ran hot and cold. Never knew what ta expect. And it didn’t make much sense ta me when she wouldn’t come home some nights, or why we never hung out at her place. Too many times she didn’t have an explanation for where she was when she wasn’t there. Too many of those times that she did, it sounded like a shitty excuse.” His eyes bore into hers. “Ya know how that feels.” A pang of guilt nagged at her.
“Let’s not talk about Pietro.”
“Don’t see why we can’t, if we’re bringin’ out my dirty laundry, kiddo.” She set down her fork and sat back further in her chair, and her blue eyes looked mutinous. “I’m just pointing out an example, not tryin’ ta throw stones or compare who had the shittiest relationship. It don’t matter that I’d beat ya in that regard…”
“Hah!” Her eyes rolled, and his lip quirked.
“Let’s not talk about that fucker, then. I walked in on her, Ororo. Goin’ at it, and full of excuses. And that was after I took her back once. Fool me once, shame on you,” he shrugged, “right?” She picked up a small, ripe grape tomato from her salad with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. “Seein’ that kinda thing with yer own eyes puts things into perspective.”
Ororo’s stomach churned. His voice was hard but patient, and his eyes were sad with remembered pain. “Yes. Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” His hand crept across the table and pried her fork out of her fingers, reaching for her. His grip was firm and determined, as though he was unwilling to let her go.
“I’ve been hurt. But that don’t hafta define who I am. If I let it, that just makes me walkin’ wounded, and I’m more than that. Thought you woulda known that by now, ‘Ro.”
Panic seized her. Not again…
Things weren’t supposed to be like this.
“Things like this keep on happening whenever anyone else walks in and tries ta get in the way of what we have. We keep havin’ ta explain ourselves. Keep getting our feelings hurt.”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” she retorted bitterly, even though her voice was calm. Absently she stroked his fingers with her thumb. He read conflict in her posture and voice. Words wouldn’t work. The right ones refused to come.
“So when’s the right time, darlin’? When’s the right time fer us?” She swallowed again, and opened her mouth to offer him an olive branch, to retract…any of what she’d said. She closed it again and bowed her head into her lap.
“I’ll get our coats. If the server comes back, leave her this,” he grumbled, rising from his seat and stalking off. She cursed herself when all the things she wished she’d said flooded into her mouth once it was too late. He looked so handsome and so proud, even when he radiated anger and hurt. She craned herself around to watch him curtly asking the coat check clerk for their things.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She caught sight of their server and flagged her down madly, her mind already racing for some way to soothe him.
She had just handed the server the bill and the folded twenties Logan left behind, counting off two of them and making change in her own purse for a third when she felt the strange urge to scan the room, feeling as though she were being watched.
Two women across the dining room were seated by the window, chatting beneath the glow of the soft lights. The taller of the two had glossy brown hair and wore a blood-red gown like a second skin. She was watching her. Her lips moved, and her companion turned to watch her, too, before bowing back to her plate. Mary didn’t gesture. She only stared. Venom filled Ororo’s veins, and she gathered her wits, dismissing her server as she rose.
Her stride was graceful and proud as she crossed the dining room. Her exhaled breath was gusty and resigned, startling Mary and Elektra from their conversation as she reached the table.
“I heard you, you know,” she announced bluntly.
“Heard what?”
“What you said. Back in the lounge, about Logan.” Mary didn’t offer any rebuttal. She merely leaned forward on her elbows and laced her fingers together. “And you were wrong.”
“Are you kidding? I was wrong? I was just telling it like it is, sweetheart, and I was telling HER,” she pointed out, nodding to Elektra.
“Telling it like it is.” Ororo shrugged. “You said most women couldn’t handle Logan. Thing is, Mary, Logan doesn’t actually need to be handled. Anyone who cared about him would know that.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Mary chuckled. Elektra looked uncomfortable.
“No. Here’s a tip. You hurt Logan.” This was greeted by Mary’s eyes flitting to her drink for a moment before riveting themselves on Ororo. “Don’t think you’ll get to do that again.”
“Are you finished?”
“No. Logan’s finished. Good night.” She pivoted and marched off, skirt fluttering and ignoring Mary’s snort of amused outrage.
On her way back, she caught sight of Logan back at their table, clutching their coats under his arm. He looked livid and betrayed. Ororo cringed.
She was silent when she took his coat from him. They made it out to the lobby before he muttered, “Went back fer more?”
“Logan…” Let me explain!
“I don’t wanna hear it, ‘Ro.”
Kick Down, Continued by OriginalCeenote
She ain’t like Mary. Give her the benefit, fer God’s sake!
The last thing he wanted was to watch ‘Ro walk right into the mess of his old life that still hurt him to think about. Mary was his past; even seeing her for a minute compromised his future, if things didn’t work themselves out between him and ‘Ro.
And things had to work out.
The drive back was unnervingly quiet, feeding the coil of tension in Logan’s spine. Ororo’s face was calm and revealed little, but her hands told a different story, searching for small tasks such as smoothing her dress and twisting the strap of her purse into a knot. Once or twice it seemed like she reached to stroke his knee, but her attempts were blocked whenever he reached to shift gears.
They drifted inside, and Logan headed directly upstairs, leaving Ororo to follow him mutely, her steps hesitant and light. He clicked on the lights harshly in the bathroom and bedroom, and seemed to be moving awfully fast. The homecoming, like their dinner, didn’t appear to have the outcome that either of them wanted, and her suspicions were confirmed when he marched into the bathroom and began to randomly open drawers and her medicine cabinet. He snatched up items as he discovered them: his deodorant stick, red toothbrush, his razor; a large toenail clipper; his tube of Ben-Gay, and a dog-eared copy of his Sports Illustrated from her magazine rack over the toilet.
“Don’t,” she croaked plaintively. “Please don’t.”
“Whaddya want me ta do, ‘Ro?” He rooted through the vanity cabinet and found a plastic bag that held some old odds and ends and dumped them out, shoving his belongings inside instead.
“Why are we fighting about this?”
“You tell me?”
“Because…I heard something that I didn’t like. I didn’t know how to ask you about it, and I jumped the gun, thinking the worst.”
“Ya thought the worst about me,” he accused, pausing in his chore and pinning her with his stare.
“I thought the worst about how you felt about me,” she corrected him. “And that was wrong.”
“What, because ya thought that I was lumpin’ ya into the same category as Mary? Because I didn’t trust her? And because that automatically soured me on all women, then?”
“Almost. That you thought I did the same thing to you that Mary did, using you to break up with Pietro. Not those other things.”
Ororo heard the crackle of the plastic bag dropping to the floor and felt Logan close the gap between them, pulling her roughly into his arms. She nearly tumbled off-balance and stumbled against him. His lips were drawn into a thin line, and she briefly resisted.
“Sex won’t make it any better,” she rasped.
“The hell it won’t!” Her lip quivered, but she stood fast. “Talkin’ just keeps makin’ us say shit that hurts you an’ me both, ‘Ro.” His breath steamed her lips, and his eyes made her ache; they were dark, beautiful, and blazed with longing and need. “This night was supposed ta be special,” he huffed, feeling her fingers tangle in the folds of his shirt and hearing her breathing quicken. “No drama. No exes. No haulin’ out dirty laundry.”
“You can’t help your past,” she insisted. Her backside bumped up against the edge of the counter.
“And you damn well can’t help yers, darlin’! Her fingers traced a trembling path over his cheekbones, trailing down over his lips; they pushed back against her touch, and he released a low groan. “Just because Pietro didn’t want ya, I ain’t gonna, either? Just because Mary did me wrong, I don’t wanna let ya into my life and share it with ya?” At the mention of sharing his life, he might as well have reached into her chest and squeezed her heart in his fist, and he gave up trying to sway her any further with words. She turned her face away with a small cry when he aimed for her lips. Her throat suited him just fine, and he painted it with the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue over her pulse. She gasped and clung to him.
“Don’t do this.” Her hands gripped his hair in greedy handfuls, and she arched up against him, silently begging the contrary. He stopped and sagged against her, letting his forehead drop into the crook of her shoulder on a ragged groan, but his hands remained on her hips, savoring the feel of her curves draped in the rich, slick material. She shook her head against the loss of his lips and let her arms twine themselves around his neck, listening to his racing pulse. “If you do this…then what?” She rubbed her cheek slowly, langorously against his, gently coaxing him back. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“That ain’t enough. Show me,” he retorted.
“Show you…?”
“Ya know what I mean. Show me ya aren’t gonna let this upset the applecart and make ya doubt US. If ya have doubts, what have we been doin’ all this time, ‘Ro?”
“I love you!” He felt tears drip hotly onto his shirt. “When you say that, it makes it sound like…like you don’t want us to-“ She drew back enough to look at him, really seeing him, and her face crumpled. She didn’t stop him this time when he kissed her, stifling her cries before they could reach their full voice, and she clung to him, letting him steer them out of the bathroom and down the hall before he finally lifted her, carrying her the rest of the way.
He set her down on the bed as though she were delicate and breakable before kneeling to remove her shoes. He undressed her wordlessly and slowly, allowing her to stroke him occasionally while he worked. She still thrummed with tension; he could practically taste it. Her pantyhose slid down with a whisper. He was gentle and meticulous as he undid the zipper of her dress, taking care not to snag her hair; the barrette holding it back was carefully laid aside. He knelt behind her on the bed and fussed with the clasp of her bra, managing to undo it without bending the hook. His lips grazed her bare shoulder as he let the straps fall, easing it off and laying it atop the growing pile of clothes. She lifted up for him when he tugged her underwear down, and his fingers lingered on her skin, sliding their way back up her thighs just to savor how soft she felt. He nudged her thighs apart and knelt between them, closing in on her mouth. Her fingers fumbled to undo the buttons of his shirt, but he stilled them, tugging them away while he kissed her. He was still kissing her as he silently reached over to extinguish the lamp.
He stood, beckoning to her to get beneath the covers. She heard his clothing hit the floor with a thump, one piece after the other, and felt the warm bump of his flesh meeting hers as he slid beside her.
“Logan, I…” He never let her finish. His lips found hers in the dark, and it stung her that she had instilled this fear in him to hear her say anything more.
They made love. His touch was tender and by turns, greedy, and she responded to him despite the niggling voice in her head that screamed that they hadn’t solved anything, that he was still so hurt. He thrust into her, and she was taut as a bowstring, even as she enveloped him, legs wrapped snugly around his waist. She strained and twisted in the dark, burying her face in his neck. He sped up the pace, pistoning more roughly, demanding something he couldn’t quite reach, and she bit her lip against crying out, feeling need for him echoing through her womb…she wouldn’t let herself fall, even as his body scorched her with its heat, glistening with a sheen of sweat as he bucked and cursed under his breath. She clenched herself around him, milking him within her depths.
He still felt her holding back. “Damn it,” he roared, picking up the pace and slamming into her with everything that he had, doing his damnedest to outrun his flagging hope…
He came, straining and cursing, his body spasming endlessly and screaming for release. Ororo’s arms snaked around him possessively, claiming some of his completion for her own as he rippled over her like a wave, finally collapsing with his nerveless arms beneath him. His breathing was ragged and harsh; Ororo’s slowed intentionally as she coaxed him to relax, willing him to match her rhythm. One thought attacked him over and over again as he lay there in the dark:
This night was supposed to be special. It wouldn’t leave him alone. And he couldn’t take it one more minute, feeling ‘Ro projecting anxiety, confusion, and hopelessness that he couldn’t shake himself through her touch and her response to him. He squeezed her one last time, breathing in her scent and warmth before kicking himself free of the covers.
“Logan?”
He swept up all of his clothes and dangled his shoes from his hooked fingers and strode naked from the room. She thought she heard something hit the floor, and assumed it was his belt buckle. She reached for the first item of clothing that she could find, tugging his faded flannel shirt from beneath her pillow, tugging it on as she followed him down the hallway.
He was hopping the rest of the way back into his pants when she arrived, still flushed from their encounter.
“Stay.”
“Can’t.” He shot her a look, not meeting her eyes. “Ya can keep that.” She twisted and run the hem in her hands, watching him cover up the flesh that had molded to hers only minutes before, craving her love, her trust. “Lock up after me.” He snapped up the bag of toiletries in his fist and nudged past her, but she caught him by the arm before he’d gotten far. “Ro, don’t…”
She kissed him, feeling him stiffen before he relaxed, feeling the press of his lips as he kissed her back. “G’night.” He made it all the way down the stairs before she felt the tears fall again, and felt something inside her crack when the front door clicked shut. She slapped off the bathroom light and trudged back to her room, flinging herself onto the bed and a good, noisy bawl. Her fists pummeled the pillows as she berated herself, berated Mary, berated Pietro, and hated herself for doubting him again and letting some petty words she’d overheard get in the way.
“Why?” she whimpered into the darkness.
Then her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d scarcely eaten. A Fuji apple with creamy peanut butter seemed to call her name, and she got back up, dashing the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She got up, then felt her foot kick something and send it skittering across the floor.
“Shit,” she hissed, then stumbled back over to the side table to turn on the lamp. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she saw something small and blue bounce off the baseboard by her closet. She squinted at it, wondering where it came from, it didn’t look anything that fell off of…her…bureau-
“Oh, my God!” she breathed. She dropped to her knees, hands clasped over her mouth, and rocked back and forth, shaking.
The velvet box felt soft and foreign in her hand, fitting neatly in her palm as she pried open the lid. “Tonight was supposed to be…special.” Fat tears wet the front of Logan’s abandoned flannel shirt.
And I Dip, You Dip, We Dip by OriginalCeenote
Logan sat up and slapped the snooze alarm button, silencing the static-muddled Gwen Stefani song that the station played on heavy rotation. He mashed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles, wondering why his facve felt like rubber. He’d fought sleep, watching TV in his darkened living room until half the channels had test signals and infomercials. He knew he was about to crack up when the porcelain dolls they were hawking on QVC seemed to start talking to him, reminding him of those old Chucky movies.
He fell asleep on the couch in his crumpled clothes before dragging himself to bed. His surroundings felt off-kilter and unfamiliar, and the emptiness bit at him. Ororo’s hair was supposed to be spread out over the pillow, tickling his lips.
So much of what they said cut them like a knife, but everything they didn’t say was killing them. Killing him.
He retraced his steps, padding naked into the shower. The water pounding against his back pattered and swirled down the drain as he reviewed the night’s events. Picked up the car, check. Got spiffed up, check. Picked up ‘Ro and fought the urge to do her at the door, check. Went to the bistro. Check. Had his worst nightmare come true when Mary…yeah, there it was.
He draped himself in a towel and stood, dripping as he stretched and rolled his shoulders, working out a kink. He reached for his deodorant and noticed the stick was almost used up, then remembered the bag of toiletries in his room. He went back and bent to retrieve the battered parcel, digging for his Old Spice solid. His dress clothes from the night before lay in a heap; they belonged in the hamper. He fished his wallet from his pocket first, then searched the other to empty it of its contents.
His heart slammed in his chest when he came up empty. Cold sweat broke out across his flesh.
“Shit.”
His clock radio blared on again, and he turned off the alarm before chucking his clothes into the hamper and shrugging into his sweats. He suppressed the wave of nausea over what could have happened to that ring on his drive to the gym.
~0~
“Ya look like Hope Diggin’ Potatoes, shoog.”
“Gee, thanks. That just makes my day.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“More like paradise lost.” Anna’s eyes widened.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I think we broke up last night.”
“Ya THINK! Whaddya mean, ya THINK ya broke up? What happened, ‘Roro?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“The hell Ah don’t!”
“We went out last night. Logan went to a lot of trouble to take us somewhere nice. All night long he acted like a kid with a secret. It just seemed like he was waiting to spring this big surprise.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I ran into his ex-girlfriend in the powder room when I took my insulin.” Her face darkened briefly. Anna wiggled her toes as the pedicurist scrubbed at a callous on the ball of her foot.
“Spill, girl.”
“Well…it’s more like I overheard her say some shit.” The words felt lame coming out of her mouth.
“Don’t leave me in suspense, sugah!” Her attendant glanced at them briefly as if waiting for the dirt.
“I don’t know how to begin to explain this, Anna! This woman and her friend came into the ladies’ room when I took my insulin. All of the sudden, this woman fills her friend’s ear about Logan. That caught my attention, since I don’t know many other Logans.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, ‘uh-oh.’ No shit.”
“What’d she say?”
“She was a real potty mouth. She gave me and her friend and the rest of the free world too much information about what a stallion he was in bed. I never want to hear that about my man from his old flame, Anna, so you know I wanted to smack the taste from her mouth.”
“I would’ve held yer earrings for ya, kiddo, if I’d ha’been there.”
“Two of us would have been talking about this in jail…”
“Exactly. What’s a real friend for?”
“So, back to Miss Thang. She gushed about his motorcycle and how he used to take her for rides, and then ride HER.”
“Could happen, I guess. But again, TMI.”
“We never rode around on his bike together.”
“Did ya ever wanna? Remy loves fast cars, and he borrowed Logan’s baby a time of two, ta swap it for the Mustang.”
“I asked him once. He said he didn’t really like riding with a passenger, if he could avoid it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t. Think abou tit, ‘Roro. If he rode around with her all the time, wouldn’t it be a turn-off ta associate that with a relationship that went bad?”
“You tell me. It just seems like she was special enough for him to share his prized possession.”
“Naw. Bullshit. You were special enough to him not to risk. And I like ta think, sugah, that maybe he didn’t want yer butt ta rest where she’d had hers. Kinda like offering ya sloppy seconds.” Ororo snorted. “Hey, humor me on this, shoog. He had his reasons.”
“What got me was how cavalier she sounded about what they had. How he supposedly ‘seemed to care.’ What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe it wasn’t a love match.”
“He was hurt when he was talking about her last night. Like a dumb ass, I asked him about her. I shouldn’t left it alone.”
“Hard t’do that, once ya open that can of worms; then good luck catchin’ all the critters and stuffin’ ‘em back in.” Anna looked thoughtful. “How would ya have done things different, ‘Roro?”
“I wish I could say we would have picked a different restaurant. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Nope. Try again,” Anna tossed back as her attendant toweled her feet dry. Ororo’s toes were being filed already; the foot massage earlier helped to rub some of her troubles away.
“Maybe I would have left the bathroom earlier instead of sticking around for that mess. My ears are still burning, girl.”
“That’s what we get for bein’ nosy, ‘Roro. Thing is, she didn’t say she was still seein’ him.”
“No. Thank God. Between that, meeting Pietro’s ex at the movie theater and finding out I was the Other Woman, and finding panties under my bed, I feel like I must have pissed in someone’s coffee and forgot about it. My karma sucks.”
“Ya kin still fix this, shoog. Yer gonna hafta bring him back the ring eventually, betta sooner than later.”
“I know,” she admitted quietly. “Don’t you think I hate that?”
“Ah know ya do, but ya hafta take care of it. Bite the bullet and do it, and ya can both move on. If ya still want him, ya gotta grovel, girl, and grovel BIG.” Anna pointed to a silver enamel when her attendant held up the color palette of available polish finishes. “Ya’ll hate yerself if ya don’t, and he’ll be out who knows how much money. Worst case scenario, he can buy his bike back. Ya’ll find someone else before ya end up an old maid.”
“What’s the best case scenario?”
“Ya get ta tell him ya messed up, he forgives ya, and ya make it up to him for the next fifty years of folding his socks and making him dinner. In a nutshell.” Ororo shook her head and sighed. “Wouldn’t hurt ta wear somethin’ skimpy, either.”
“I even made a muck of that,” Ororo cringed. “I went frigid as a fudgesicle on him when we tried to have some make-up sex. I had these horrid visions of him riding his ex and coming up short.”
“Damn, girl!” Ororo skimmed through the portfolio of decals and stencils and selected some little Playboy bunnies. “Well, we gotta take a different tack. Guess we’re goin’ shopping.”
“For what?”
“Knee pads.” Ororo stifled a guffaw and mock-punched her, but mentally added that item to her list.
~0~
“Eric, they’re here,” Aleytys announced from the picture window, letting the drape of her brocade curtains fall back into place as she moved to answer the door. Eric heard the motor of Pietro’s Jeep cut off from his driveway and sighed gustily. He straightened the pleats of his khaki slacks and ran a hand over his glossy silver hair before joining his wife. He reached around her and opened the door before Pietro and his auburn-haired companion even reached the front porch.
“Son,” he beckoned. “Come in. Hello, I’m Pietro’s father. Call me Eric.”
“I’m Jean,” she breathed, looking flushed and flustered, but extended a slender hand to shake his. He studied her carefully, taking in small details. She was immaculately coiffed, dressed in Armani and wore a small diamond pendant around her neck, accompanied by large diamond studs in her ears when she swept back the fall of hair from her shoulder with a careless flick. Her complexion was tanned, but when she presented a hostess gift in a small box, Eric noticed a faint tanline on her left ring finger, which was otherwise bare.
Eric heaved a gusty sigh, prompting Aleytys to cock her eyebrow at him and Pietro to shoot him a warning look.
“Let’s go to the dining room. We’re having the gazpacho first, since we don’t have to worry about reheating it.”
“Something smells delicious,” Jean offered.
“Smothered chicken.” Aleytys, Jean noticed, only looked about ten years older than herself, and had the face and figure of a pampered trophy bride. Hope flared in her chest that this was a sign of things to come, from her potential future in-laws.
They adjourned to the opulent dining room, where the good china had been laid out over a periwinkle blue tablecloth. “It’s beautiful,” Jean pronounced reverently.
“We try,” Eric replied, amused. “God bless our humble home. The decorating is Aleytys other pet project, when she isn’t having lunch with her soroptimist club or volunteering at the hospital.”
“Perhaps you’d like to have lunch with me one day at the spa,” Jean offered, “when you aren’t too busy.”
“That sounds nice.” She beamed, and Jean felt a tiny frisson of relief that was short-lived.
“So, Jean, how long have you known my son?”
“Oh. Well, er, I’ve known him for years. We’ve always been good friends.”
“Through work?”
“No. Just personally.”
“We met through Ororo,” Pietro murmured blandly.
“Ah.” Eric nodded knowingly, a gleam twinkling in his eye. “So you were a friend of hers, then? She’s a lovely young woman.”
“Yes.” Jean’s face felt like it was going to crack. Pietro’s hand searched for hers beneath the table and clasped it, tugging it to rest on his lap. Eloise swept in and brought out the serving cart, loaded with the tureen of gazpacho, and promptly served everyone, ladling the rich red broth into the gold-rimmed bowls.
“Pietro hasn’t told us much about you. He’s been quite the stranger, so it’s nice to finally meet the one monopolizing his time. Do you work locally, Jean?”
“Yes. Full-time. I’m the membership director at a day spa.”
“That suits you,” Eric agreed, sipping his gin and tonic. Eloise offered Jean a mimosa, which she politely declined, stating that her iced water was fine. Aleytys watched the conversation unfold silently, spooning up her soup with casual interest.
It never failed to amaze her what an astute, take-no-prisoners man she’d married, nor how he had the uncanny ability to grill his children like flounder.
“So, how long were you married?” Jean choked on her drink, sending Pietro bolt-upright in his chair, pounding her on the back with concern. His slate eyes met his father’s in silent outrage. “Goodness, that went down the wrong pipe, didn’t it?”
“Ah-herrrmm…not that long. We had different expectations from marriage. Things didn’t work out the way we planned.”
“What other expectations did you have other than to spend the rest of your lives together?” Eric’s smile was serpentine. “Were you two together very long?”
“DAD!”
“What?” He still looked expectant. Aleytys passed Jean a basket of fresh dinner rolls, smiling sympathetically.
“We met each other during college, right before we graduated. I’ve been working for about five years.”
“So when did you marry, then?”
“Earlier this year.”
“So five years wasn’t long enough to decide if you had common goals in life, then?”
“Sometimes, things don’t work out the way you’d like, even when you’ve invested a lot of your time in them.” Jean and Pietro’s eyes met, and he squeezed her hand warmly. Eric made a small sound in the back of his throat and spooned up some soup.
“That reminds me…I have some new pictures!” Eric reached into his pocket, shifting in his chair until he found his thick wallet. He opened up the cellophane sleeves in the billfold and leaned in toward Jean and Pietro.
“Oh, who are these little cuties?”
“These are my two grandsons. One of the happiest days of my life, when my twin daughter had twin boys!”
“He’s not proud, or anything,” Aleytys teased fondly. “Don’t get him started, or he’ll go on like this for hours.”
“I haven’t seen those pictures of Tommy and Finn yet,” Pietro mused, peering over Jean’s shoulder at the pictures.
“They’re both playing soccer this season on the same team. Call Wanda, she said she hasn’t heard from you in a while, son.”
“Wanda can call me, then. She has my number, and her fingers aren’t broken.”
“She’s a busy woman. A mother’s work is never done,” Eric reminded him, and Jean heard a current of something ironic in his voice, and wished fervently that she shared the joke. “And this little young lady is Luna,” he announced, pointing to the last sleeve. Jean admired the little girl’s flawless, peaches-and-cream skin and blue eyes. Her hair was a lighter shade than her own, prompting her to wonder what children with Pietro would like, if they were to have any.
“Is she the twins’ sister?” She looked remarkably close to the boys’ age, Jean mused. “Wanda’s busy, indeed!”
“Oh, no. This isn’t Wanda’s daughter, she just has the boys. Luna is Pietro’s little girl. She looks exactly like his mother did when she was a girl herself! I told him that when her mother sent me this picture.” Jean’s hand stilled in the air, her soup spoon halfway to her mouth. She nearly missed splashing her dress with gazpacho as she dropped it back into her soup bowl with a clatter. Aleytys wore a look of panic, making sure that her best soup bowl didn’t gain a chip in the porcelain.
Jean excused herself, gently rubbing her temple with her fingers, shooting Aleytys an apologetic look. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to do that. How old is she?”
“Just turned five. She’s a little lady,” Eric boasted. “She’s actually done some commercials!”
“She’s lovely,” Jean assured him. Pietro went white as a sheet. He began to tear at his dinner roll uncomfortably.
“I had the chance to meet her a few weeks ago. I’m biased; naturally she’s the apple of my eye.”
“Naturally,” Pietro chimed in bitterly.
“Do you have any children, Jean?” Aleytys asked politely.
“Not yet,” she murmured weakly.
“You’ve been missing out!” Eric called for Eloise, who came out to clear away the soup and serve the chicken.
The ride home was swathed in heavy silence. They were mere blocks from Jean’s home before she shook her head at herself, rubbing the nape of her neck. She had the beginnings of a migraine.
“That was enlightening,” she muttered.
“Jeannie…”
“Yes, Pietro?” Weary, emerald green eyes studied him and pried answers that had eluded her and nagged her with stinging questions for the past two hours.
“Does your father always do that?”
“God, Jean…I don’t want to get into this right now, okay?”
“Get into this…sure. Fine,” she huffed, turning her face toward the passenger window. Pietro turned on the radio and listened to a recap of a Knicks/76’ers game on moderate volume.
The sun was just setting over the treeline, and the evening was relatively warm for a change, but Jean shivered in her light wrap, slightly irritated when Pietro opened his window to let in some air. Her hair danced and whipped across her lips, and she dragged it back behind her ears, coiling it around her hand.
“Great,” he grunted. Scott’s BMW was parked in the driveway.
The past few weeks had been tense enough. Pietro’s “meeting” with his father and both of their attorneys had blistered him and left tire tracks across his ass. Eric had established a trust fund, adding the codicil to his will stating that Pietro had to set one up as well for Crystal that matched his monthly contributions to it until she was twenty-one years old. His inheritance of his portion of his father’s business, holdings and personal property were dependent on that clause. Pietro had been furious but resigned. Crystal had contacted Eric, not Pietro, about setting a visitation schedule. Pietro would be granted partial custody of Luna that included visitation, as well as child support payments with a hefty price tag. Eric would have the rights and privileges, as her grandfather, to accompany Pietro on those visits and to contact Crystal for that purpose.
“Sign here, here, and initial here,” Eric’s attorney advised him, pointing to each line as he flipped through page after page of documents. “This is your acknowledgement of terms of these agreements.”
“I know what they are,” Pietro snapped, signing each one briskly with the silver Cross pen. His own brokerage created documents like these, he mused. He specialized in estate planning, but never thought the day would come when he was poring over these for Luna.
“I expect you to get in touch with Crystal, and let her know the date when you send her the first support payment.”
“That’s up to me, Dad. Not you.”
“No, it’s up to me, son.” His fists balled up in his lap. Eric craned his chin up and scratched his throat thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off his son.
“We’re all finished here, Eric,” his lawyer announced, loading the documents into his briefcase. “Pietro, we’ll courier copies of these to your office, and also to yours,” he assured him, nodding to Pietro’s lawyer. They shook hands, and Pietro was the first to leave, sparing his father not so much as a goodbye as he headed for his Jeep in the parking lot. Eric sighed, watching his departure in frustration, but there was no help for it. Someone had to make him grow up.
Bringing Jean to meet his folks was the first step toward shoving this whole, ugly mess behind him. New girlfriend. New start. New apartment, even if it was only a two-bedroom for the moment. He’d sold Ororo his half of their furniture, following another meeting of their attorneys once the restraining order was up, which suited Jean fine. They were still up in the air as to whether to sell her house “ hers and Scott’s house “ and buy one new, or to just live in the city for a while. Pietro hadn’t done anything with his second bedroom except store his computer and desk there. Per the agreement, he needed to provide adequate accommodations for his daughter now. He didn’t have the damnedest of what that involved, and he scoffed at his father’s suggestion of “Ask your sister for some insight on that.”
“I didn’t know he’d be here,” Jean offered lamely.
“Sure. Murphy’s Law,” he muttered.
They parked the car on the street, not wanting to block Scott in at the driveway. Jean was given the right to stay in the house until their divorce was settled in court. The night that Scott confronted them found him coming back to Jean, alone and looking like she’d been crying since he left. He stalked inside, closing the door and staring tight-lipped at her, sitting with her feet tucked up beneath her. She rose and started to go to him, but he held her at bay, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“We need to talk, Scott, I’ve been waiting-“
“Oh, that’s nice. That’s fucking great. You’ve been WAITING,” he snapped. She winced; his voice was hard, and hurt radiated from him in waves, scorching her.
“I worried when you just left like that…”
“Where’s Loverboy? Is he upstairs?”
“No. He left.” Jean had spent ten minutes tending to Pietro’s bruised face, alternating between horror and relief that Scott finally knew. Pietro’s skin felt cool and smooth beneath her hands as she gave him an ice pack, murmuring soothingly to him even as her own stomach tied itself in a knot. She’d feared that he would leave her, not wanting to have anything more to do with her, but she suppressed a wave of joy when he leaned forward and pulled her into his arms from where he sat, embracing her around her slender waist. She rocked him and didn’t argue when he told her, “I have feelings for you, Jean. You knew that. Now we don’t have to hide anything anymore.”
“So why did you stay?” He flung his jacket into the closet without hanging it up and slammed it shut. She ignored the urge to go pick it up and hang it properly.
“I wanted you to come home, and make sure you made it safely.”
“Why? I didn’t get drunk. I just needed some air.” He made his way into the kitchen. She followed him slowly, watching him reach for one of the leftover beers.
“So you’re going to take care of getting drunk now?” she quipped.
“You’d have to be worth the trouble, Jeannie. You’re not up on that pedestal anymore.” He punched open the tab and took several thirsty gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “What the fuck were you thinking, Jean?”
“It just happened, Scott.”
“No, it didn’t. That doesn’t just happen. Was the grass really that much greener, that you had to sleep with your best friend’s fiancée?”
“They were never engaged,” she shot back.
“Boyfriend, then. Whatever. They lived together, and their long-range goal was marriage. Don’t make that your excuse for what you did. It sucked. You screwed over your best friend.”
“Pietro was yours. I’m not happy about that,” she sighed.
“Really? You seemed pretty happy to see him tonight!” He sat down at the kitchen table and slung his feet up onto its clean, pine surface.
“Don’t do that,” she hissed indignantly.
“I can do whatever the fuck I please. It’s still my house!” She returned his glare before spinning and exiting the kitchen.
Heavy footsteps thundered after her.
“No, you don’t!” He grabbed her and turned her to face him, whipping her around so quickly that her hair flew loose from it’s neat low bun. She wiped back the tendrils from her face and stared agog.
“SCOTT-?”
“You aren’t just headed up to bed to sleep in OUR bed, that you soiled bringing Pietro into my house to FUCK him as sweetly as you please until you hear me out. I LOVED you, Jean! I MARRIED you! You took VOWS to love, honor, cherish and not to SLEEP WITH MY BEST FRIEND BEHIND MY BACK! What does that make you? Huh? It makes you a cheater! You broke your vows, Jean!”
“Shut up!” she begged him, unable to look at him. His voice was right up in her face, stirring the hair at her temples, and his hot breath steamed her cheek.
“YOU FUCKED SOMEONE ELSE! You MARRIED ME and FUCKED ANOTHER MAN!” His breathing was heavy, and her eyes teared up, hating the dark look of rage etched in his features. His pupils were dilated, and his nostrils flared, turning his handsome face into a mask of agony. Every ounce of boyish charm was gone. She hated that she drove it away. “Was it fun, Jean?” His shoulders heaved, and his hands gripped her arms, forcing her to feel him tremble. “Did he do you right?” Huh? Was it worth it?”
“Scott…” she wept.
“Don’t cry for me, Jean! Take those crocodile tears to ‘Tro, I don’t want ‘em. I loved you and wanted a life with you. I thought you wanted a life with me.”
“I did, Scott. I…I loved you, so much, and…” She caught herself before her words could damn her any further, only then realizing what she said.
“Loved me,” he repeated blankly, releasing her and giving her a small shove away from him. He walked past her, and she followed numbly up the stairs. She watched him flick on the bedroom lights. Their room was impeccably neat. Scott spared it no consideration, digging in the closet for his large canvas duffle. Her eyes widened as he began rooting through drawers, flinging clothes from hangers and tossing them onto the bed.
“Please, SCOTT, DON’T! DON’T GOOOOO!” she wailed. “I still love you; we can get past this! Don’t leave! What’re you gonna do?”
“Stay at a hotel. Call Alex. Then get a storage locker for a while, til I can get a lawyer.”
“Scott…” This wasn’t the outcome she’d expected.
“You get to dick me around once, Jean. I made a vow to love you for as long we both lived. You reneged on your end of the bargain, and you’re still alive. I don’t know about you, but in my opinion, the deal’s off. You hurt me,” he accused. His voice was calmer, but no less bitter. “This isn’t a matter of winning me back. God, I love you, Jean. Present tense. I might feel differently about that a week from now. Maybe even months from now, but at the same time, I’ve never hated someone the way I hate you and Pietro both. I worked hard for what we had. Our home, our relationship, and our lifestyle. I gave you EVERYTHING I could. Everything. There was never anyone else. I had everything I wanted when I found you. Not many guys can say that and mean it.” Tears leaked and dribbled down her cheeks. “I told you not to cry for me, Jean. Don’t put on a show.”
“Scott…” she whimpered, reaching for him. He batted her hand away weakly.
“Get out of the way, Jean.” He wadded up his clothes into smaller heaps and crammed them into the duffle. He brushed past her roughly and stomped into the bathroom to grab his things. She heard him wrench open the drawers and medicine cabinet, clearing it out, and she wept in loud, bawling sobs. She collapsed onto the bed, twisting handfuls of her skirt and staring dejectedly at his open duffle.
He dumped his toiletries into it with a thud, then zipped it sharply.
“Don’t try to contact me. I don’t want to see you. I’ll get the rest of my stuff when you’re not home.”
“Oh, God, Scott, please!” Everything they built came crumbling down in that instance.
“I mean it.” He was stiff and proud as he made his way down the stairs, bag in hand. He walked out the front door and slammed it shut behind him, not bothering to lock it.
Jean hovered by the staircase, numb with shock and hurt. Slowly, she clung to the railing and drifted downstairs. She opened the closet, noticing he left behind his jacket. Out of long habit, she reached for a hanger, picked it up, and gave it a long sniff, inhaling its familiar scent. She wrapped it around the hanger neatly, snapping it partly shut so it would not fall off, then hung it on the rack. She closed the closet and came into the living room, dropping onto the couch with a sigh.
She smothered a strangled cry when she saw Scott’s platinum wedding band glinting up from the coffee table.
“Want me to go now?” Pietro offered.
“Might be best for now,” she replied, not really feeling up to more drama than usual after the grueling dinner. She spoke too soon. Scott appeared at the front door, carrying a crate of his things in his arms. He gave them a heavy stare as Jean exited the Jeep.
“Call you,” Pietro promised.
“Uh-huh.” Her legs felt leaden, and she was a mere three steps up the front walk before she heard his Jeep tear away.
“Nice,” Scott huffed. “Pussy.”
“Don’t start,” she begged. “I have the beginnings of a migraine.” She waited for him to step aside. “Let me in, please.”
“Right away, Your Highness,” he mocked loudly, taking umbrage at her discomfiture. “Have fun with your sweetie, Princess?”
“Do you have everything, Scott? Or are you planning to come back later?”
“Why? Is Loverboy coming back? Can’t stand to be away from you for so much as a minute?”
“I’m not talking about him with you.” She hung her wrap in the closet and adjourned to the kitchen for some iced tea and a Motrin.
“Sure. Easy for you to say. You didn’t talk about him with me til after you fucked him and I found out.” He clumped down the steps with his box, loading it into the trunk of his car. Jean thought that was the end of it til he came back.
The housekeys landed with a jangle onto the kitchen table in front of her; Jean nearly jumped out of her skin.
“There. That’s the last of it. Make sure to sign the papers when they come.”
“Have them sent to me at work.”
“Fine. I don’t fucking care anymore where they go. Shove them up Pietro’s ass, if you want, but sign them first.”
“Oh, that’s nice!” she carped after him. He slammed the door in response. She ruminated over her tea and took stock.
Pietro had a little girl. This added a new layer to the things they had to deal with going in.
“When the hell was he going to tell me?” she asked no one in particular, gulping down her tea. She went back to the refrigerator to return the tea pitcher, then cursed when she saw a photo magnet frame that previously held a shot of her with Scott taken on their honeymoon.
Her face now sported a mustache and devil horns scrawled in black ink; his image was suspiciously missing, the brown cardboard backing showing around the torn edge of the paper.
~0~
“What’s up, runt? How’d it go?”
“Ya don’t wanna know.”
“Whoa…shit!” Vic paused in lifting the loaded barbell over his chest again, holding up his hand for St. John to wait to spot him. “Don’t tell me she said no????”
Logan grumbled something unintelligible as he began a set of chin-ups. He lifted and lowered himself fluidly while St. John and Vic exchanged a look of caution mixed with curiosity.
“She said no,” Vic muttered incredulously. “Dude, that sucks.”
“Yeah,” Logan grunted back.
“Sorry, man,” St. John offered, throwing his hands wide in the universally understood “Better luck next time” man shrug and let them fall to his thighs with a dull slap. “You proposed?”
“Not in so many fucking words.” He levered himself up, down. Up. Down. Up. Dow-
“Waitaminnit. Ya didn’t pop the question?”
“Told…you…ya…don’t…wanna…know,” he growled, wincing as his upper arms began to burn. It was a good burn.
“Naw. Ya bought her a ring, right? Took her out like ya said?” Vic leaned forward against his knees. “Ya ate a breath mint before ya left?”
“Har-de-har-har,” Logan snarled. St. John reached out to slug Vic in the shoulder.
“Ahhh, whaddever. He knows I’m fucking with him, prick, chill out!” He turned his attention back to Logan. “She get a better offer?”
“At least if she did, it’d make more fuckin’…sense…than what…happened,” he grated out, letting himself drop to the floor with a thud after his third set. He stretched, letting muscles in his neck and shoulders pop. “Fuckin’ Mary showed up with some skanky girlfriend o’ hers.” Vic’s eyes bulged, and he shook his head wryly.
“Holeeee shit! Yer kiddin’ me. Mary,” he repeated.
“Yep.”
“That’s shitty. Fuckin’ impossible.”
“Wrong night, wrong place, wrong time. Mary showed up, wanting ta settle my hash and feed me some crap line about how well she was doin’. I told her ta get lost. So, one minute, I’m on top of the fuckin’ world. The next, my girl’s comin’ back from the can, all in a huff, lookin’ like someone fed her a sour lemon dipped in Tabasco.”
“Man,” Vic muttered in sympathy, for a change. St. John tsked and shook his head, scratching his nape in wonder.
“When the old flame meets the new and future missus, get the hell outta Dodge,” St. John added. “I don’t envy you, mate.”
“So what happened?”
“She gave me the third degree. Got all antsy about some shit she overheard Mary say in the bathroom. Asked all these questions and didn’t like the answers much. It was weird shit, too.”
“Weird, how?”
“She asked me about my bike.”
“What was the big deal?”
“She wanted ta know why I sold it.”
“CRAP! Ya SOLD Lulu? DUDE!!!” Vic lay back down on the weight bench and lightly smacked St. John’s leg to get his attention, nagging him to spot him again. “Ya wanna do anything else fer yer old lady, Logan, ya give her a fuckin’ kidney. Ya donate blood. Wrap yer nuts up in a pretty bow fer freakin’ Christmas! Ya DON’T sell a bike as sweet as Lulu!”
“Why did you sell it?” St. John’s inquiring mind wanted to know.
“Thought it made sense. ‘Ro’s got her own ride, which is fine. She’s also got problems with her sugar. If an emergency popped up, I’d wanna be able ta come an’ get her. It took me too long the last time,” he grimaced, remembering the day at the mall. “Remy was there when she called me, thank God. Anna was with her, but if I had ta give her a ride home myself, I wouldn’t have been able t’do that on the fucking bike. And I loved Lulu,” Logan huffed, “but I love ‘Ro more. Figured it was no freakin’ contest.”
“Awwww!” Vic’s tone mocked, but Logan heard no malice in it. “Pussy,” he chided him good-naturedly.
“Don’t see you doin’ any better,” Logan shot back. “Fucker,” he added for good measure.
“No contest, then,” St. John considered.
“Lulu’s special, but Mary left her mark on her. Too many memories of her wrapped up in her ta keep her. I wanna be able ta go wherever we both need ta go without any problem.”
“What’d you get, mate?”
“Camry. Great ratings in Consumer Reports.” Nice family car, too, nagged the voices in his head that were still bellowing at him to call her.
“Eh.” Vic was a slave to his Escalade. “Hey, look, it’s Summers!” Logan steeled himself before turning in the direction where Vic waved.
“I might go play some ball,” he muttered, excusing himself and grabbing his duffle.
“Oh. Awright, dude. Later,” Vic muttered to Logan’s retreating back.
Logan made it all the way into the empty basketball gym and had just set his duffle by the door when he heard a familiar baritone behind him.
“Sure. Run off.”
“Whaddya want, Summers?”
“Nothing. Maybe a game of one-on-one before I run.”
“Suit yerself.” Logan signed his name on the reservation list and grabbed a stray ball, dribbling it and turning to face Scott. Summers looked drawn and unlike himself. His hair was longer in the back, and a faint shadow of stubble coated his jaw. His clothes were hanging more loosely on him than they had the last time they worked the same shift.
“How are things at Salem Medical?”
“Busy. Day shift kicks my ass, but it’s a living.”
“I never figured you’d last, back when you were on my rotation as a student.”
“One-on-one or horse?”
“Shit. Horse! Why not?” Logan lobbed him the ball. Scott caught it left-handed, turned to shoot, then changed his mind and plowed down the court.
“Fucker!”
“Guy’s entitled to change his mind,” he shot back. Logan’s feet thundered after him and he leapt for the rebound when his hook shot bounced off the rim.
“Have it yer way, Scooter!” Logan huffed. “Let’s dance!”
They scuffled, with Scott faking for all he was worth. Back and forth, they charged up and down the court. Scott’s height advantage and long reach made him harder to get around. Scott fouled him when Logan checked him before remembering himself.
“You knew about Jeannie, didn’t you?”
“Not much sooner than you, bub, but even then, only after ‘Ro admitted it after their little fistfight.”
“That’s fucking great,” Scott accused. Logan aimed for a three-point shot that Scott nearly slapped back into his face, blocking it and sending them both running full-steam. Logan retrieved the ball readily enough, eye faking and head-faking as Scott pinned him with a steely gaze. They were both starting to sweat dark triangles through their cotton tanks. “You couldn’t have said anything.”
“I wasn’t the one ya needed ta hear it from, what’d ya want me ta do?”
“Not leave me looking like a chump, pal.”
“Right.” He had a point. “Ya still would’ve been pissed.”
“Yeah. Like how I found out was so much fucking better,” he carped. Okay, Logan decided, he had another point.
“How’d ya find out?”
“Put two and two together. Pietro came over. He and Jean started talking about some fucking movie that they watched together at a time when I couldn’t have been home.”
“How did ya figure?”
“It was an Adam Sandler flick.”
“Gads…what was it, the Water Boy?”
“I didn’t give a shit. They all suck.” Logan stole the ball and dribbled back down court, but Scott was having none of it, stealing it back.
“He shoots, aaaaaaand…IN YOUR FACE!” Swish! Logan cursed under his breath but smirked.
“Ya got lucky.” Then, “So what now, Scooter?”
“She admitted she fucked him. I moved out.”
“Damn.” Logan began dribbling, bounce-passing from one hand to the other as Scott inched his way in, panting for breath. At least there were signs of life in his dark eyes.
“I’m tired of playing games. I didn’t sign on for games,” he spat, lunging for the ball as Logan neatly evaded him this time, even though Scott was practically plastered to him. They clashed and faked, and this time Logan took his patented three-point shot from his sweet spot, nailing it.
“That’s what I said, too. Got played anyhow. Now I’m out one ring.”
“Holy…hold on one second. Out one ring?”
“I was gonna propose ta ‘Ro. I know ya don’t wanna hear about it…”
“The fuck I don’t.” Scott reached out and slapped the ball out from between Logan’s meaty palms, then clutched it under his arm in an easy grip, pausing their game. “You proposed?”
“Like I told Vic, not in so many fuckin’ words. I didn’t even get them out of my mouth. We had a fight. We broke up. End of story.”
“So that’s it. Wow.”
“What’s with you, Summers?”
“All that drama. All those spectacles, all for this. Just for the two of you to break up.”
“Now yer an expert on me and ‘Ro?” Logan shot him a disgusted look.
“Hey, cut me some slack. I love ‘Ro like a sister, despite what happened with Jean. I was mad at her, but I got over it. When you look at everything on the list, I should be more pissed off with her than I am. She doesn’t tell me that Jean slept with Pietro once she finds out. She walks out on the wedding reception, leaving Jean to fret for half the honeymoon and run up our cellular bill calling her. She and Jean duke it out, leaving me no answers as to why and my wife bawling about how she and Ororo aren’t friends anymore, even though they went to lunch to make up. She ends up in the ER, still doesn’t tell me, even though I overheard her telling you that she couldn’t trust her anymore. Then the two of you run into Pietro at my housewarming, and you kick his ass on ‘Ro’s behalf, which I can’t really blame you for in hindsight, but it was kinda shocking at the time.”
“Sorry,” Logan muttered, scratching his chest. Scott mopped sweat from his brow.
“No biggie.”
“You don’t know how much that sucked.”
“I’ve got my own problems. My ex showed up when I was about ta pop the question.”
“Mary?” Logan nodded and shrugged dismissively. “The one whose boyfriend put you in the hospital?”
“One and the same.”
“Did she just show up and start giving you a hard time?”
“She tried. But she managed to say some stuff that Ororo overheard that made her start doubting me.”
“How do you know she doubted you?”
“That’s usually what happens when ya put two woman that have no business sharing breathing space in the same room, Summers, get a fuckin’ clue!”
“Logan…man. This is classic.” Scott guffawed. Logan scowled at him, and he only laughed harder.
“Wanna tell me what’s so flamin’ funny?”
“You figure it out. What’d Mary do, in the end, that made you walk out on her and her games?”
“Slept with every guy in town?”
“What else?”
“Stood there while her john ran me down?”
“Keep going. It’ll come to you.”
“This is bullshit.” He began to stalk off.
“She used you as her get-out-of-jail free card, Logan,” Scott called out, before Logan could sling his duffle over his shoulder. He stiffened, flexing his fingers and letting it sink in. “She used you to break up with that Wade fucker. You told me about him back when you joined my shift. You still had scars from your accident when we met.”
“Don’t remind me,” he growled.
“Hard to forget it. You were a desperate man, Logan.”
“The fuck I was. She dicked me over. I told her ta get lost. End of story.”
“That wasn’t the end. You started a whole different career to get the taste of her out of your mouth. Moved. Went to school. Decided you wanted to help people.”
“Quit playin’ me that song on yer fiddle. Big whoop.” Scott flung the ball into the wall, letting it bounce off with a slam. That got Logan’s attention.
“Don’t give me that shit! It was a big deal! You made yourself a whole different life, Logan, and you’re not gonna act like it’s nothing!”
“Yeah. Because some skank walked all over me.”
“Mary was a piece of work; I never even met her, but I remember how you were after all that happened. She ripped your goddamned heart out, Logan. Why let her take your happiness away now?”
“She didn’t take it by herself. She had help. ‘Ro would hardly talk ta me when we got home last night.”
“So talk to her.”
“Easier said than fuckin’ done.” Logan still knew it was likely, even inevitable, if his phone calls to the restaurant and the dealership didn’t result in him finding the ring to take it back to the store. He was still sick about it.
“Not all women are like Mary, or even like Jean.”
“Jean wasn’t like Mary. You had ta hear about it after the fact. I walked in on it happening in my face. Yeah, she cheated on ya, but fer one person in particular, not just usin’ you like she used everyone else. That was Mary’s gig, Summers, so it ain’t the same.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Scott walked up and clapped him on the back. “She acted hardheaded. I don’t know why I’m even saying this. You two getting together was practically a frigging curse! The moment you and ‘Ro hooked up, me and Jean started falling apart!” Logan emitted a bark of harsh laughter. “Even if things don’t go back to how they were, clear the air. You’ll at least be able to sleep at night, knowing you were big about it. Otherwise, that mess at the restaurant is all you’ll ever think about. And you and Ororo had some good times.”
“Yer the fuckin’ pot callin’ the kettle black, Summers, ya know that?” Scott smirked wryly.
“Get your lazy ass to work!” Scott retreated back to the hoop with the ball and started taking free throws. The bounce of the ball off the court floor followed Logan out of the gym.
~0~
Piotr and Sage sat contentedly on the bench in the park, enjoying the sun on their faces and the shifting shadows of the trees. Aliyah was in her element, climbing the wrong way up the slide.
“Baby, don’t do that, there’s a little boy up there who wants to come down!” Sage cried, waving for her to stop. Aliyah grinned unrepentantly back at them but obeyed, turning and letting herself slide down to the bottom. The next boy gave up his pout and took his place at the top of the slide, sliding down to the ground with a thud of his light-up sneakers.
“She’s a pistol,” Piotr chuckled.
“She’s a stinker,” Sage corrected him. “But she’s my stinker.”
“Mmmm.” He tightened his arm around her. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”
“Someplace simple. Maybe we could go for ice cream and a movie afterward?”
“At the Movies Ten, or just rent one?”
“Either one.” Then she reconsidered. “Nah. Rental. There’s nothing good on in the theater.”
“She might like the Ninja Turtles.”
“Or you might,” Sage grinned.
“I might, too,” he admitted, nipping the crest of her ear between his teeth. Aliyah ran over to them, now covered in a fine layer of sand that left her thick white stockings looking slightly grubby. “You’re a mess, baby,” he mused, moving over when she wriggled her way between him and Sage. Her mother began to brush her off and straighten her pigtails, which had worked their way crooked. She snugged up the bobble-beaded elastic, pink to match her winter corduroy jumper.
“Hungry now, Momma,” Aliyah complained, leaning her head into Piotr’s bulk and playing with a button on his coat. Piotr patted her affectionately and stood, making Aliyah hop off the bench after him. She danced on her toes, lifting her arms for him to pick her up.
“Me, too. Let’s eat!” he announced, catching her between his large, strong hands around the waist and lifting her up on his shoulders like she weighed nothing. She shrieked and giggled her delight. Sage watched them fondly, a wistful look on her face. “What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go, like you said.” He held Aliyah steadily on her perch by her ankles as Sage held loosely on to his coat sleeve. The weather was brisk, and a faint breeze stirred the leaves on the ground, sending them dancing along the concrete.
Sage enjoyed watching the people around them, noting how many strollers being pushed by women who looked to be around her age, many of the infants squalling in protest at the wind or being smothered in layers of blankets against the chill. She gave silent thanks that her own child was out of diapers and attending school. The background sounds seemed to fade to a blur as she listened to Piotr and Aliyah chatter and argue back and forth.
“I know what we’re having for lunch today, Aliyah.”
“What are we having?”
“Lizzard gizzards!”
“NOOOOOO!”
“Yup. Lizzard gizzards and peanut butter pickles!” he stated authoritatively. Aliyah leaned over his head and peered down at him, grinning even though he wore a serious expression.
“We can’t eat THAT!”
“Oh, but we must, we HAVE to, it’s my favorite food in the whole world!”
“Yucky!”
“It’s wonderful, it’s the most delicious lunch in the world, right, Mommy?”
“Oh, it is,” she chimed in mischievously. “Can’t wait. Yum, yum, eat ‘em up!”
“MOMMY!” Aliyah insisted indignantly. “Tell him we aren’t eating lizards!”
“Lizard gizzards,” he corrected her.
“NO GIZZARDS!”
“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of lizard gizzards,” Piotr sang, joyfully slaughtering an old movie classic. Sage rolled her eyes, then gave pause as her ears picked out other voices through the chatter around them. Two female voices chatting a few yards away caught her attention.
“Cute little girl.”
“I wonder if they adopted her?”
“I don’t think so. Look at her little face; I think that’s her mother with her. Look, they smile the same and have a similar profile.”
“Hmmm. Could be his little girl.”
“Her father must have been dark. Look at that hair, that must be a job and a half, combing that out every morning.”
Sage felt her cheeks flush and tried to control her impulse to quicken her steps. Piotr noticed the change in her pace and peered over at her, taking in her beetled brows.
“What’s the matter, Sage?”
“Oh. Nothing. Let’s go, Piotr.” She recovered with a sunny smile. “Let’s eat. Who’s up for McDonald’s?”
“MEEEEEEE! No lizard gizzards, I TOLD you!” Aliyah crowed. Piotr patted her foot fondly and they made their way back to the subway tunnel. Despite a peaceful lunch, ice cream at Baskin Robbins, and renting two Disney films, the pall lingered over Sage’s afternoon. She was irritated with herself that she let it linger.
Their evening settled down to a dull roar. Piotr helped Sage tidy up the living room once Aliyah tucked into bed. Her breathing was deep and even, her arm wrapped snugly around her dollie as she smacked her lips, burrowing her cheek further into the downy pillow. Piotr enjoyed one last peek inside her room and clicked on the night light before tiptoeing out. Sage was gathering up Aliyah’s toys and loading them into a small toy box next to the television as he approached. The set of her body and the look of tension etched over her features troubled him. She stood with her hands on her hips, scanning the living room impatiently before she reached up to knead a kink from her neck.
“And to think, I thought parenting would be a snap, back before I had one of my own,” she mused, peering up at him as he came near. His smile was warm as he circled her slowly, embracing her from behind and letting her lean into his solid bulk. He hugged her firmly, nuzzling her and gently kissing her temple. “What was that for?”
“You looked like you needed it. You’ve been quiet tonight.”
“Eh.”
“What’s this ‘eh?’ I mean it. You have been. Ever since we left the park.”
Sage sighed gustily. “It’s no big deal. I guess I’m just worn out.”
“All right.” He could understand that easily enough. Aliyah was exhausted from their full day and they entered the apartment with her snuggled and sleeping in her mother’s arms, her little cheek mushed up against her shoulder as Sage handed Piotr the key to unlock the door.
Their reverie was interrupted by the insistent trill of Sage’s cell phone. She reluctantly stepped from Piotr’s embrace and retrieved it from the counter.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Where’s Baby Girl?”
“Baby Girl’s in bed. She’s worn out.”
“See if she’s awake enough to say hi to her daddy.”
“Trust me, she’s down for the count. Let it wait until tomorrow, Luke.”
“Sure. I hardly get to see her, and you put me off when I call.”
“Call earlier next time,” she snapped. Piotr scowled, watching the tension spring into her spine. Her hand drifted back onto her hip.
“Damn! Don’t get your panties tied in a knot, woman! I’ll call tomorrow. Why’re you getting all evil with me?”
“I’m not.”
“I know evil. This is evil,” he chuckled. “Whatsamatter?”
“We went to the park. Same old story. A couple of women behind us today were playing a game of “One of These Things Is Not Like the Other” trying to figure out which one of us was Mimi’s mom or dad.”
“You and the Big Guy took her out today, huh?”
“We had a nice time, until that happened.” Sage heard the sounds of Piotr’s retreating footsteps moving into the kitchen and the refrigerator door opening as she spoke. “This time one of the women asked if she was adopted.”
“Shit never happened when you were with me,” he pointed out.
“That doesn’t mean shit didn’t happen,” she quipped smoothly.
“Never happens when she’s out with Charlotte and me, either.”
“Well, goodie for you and Charlotte.” She sighed. “I’m proud of her, Lucas. She’s my baby girl, too.”
“Remember that any time anyone says something dumb-assed,” he ordered calmly. “Anyway, g’night.”
“Night, Lucas.” She clicked her phone shut and set it on the counter. Piotr was nursing a glass of orange juice at the kitchen table. His gaze was full of questions.
“Lucas?”
“Yup.”
“What did he want?”
“To say hello to Aliyah. He doesn’t have a visit with her scheduled until next weekend.”
“That’s fine.” He gulped down a swallow of juice and set it on the table, playing with the rim absently. “You didn’t say anything about what happened at the park.”
“The park…oh. No. I didn’t. It was no big deal.”
“You thought Lucas needed to hear about it.”
“It’s just…something that happens every now and again. People see me, and they see Aliyah together, and they ask questions, or they just talk about me behind my back when they think I’m not listening. Sometimes, back when Luke and I were together, they stared, but at least you could see the wheels turning, and they put two and two together and got the answer they expected.”
“What did they get today? What did you hear?”
“Two women walking by when we were at the park were wondering if Aliyah was even mine.”
“If she’s with you, she’s yours. End of story.” Piotr thought it was the logical conclusion.
“Thank you!” She raised her hands demonstratively, slapping her forehead as if to say “Eureka! By George, I think he’s got it!”
“Does it happen often?”
“Depends on where I go. This is a big enough, diverse enough city, but people still talk if they want to talk.”
“Aliyah looks a lot like you in her face and build.”
“I know.” He finished his juice, and Sage reached for his empty glass, returning it to the sink. “But Lucas had a point. When he and Charlotte take Mimi to go out, they make a pretty little picture.”
“So do we,” he rumbled, standing and approaching her, again enveloping her against his chest. “Someone just used a different palette.” He heard the crack of her smile, and it evoked one from him.
“You really get a kick out of her, don’t you? She’s fond of you, Piotr.”
“Good. Because I’m fond of her, too. She takes after her mother. I’m a sucker for a pretty face and a smile that makes me unable to say no to her silliest whim.”
“Ooooh. Yer a goner, buddy. With little girls, ya HAFTA learn to say no!!!”
“How about big girls?” His lips nibbled her earlobe before laving it hotly and sucking it inside his mouth. Her response was unintelligible as pleasure curled in her stomach.
“Moving on, then,” he decided, bowing his lips to hers as her hand reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair.
~0~
Logan collapsed onto the couch, letting himself sink back into the cushions as he rolled his shoulders and took a sip of Gatorade. His feet still throbbed, stocking-clad in his favorite grey Nike basketball socks that were a gift from ‘Ro. The recap of the Knicks game was still playing on three different channels, thanks to his digital cable package. He had three more days until his subscription expired.
He didn’t plan to renew, even since he gave his landlord notice that he was moving out. Flattened, new moving boxes leaned against one wall, propped against his little bookcase. Thankfully he didn’t have much. All he had to do was head to the leasing agent’s office and sign the paperwork on Friday; his security deposit had already been cashed.
Work had been a bitch. Salem Medical was closer to the business district, unlike Westchester General, which someone had the insight to build right in the middle of the historical buildings and older homes. Industrial injuries were the order of the day. No retching teenagers, thankfully, since he took the day shift, but he’d been bled on twice and had to scan two broken legs and a fractured thumb.
He wasn’t expecting the hesitant knock on his door. “Who is it?” he rumbled, not getting up.
“Logan? It’s me.” ‘Ro.
Logan steeled himself, then set his Gatorade bottle on top of an old issue of Sports Illustrated laying on his coffee table before getting up to answer her. He unchained the locks and yanked the door wide, leaning against the frame. “Can I come in?” He exhaled slowly. He was loathe to admit that she took his breath away. She was garbed in a long-sleeve, black Lycra wrap top and tapered jeans shrink-wrapped around those gorgeous legs and curves. Her hair was tugged back into a simple ponytail, revealing a pair of gold hoop earrings and her slender neck to their best advantage. A pair of high-heeled black ankle boots made her even taller.
She worried her lip between her teeth.
“Take a load off, ‘Ro.” He unblocked the doorway and turned his back on her, not bothering to gesture inside. She obeyed, closing the door after herself and rechaining the lock while he resumed his place on the couch.
“You just got off work?”
“Shitty day,” he nodded, shrugging. He swallowed some more Gatorade. “Game’s over. CSI’s not on fer another half an hour. Yer gonna hafta suffer through the recaps.”
“That’s fine. It’s a free country.” Logan grunted absently, staring blankly at the TV screen. Ororo eyed the other end of the couch with yearning, but settled for the easy chair by the bookcase. She gave pause when she noticed the cardboard boxes. Her purse hit the floor with a thud as she took her seat.
“Ya gonna be here fer a while?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wanted to talk…”
“Wait fer the commercial.” His tone was blunt. He still wasn’t meeting her eyes.
She sighed and reached for her purse. She unzipped it sharply and rummaged through the compartment, her hand closing around what she wanted. She stood again and slung her purse over her shoulder again, then approached the coffee table on clipped steps.
She bent down and laid the blue velvet ringbox next to his Gatorade bottle.
“I’d rather not wait, but I don’t want to bother you.” She was already on her way to the door, letting her words drift back to him. “Maybe I’ll just get out of your way so you can-“
The TV was clicked off with a harsh punch of the remote button behind her.
“Wait just a goddamned fuckin’ minute.” Her stomach looped itself into a double knot, and she felt a sheen of cold sweat break out over her upper lip. She bowed her head, staring at his hardwood floor, and her hand tightened on his doorknob. “Yer just gonna get up and leave? Just like that?”
“Logan…uh-uh. This wasn’t what I planned to do when I came here.”
“Then what’d ya plan, ‘Ro? This looks like a drop-and-run, and not much else.”
She could have handled the silent treatment. She knew she deserved it.
She removed her purse from her shoulder and hung it gently over the doorknob, leaving it locked. She turned to face him and felt a mixture of anguish and yearning at his face. Indignant anger, frustration, and perhaps a hint of something else contorted his features, bearing no shred of the tenderness she knew she was responsible for taking away. The cords of tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief, and vein jumped in his jawline as he worked it, trying to come up with the words he needed her to hear.
“C’mon. Ya showed up on my doorstep. Now talk.”
“Last night I found this on the floor. I was headed downstairs and I nearly tripped over it.”
“Saved me the trouble of callin’ the fuckin’ restaurant, then, I guess.”
“Sure,” she agreed miserably. “Logan…you were going to give that to me.”
“Fuck, no. It’s my size, I just bought myself a fuckin’ trinket,” he snapped. “Ya must have a mighty high opinion of how I feel about ya.” His tone was jeering, but again, his stance radiated hurt. He gesticulated impatiently, flinging his arms wide. “I dropped a wad on a ring like that just because I felt like it. Call it impulse spending, if ya want, ‘Ro.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t tell me yer sorry, unless yer gonna go into detail about why. Take yer pick. Sorry about not giving me the chance ta tell ya how I felt about ya? Sorry about listening to my piece of shit ex-girlfriend who ripped my heart out? Sorry about walking out on our night out before we could even get to the good part? Do ya wanna know what the good part is, Ororo, or do ya just wanna hazard a guess, now that you’ve seen that little surprise lyin’ there?” She breathed heavily through her nose, hugging herself and rubbing her temple weakly.
“How do you feel about me?”
“Do ya even hafta ask?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I need to know.”
“Ya could’ve asked me last night. That might’ve helped.”
“No matter what I said, things kept on getting worse. I didn’t think you would hear me, or want to hear me.” Logan stared at her incredulously. He turned his back on her and plowed his hand hopelessly through his unruly hair.
“What the fuck…? When did I give ya the idea I wouldn’t listen, ‘Ro? When have I ever been like that with ya? Ever?”
“Never.” He wasn’t pacified, but his shoulders relaxed a notch. “Last night was tough.”
“We’ve had worse nights than that, darlin’.” She felt a small flare of hope at the use of his pet name for her. “If we can get past me havin’ ta kick yer ex’s teeth in, you havin’ a run-in with mine in the can should’ve been a walk in the park. Shit, ‘Ro, he even kissed ya in front of me, and we got past it.”
“You knew I didn’t want him to do that,” she snapped lamely, clinging to her side of the argument and instantly regretting it.
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take pieces outta me. I walked in on Mary once, ya know. It was the last time I spoke ta her before my accident.” Ororo’s blood froze in her veins as he flung himself back onto the couch. He stared up at her, looking exhausted and resigned. “The whole house smelled like burnt dinner and sex. No telling how long he’d been there. I didn’t wanna think about how often he’d been there, either. She always came ta my place. Almost never the other way around. After a while, that got ta me.”
“Yeah,” she agreed on a low murmur. She swallowed around a lump, aching for him. “It stinks, not knowing until it’s just right there in your face.”
“I ignored the signs. I listened to her tell me tale after tale. I had a thing fer her, ‘Ro. It just reached up and grabbed me one day that it wasn’t just a fling. I got comfortable. I got cocky that she was mine, just ‘cuz I was hers. Turned out I was wrong.” Ororo’s throat closed up, and she tried to clear it to little avail. Logan continued to watch her; she couldn’t meet his level gaze any longer and went back to staring at her hands, twisting them. “This guy, Wade, was her client. He was keepin’ her. Payin’ her rent and God knows what else. I was sleepin’ with his mistress.” Horror made her feel clammy.
“Oh, God…”
“I fell fer the okey-doke. She packaged it up real pretty, too. I found out about him, when he found ME in bed with her the first time around. We got into it.” Ororo braced herself for what she knew was coming next. “I kicked his ass; I almost hated havin’ t’do it, in hindsight, because I was the one stepping with his woman, in principle. Sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” She plowed her hands through her hair helplessly and closed her eyes. Her face was strained. Logan watched her curiously, but hadn’t dropped his scowl. “I’ve been there, too. Pietro was with another woman when he started dating me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She introduced herself to me.”
“When?”
“At the movie theater a few weeks ago. In the women’s room.” Logan tsked.
“Fuckin’ figures…ya got a curse, ‘Ro.” Ororo stifled a mirthless laugh.
“I’ve got a curse. Pietro’s got a child.”
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
“He left her high and dry to be with me.” She drew in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not flattered, knowing this.”
“Guess ya wouldn’t be.”
“He didn’t provide for his child, Logan.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised about that. Chances are, darlin’, he wouldn’t have been much better, even if he loved ya more than he did his last girl, if ya married him and had two point five kids, a dog, and a picket fence. Maybe, but I ain’t vouching for him.”
“I don’t want you to. But it just made everything hurt more.”
“Yeah. It does.” His brows finally lifted, and he studied her. “Ya never told me about him havin’ a kid.”
“I would have gotten to it eventually. There’s been a lot going on.”
“Did he ever talk about havin’ any with you?”
“His dad always wanted us to…”
“I ain’t asking about his dad. Did he, ‘Ro? Did he want a family with ya?”
“I…no. Honestly, Logan, he didn’t. He tap-danced around it, and gave me vague answers when I asked. Why? Mary never wanted a family,” she retorted.
“Fuck, no!”
“It doesn’t really matter, I guess. I was raised in a nice family, Logan. I loved both of my parents. They loved each other, and they loved me. I was about to settle for less with him, because I didn’t think I could do any better, waiting so long for him to come around. But he was right where he wanted to be, how he was, so my wanting what I wanted didn’t affect what we had.”
“Whaddya want, ‘Ro?”
“Logan…”
“What did ya want, before last night happened? And whaddya want now?” She clammed up, defiance making her hug herself more tightly as she stared at the floor. She shook her head mutely. “C’mon. Tell me. I deserve to know that much. What would’ve made ya happy, that listening ta my ex destroyed for ya, darlin’?” Her lip quivered.
“I’d better go…” She scooped up her purse and made for the door again.
“Don’t,” he rasped. She shook her head again, her vision blurring as she fumbled with the chain on the lock.
He moved like lightning, letting his palm slap the door shut and covering her back with his bulk. “I said don’t,” he muttered. She drew in large, deep breaths through her nose, her chest heaving as she struggled to compose herself.
“Let’s…let’s not do this,” she pleaded quietly.
“I ain’t gonna be able ta sleep tonight til ya tell me, darlin’. Didn’t sleep a flamin’ wink last night. I can’t keep that up.” His hand slid down the door to the knob, where it rested over hers, cupping her knuckles. He gently pried them away; her palms were icy as he twined his fingers through hers. “Easy, Ororo.” He tugged her back, inching them back from the door. He leaned in closer in an attempt to make her see him, to read the emotions on his face. She stubbornly craned her face away. “Tell me,” he murmured.
“I…she hurt you,” Ororo blurted. “Then I turned around and hurt you, too.”
“Ro, c’mon…”
“I told her she wouldn’t get the change to hurt you again.” Logan tsked.
“Shouldn’t have wasted yer time on her. I don’t anymore.” Still, pride flared briefly in his chest. She stood up for him.
“I told her you didn’t need to be handled.”
“What?”
“She said not many women could handle you.”
“Like she’d know,” Logan grumbled. “So, is that it? D’ya want a man ya can ‘handle?’”
“Still working on handling myself, thanks,” His lips briefly warmned the sideof her throat, and one brawny, steady arm looped around her waist. His hand flattened and splayed over her abdomen and she let his strength support her, enveloping her and making her feel safe. Turmoil still roiled in her chest, but he wasn’t pushing her away.
“Right answer,” he muttered. “We’re both works in progress, ‘Ro, when it comes to that.”
“Pietro thought I tried to handle him.”
“He just needed his ass kicked. Check that off yer to-do list.” Her lips quivered, and Logan heard her trying to master her breaths and compose herself. “Since yer not tellin’ me what m
Cover Songs and Eight-Track by OriginalCeenote
“I’m telling ya, Bets, I can’t stand this stooooooooopid job even one more minute,” Ali hissed into her cell, thumbing miserably through a battered copy of Us Weekly that was at least six months old.
“So don’t do it,” was her cavalier reply. “Stop settling for crap. Sing. You love it.”
“Hand me the winning lottery ticket and a recording contract.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“It should.”
“I don’t write the rules, ducks.”
“Tell me how to bend ‘em. Better yet, just promise to spring me from jail when I finally crack…”
“What wankery are they up to this time?”
“I was doing inventory. So Sophie and Laurie both take off on their lunch together, and leave the fitting rooms unattended. Raven runs over and bawls me out, nags me over there to harvest all the stuff from the rooms that no one returned to the racks, and then nags me back in the opposite direction to handle returns at the desk! I was THAT close to just banging my head repeatedly on the register keys…”
“Might’ve left a mark,” Betsy mused, her voice garbled as she slurped up a chow mein noodle. “Can’t have that. Might look a little off tonight. Come out with Emma and me.”
“Wish I could. I’ve been so busy lately.” She tapped her kitten heels against the floor restlessly, imagining she felt the floorboards of Harry’s lounge beneath them instead, dancing her heart out. “Talk me into it.”
“You know you want to come.”
“Shit! Bets! You’re supposed to be reminding me that I’m too busy! And tired, and up to my neck in bills…”
“And haven’t been laid in months.” Betsy grinned silently. She could practically hear Ali roll her eyes.
“Meanie.”
“You love me.”
“I love you. Pick my tired ass up at eight.” Betsy squealed and made kissy noises into her handset.
“Boob tops and jeans. Makeup. Big hair. You know the drill.”
“Can’t wait.” She really couldn’t.
Elsewhere:
“HURGGKKHH! HAUUUUWWKKKKHHHH!” The choking gasps tearing themselves from Jean’s throat echoed back at her from the porcelain bowl of the spa restroom.
It was hopeless…
Saltines. Sucking lemons. Ginger ale. Candied ginger. Sea-Bands. Emetrol. Not a damned thing helped.
Morning sickness sucked. And it lasted all day, she grimaced to herself, leaning her forehead against her folded arms. One moment she’d been placing an order for new towels for the steam room, and the next, she’d run through the lounge like a bat out of hell, barely locking the door after her in time to greet her breakfast hello. Again. And again.
She was just so tired.
Jean lurched up from the toilet to check her reflection in the sink. She was pale, and the faint shadow of circles smudged around her eyes stared back at her.
“Thought it was supposed to make you look radiant,”she griped, running some cold water and holding her wrists under it a moment before wetting a paper towel. She daubed her face and wiped her mouth, swishing it out to clear the swampy fuzz from her tongue.
She took solace and cold comfort in the fact that Scott wasn’t making it difficult to divorce him. His calls to her office were perfunctory and clipped, reminding her to sign the paperwork as his attorney drew it up. Everything was orderly and letter-perfect. He wanted nothing else from her, and she was keeping the house. Since her own job guaranteed her the income she was “accustomed to,” they weren’t fighting over alimony.
She retrieved a diet 7Up from the break room vending machine, knowing it was futile, but the effervescence and scent of it comforted her as she punched open the top. She ruminated over it in front of her PC screen, scrolling through membership figures for that month. At least business was good.
It was growing harder to keep up with the house. She began cleaning during the wee hours of the morning, since her morning sickness and her insomnia were duking it out.
Pietro…was a slob.
No, back it up.
He was a FUCKING slob. Let’s not mince words…it had taken her six, maybe seven months to train Scott out of his habit of leaving his socks in the living room, or snack plates on the coffee table. He took out the garbage without being asked. He separated lights and darks. He actually emptied the dishwasher. Opened mail never laid in a homely pile on the kitchen table instead of being tucked neatly into the bill rack hanging on the wall.
She allowed a harsh chuckle to escape her. It was like housebreaking a new puppy.
She was relieved to be at work, for the moment. She didn’t envy Pietro the daunting visit with Crystal after work. His ex had made it clear early on that Jean was persona non grata when it was his turn to come and pick her up, practically staring her back out the door of her apartment when they’d both walked up after being buzzed in.
An adorable voice sang out “Who isssss it?” from the other side of the door, following the thud of little feet. Jean heard a harried voice, nearly the same age as hers, admonishing her not to run. The deadbolt slid back, and Jean and Pietro came face to face with the biggest obstacle to their fledgling relationship.
Luna’s cherubic face wore a petulant look, her eyes topaz blue chips. “Who are you?” she pouted in lieu of a proper greeting. “Why did you bring her?” Her gaze swung over Pietro as she interrogated them with a litany of questions. “Why are you holding my daddy’s hand? Mommy, why did SHE come here?”
“Luna, that’s enough. Go get your shoes. Go now.” She flounced off, mumbling “I don’t WANT to” under her breath.
“She could have had her shoes on by now,” Pietro pointed out.
“She was finishing up her lunch,” Crystal snapped crisply. “Unless you want to take a hungry, cranky five-year-old out the door for the afternoon. Be my guest next time.”
“We were going to take her to the live Dora the Explorer show downtown. We already have tickets,” Jean explained, smiling in an attempt at civility. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Sure. Tell her that you’ll go without her if she makes you a few minutes late. She’ll really believe you.” Jean’s smile dropped as though she had been slapped. Crystal was nonplussed; she followed her daughter into her living room without bothering to invite Jean and Pietro inside. Pietro tugged Jean along with him by the hand, easing the door shut behind them. Jean’s eyes roamed the tiny foyer, noting the framed pictures. Almost all of them were of Luna in varying stages of infancy and toddlerhood. She was photogenic early on, and clearly pampered.
One four-by-five in the center of a photo collage frame caught Jean’s eye. Pietro was in the hospital room, holding a tiny girl swaddled in a pink blanket and matching cap as he peered down into her reddened face. He looked uncomfortable, as though he didn’t wish to have his picture taken, even as he capably held the tiny infant in the crook of his arm.
Jean’s mouth went dry, and her throat worked convulsively as she listened to Crystal lecturing Luna in the background, over the dull roar in her ears. She rubbed her temple to chase away the vestiges of a headache that would last all day.
“We’ll bring her back around eight,” Pietro promised, taking Luna’s mittened hand in his, having to drop Jean’s when she rejected the one he offered her. Jean stepped aside nimbly, offering Luna a smile. She didn’t return it, leaning into Pietro’s side and rubbing her nose on his pants’ leg.
“Her bedtime’s at eight-fifteen. Try to get her back by seven-thirty.” Crystal’s voice was imperious. “We leave early for a road trip to Pensacola tomorrow. Luna’s in the finals for a Fantastic Faces Little Miss pageant.” She puffed out her chest with pride as she nodded to a breakfront with a glass-doored cabinet. There were three trophies on the top shelf, and in the center, in the place of honor sat a small rhinestone-studded tiara.
“She does pageants?” Jean inquired.
“Commercials. Modeling. Children’s theater. She was in the Nutcracker last winter.”
“That’s wonderful that’s she’s performing and developing confidence so early, but-“
“She’s gifted,” Crystal interrupted, her face a stiff, mulish mask. Her smile did not reach her eyes.
“I’ve never wanted to enter my children in pageants, if I have any,” Jean finished. “Seems like a lot of pressure to put on a child.”
“If you have any,” Crystal retorted icily. Jean felt Pietro’s fingers tugging her sleeve and felt the draft from the door swinging open on a low creak.
“Oooookaaaaay…let’s go ahead and go, Jean. C’mon, Luna.”
“Why can’t Mommy take me to the show? I wanna go with Mommy.”
“You can come home to Mommy tonight and tell me all about it,” Crystal promised. It fell on deaf ears. Luna was already allowing her body to turn into a limp noodle, dragging her feet and letting her knees buckle. For Pietro, it was like trying to hold onto a lump of wriggling Jell-O. She was already screwing up her face for battle.
“Maybe we can do something some other time,” Jean suggested hollowly, before she bit her lip.
“This is Pietro’s visitation weekend. He won’t get another chance until next week,” Crystal snapped. “And it isn’t up to you.”
“I was just suggesting-“
“Goodbye,” Pietro barked, hoisting Luna up into his arms. “Jean, get the door. Say goodbye to Mommy, Luna!”
“Wanna stay here, wanna watch cartoons, want MOMMY! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“Bye, baby,” Crystal crooned, giving her daughter the only smile Jean had seen on her face since they’d arrived. She allowed it to drop as Jean peered back, right before closing the door and securing the deadbolts.
The day was a trial by fire. Jean felt as though she had been run through the gauntlet. Luna alternated between ignoring her all night and comparing her to her mother. Jean took it in stride, glad that she’d had some practice talking with children after babysitting her sister’s kids, Gailyn and Joey, on the odd weekend when Gail needed some “me time.” They just never resented her so much…
The show was cloying but cute. Luna clapped her hands and sang along with the songs. She nagged her father to get up and dance with her, pouting when he sat back in his seat, telling her “you go ahead, sweetie. Daddy doesn’t want to dance.” When Jean offered to dance with Luna, she was told curtly, “No, not you!” with a flounce and toss of her strawberry blonde pigtails. And that was that.
Dinner was a relatively quiet affair. Fast food, which Jean deplored, but at least Luna had graduated from an unwilling kidnappee to a bubbly chatterbox, humming bars of the songs as she pored over the jokes and games printed on her Happy Meal bucket. Jean merely nibbled at her fries and dry McChicken sandwich, sipping her Diet Coke to keep it from tasting like sandpaper on her tongue. Her appetite had been a little off.
Luna stared at her as Jean tucked the remainder of her food into the bag. “You didn’t finish your dinner,” she pointed out.
“I’m not very hungry,” Jean replied politely, against attempting a smile.
“Mommy says you don’t get dessert if you don’t finish dinner.”
“Oh. I guess I don’t get dessert, then,” Jean agreed solemnly. “I do believe you’re correct, Luna.”
“Whatever,” Pietro sniffed. “I’m getting dessert. Thought we’d head to Baskin Robbins.” Jean was about to cry foul that she was only going along with her mother’s rules, whether they were hers or not, but Pietro and Luna shared a grin beside each other as they discussed the merits of bubble gum ice cream versus rainbow sherbet. Jean silently fumed and took the rest of her soda with her on the ride to the ice cream parlor.
Thankfully, Luna was fast asleep by the time they got her home. Jean begged off when Pietro asked her if she wanted to come with him to drop her off. She watched him carrying Luna in his arms into the building once he was buzzed in, rubbing his daughter’s back in small circles, and felt a wistful pang. She wished someone would carry her home and put her to bed, too.
~0~
Now came the hard part. Pietro thought that she had the flu.
~0~
Ali hated the last hour of her shift in menswear. On the one hand, the misses section kept her hopping all day long, harvesting clothing and returning stock that had been exchanged. She never had the chance to get bored, because she was always busy.
On the other hand, menswear was sooooooooo dull. Folding dress shirts. Asking “is there anything special I can help you find, sir?” Hanging neckties on little racks. She’d sooner watch paint dry. Weekends more often than not brought couples into her department, looking for special occasion gear, the girlfriends and wives leading the way and arguing unwilling victims into submission. That was the only entertainment she got, and it was killing her.
Auditions were too few and far in-between. She needed to use her pipes before she got rusty, or just plain went postal.
“Al…” Sophie whispered, sidling up to her slyly from the other side of the circular rack of oxford shirts.
“What?” she carped under her breath, her nose still out of joint from the incident with Raven and getting stuck at the service desk.
“Check him out,” she hissed, nodding toward the sportswear. Ali peered in that general direction, following Sophie’s finger.
“Real subtle,” she nagged, then smothered a low “holy shit” as she spied Scott Summers, looking grumpy and rumpled in his work blues, rifling impatiently through a rack of nylon tees.
“Now THAT is hot,” Sophie informed her smugly. “No wedding ring,” she sang under her breath.
“He’s separated,” Ali hissed back, shushing her. “Ugly divorce in the works. You DON’T want to mess with him and what he’s dealing with right now!”
“Pfffft. No ring and no old lady at home means no problem!” Sophie ducked behind a rack to straighten her bra, adjusting the straps and throwing out her chest as she straightened up and let Victoria’s Secret’s underwire support do the talking. Ali snorted, going back to tagging and sorting the shirts. She heard Sophie’s trilled “How can I help you today?” as she continued her task, muttering to herself how Sophie would really like to help him, and help herself.
She was startled from her reverie moments later, never hearing the soft footsteps on the track carpeting.
“Do you always mutter to yourself at work?”
“GAH!” Ali almost dropped the shirt hanger on the floor, doing an air-fumble with it before she steadied herself, staring aghast at Scott’s grin. His eyes were tired, she noticed, but crinkled with amusement and warmer than she remembered. “You scared me!”
“Sorry. You looked deep in thought. Or something along that line.”
“Pondering theories of relativity, and all that crap.”
“Ahhhh…”
“You off?”
“Yup. Need clothes.”
“What kind?” She warmed to the subject, sizing him up. Scott was tall and lean, his frame tapering from a pair of broad shoulders that begged to be leaned on, down to his narrow, toned waist. His short-sleeved scrubs showed off rippling biceps that benefited from regular trips to the gym, and his neck was corded with wiry sinew. He would look good in anything he wore.
“Something to kick around in. I’m tired of polo shirts. Just tossed out a whole bag full of them at Goodwill. Jean…” His voice hardened. “She threw out a bunch of my old tee shirts after we moved in together.”
“Women’s prerogative. Your side of the closet is her side, too. Face it, buddy, you’re a life-sized, walking, breathing Ken doll.”
“Gads…anything but that. Find me something that WON’T make me look like a Ken doll.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes, clearly not enthused by the task.
“Oh, goodie!” She hooked her arm through his and dragged him back to the casual wear, grinning like an evil elf. “You’ll be putty in my hands!” She pealed off a maniacal laugh that made her breasts jiggle enticingly through her snug, lightweight pink sweater.
“Er…Ali? Be gentle.” He mentally tightened his grip around his wallet.
“I’ll do better than that.”
~0~
“Logan? How many of your friends are flying out with us?”
“Dunno. Vic said he could get time off. Pete might show and bring Sage. Wasn’t really plannin’ on bringing an entourage, darlin’.” His voice was rumbly and delicious as he nibbled her collarbone. They were bundled up beneath the covers in Ororo’s bed, staring at the piles of brown cardboard boxes lined up along the walls. Logan had given notice on his old apartment, but managed to decline the contract and skipped signing the lease on the new unit by Salem Medical Center. His old furniture was currently in storage until they decided which pieces they wanted to keep. The flatscreen TV was already downstairs; they’d moved Ororo’s smaller set to the bedroom, and they were enjoying an old episode of CSI on low volume from the comfort of the bed. Logan was plastered over Ororo, his head cradled against her breast as they let themselves unwind after a long day of packing and unpacking. His muscles ached, but it was worth it to have it all finished, even though they were anticipating another move over the next couple of months.
They had an appointment to look at a house in two weeks.The following weekend was already marked on the calendar with a big, red “Vegas” scrawled in Logan’s jagged handwriting. Ororo squirmed and giggled when Logan’s mouth nibbled a steaming, ticklish path down her throat.
“I’m trying to make plans here,” she complained, but her hips bucked beneath him, rubbing against the throbbing, solid feel of him beneath the covers. His body molded to hers, sinuously rubbing her, and she responded with a low moan, her fingers caressing his broad, bare back. She pulled him closer, returning his grin in the dark, illuminated by the faint glow from the television. He was solid, his body a melody of smooth muscle, and his skin warmed beneath her touch as she tugged his lips down to hers for a liquid, thorough kiss.
“Got plans of my own,” he murmured. “Let’s get ya outta these,” he suggested, working the hem of her pajama top up over her ribcage. She stilled his hands, snickering as he assured her, “Look; look at that, yer nipples are all hard, ya want me, ya horn dog!”
“They were fine a minute ago,” she countered, and she squealed as he lazily tickled the straining peak and nipped it through the cotton top. She continued to squirm; his hands pried hers away from herself and gently clamped them up beside her temples as he nuzzled at her, tugging the top up all the way with his teeth. His tongue swirled a velvet trail around her nipple, and her response was loud and long.
“Mmmmm…” he groaned, taking his sweet time.
“Not fair,” she cried, but her lips trailed over his hairline and temples, and her hips cleaved to him, coddling him against her and straining for contact.
“Yer gonna complain no matter what,” he huffed, drawing back and whipping off the covers, exposing her. He eased back on his haunches and yanked at the waistband of her bottoms, tugging them off in one long, quick swish. “I grab ya, and ya tell me ta stop. I taste ya, and ya tell me ‘no fair, Logan,’” he growled, his voice mimicking her ridiculously. Chuckles resonated in her chest, making her breasts bounce. He crawled back up her body, lapping at her briskly through the tiny scrap of cotton. He paused a moment, grinning at what he saw. “Betty and Veronica?”
“Had the Underoo set when I was seven,” she explained. “Had to have these, too.”
“Works for me.” He peeled her like a banana, shucking the panties and tossing them onto the heap building at the foot of the bed.
“Right…we can talk…later,” she moaned, her voice muffled by her top being worked over her head and flung aside. Logan’s mouth claimed her, and she clutched him to her, instinctively thrusting up against him, coveting the full length and weight of him with her tingling skin. Her fingers curled themselves in his thick waves of hair, and she sighed into his mouth as he kissed her with hunger and passion.
Their coupling was urgent; she responded to him easily, craving him now after the preliminary banter was out of the way. His fingers stoked her slick flesh, testing her supple folds and probing her tight sheath, and she bucked against his hand, leaning into him. Her head was flung back as he readied her, rubbing his thickness against her dewy entrance and cursing under his breath at the sight of her, lips crying his name.
“Love ya when yer like this, darlin’!” he hissed, thrusting into her and nearly coming undone as her walls opened for him, drawing him in and welcoming him home. She was always a perfect fit. She always loved him with everything she had. They’d been inseparable since they exchanged rings, as though someone had flipped a switch. Making love to Ororo had always been addictive and special.
Now it was as important as air. Food, shelter, money and other nonsense were moving further and further down the list as he thrust himself into her, over and over, her arms and legs twined around him. He made a mental note to adjust the headboard; it was almost distracting, just banging into the drywall like that. Plaster of paris to patch it was one more thing to add to their trip to Home Depot when they prepared the house for sale…
“Feels so good,” she rasped. “More, Logan! Oh, God! So good!” Her hand twisted in the sheets beneath them until he captured it and drew it to his lips, consuming her, nipping the pulse in her wrist until she acquiesced, stroking him again. Her fingers whispered over the contours of his face as he brought them closer to their peak. Pleasure spiraled in her womb as he stiffened, jerking within her when her hands clutched his ass, squeezing it and holding onto it as an anchor…
“Ahhhhh…shit! Oh, shit!” he cried, and his mouth dropped open on a long, shuddering growl of pleasure as his hips jerked, spasming as he spilled himself into her depths. “Holy MOTHER OF GOD, ‘RO!” She came shortly after, her rhythm synching with his during his final tremors, his last pulsing thrusts shoving her over the edge with a brusque drop-kick.
She stared up at the ceiling, her face smeared in sappy bliss as she held him; his chest was heaving and various muscles in his body quivered at her touch.
“I’m inviting Anna and Remy,” Ororo informed him breathlessly, getting back to her topic. Logan shrugged and nodded, stroking her sweat-dampened hair back from her face and kissing her soundly.
“Yup. Told Remy about it already. Should be good ta go. They’ll be there with bells on. I don’t want anything fancy,” he warned.
“I don’t want anything but you in front of the church in a tux, and you in a hotel room after out of it.” His answering grin was wolfish, and he growled at her, gobbling up her neck.
“Any family ya wanna invite?”
“My mom. Maybe my brother,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Guess that leaves one last question, though.”
“What?” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Who’s gonna give me away?”
~0~
“These make my ass look big.”
“What ass?” Betsy was making dead fish lips at the mirror as she put on her mascara. She craned her neck around from the vanity, peering at Ali’s outfit. “You look fine, ducky.”
“I feel so…blah.” Ali’s eyes were still riveted on her reflection, and she patted her backside in dismay, smoothing the simple denim capris over her curves impatiently. “I’m old and dried up.”
“Bullshit. This is just the beginning. If you’re old, then I’m old. And I’m not old,” Betsy informed her. “Tell me if my hair looks okay in the back.” Ali approached and appraised Betsy’s rich, aubergine purple locks, cascading past her shoulders in full, careless waves. She tousled the front of it and scrunched in some more hair spray. Ali took the pick from Betsy’s bathroom counter and fluffed out the back, evening out the fullness. “Thanks.”
“I’m hopeless. Might as well go.”
“Not til you feel like you’ll rock the house as soon as you walk in. Come here, you.” Betsy appraised Alison’s jaw-length blonde hair briefly, tugging at a lock of it before deciding what needed to be done. “This has got to go,” she announced, spinning Ali to face the mirror and unfastening her barrette pulling it back from her face.
“Hey!”
“Too tame. We agreed on big hair,” Betsy harped, plugging in her curling iron and reaching for her wide-toothed comb. “Time to get wild,” she warned.
“You’re scaring me.”
“…muahahahahaaaaa,” Betsy crowed, raking her fingers through Ali’s blonde waves and grinning at the possibilities. This was gonna be fun!
Harry’s was packed. A handwritten poster shouted from the front lobby that Lila Cheney and Cat’s Laughing were playing out on the patio at nine. Ali, Betsy and Emma breezed through the door, shivering from the breeze outside. Ali was getting a major draft from the halter top that plunged in the front and the back, revealing acres of toned, creamy flesh. The Lycra weave was nearly the same blue as her eyes, and she wore a pair of chandelier earrings she borrowed from Emma, dripping with Swarovsky crystals.
She felt exposed, and for the first time in months, vulnerable. She rubbed her nape absently, then picked at her French manicured nails before Betsy nudged her to stop.
“It’s packed,” Emma remarked, stunning in her tiny white halter dress, her platinum hair teased at the crown for more volume. All three women wore scarlet-glossed pouts and were dressed to kill. “I’m thirsty,” she nagged.
“You mean you want to get drunk,” Betsy corrected her, searching for a free stool at the bar, urging them forward even though she hadn’t found one yet. They pushed and eased through the crowd, drawing leers and appreciative glances, ignoring them in favor of wetting their collective whistle.
Ali approached the bar first, squeezing in beside a tall, dark-haired man and leaning around him to signal the bartender. “Excuse me, can we get a pitcher of margaritas?” she called out, waving a twenty folded between her two fingers. She caught a small motion beside her from the corner of her eye as the man she was bumping elbows with turned around to stare at her.
“Ali?” Her earrings jangled as she spun to face him.
“SCOTT? Shit! Hi!” Her smile was broad and incredulous. “Look at you!”
“Look at you. Wow.” His walnut brown eyes swept her from head to foot, taking in the artfully styled hair, vamped, teased and curled to within an inch of its life, framing her heart-shaped face in a golden cloud. Her outfit left little to the imagination and made his hands itch to feel the soft texture of her tiny top, and to stroke the creamy skin revealed so…abundantly. She turned to the bartender and repeated her order, and then gave Scott her full attention once more, admiring what he had on. A black Lycra Nike tee with a red swoosh embroidered on the collar was stretched tautly over his deep chest, complementing his dark chestnut hair and those eyes, which had lit up when he recognized her. Black denim jeans hugged him snugly enough to make Ali drool, a nice departure from all the younger men in the bar that wore them sagging, looking like escapees from the FUBU catalog. His hair was slightly longer than he usually wore it, careless waves falling over his eyes.
She brushed them back before she could stop herself. He smelled good, she realized. She cleared her throat, but ended up leaning in more closely than before when she was buffeted by some people behind her that wanted to approach the bar to place an order.
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Didn’t plan on coming. Art and Rory talked me into it,” he explained.
“Ah. Got it,” she agreed, smiling at the bartender when he brought her the pitcher and set it beside her along with a handful of plastic cups. She paid him and her eyes scanned the lounge. “Where are Emma and Bets?”
“Over there,” he informed her, nodding toward the opposite corner. Emma was sidled up to a dark-haired young man with olive-skinned good looks as Betsy fiddled with a pinball machine against the wall, showing it who was boss. Betsy caught her eye and waved, and Ali felt a pang at having to join them to bring them their drinks.
“I’d better bring this over there,” she decided, brandishing the pitcher by its handle. “Scott?”
“Yeah?” He sipped his Tanqueray and tonic, biting into the lime wedge. The gesture drew her attention to his mouth and the sharp, chiseled notch in his upper lip. His hands were long and strong, his fingers slender and dexterous with knuckles thickened from hard work. “Invite them over.”
“There isn’t enough room,” she reasoned. She was bumped again, nearly spilling her pitcher. Scott reached for it and pried it from her grasp, setting it back down.
“No problem,” he assured her before turning away and cupping his mouth with his hands. “BETS! C’mere a sec,” he called. Betsy turned from her pinball game and strode over, leaving a trail of gaping mouths in her wake. Her black corset top left little to the imagination, nor did her pencil-slim black pants adorned with little silver zippers.
“Hello, ducks. Hi, Scott!”
“Thirsty?” he inquired, holding up the pitcher. “Take these,” he offered, handing her the cups. “Tell Emma I said hi.”
“That’s fine,” she agreed. “Ali, have one.”
“I’ll get her a drink,” Scott urged. “See you in a bit.” Betsy’s brow shot up, but she smiled knowingly at Ali over Scott’s shoulder once his back was turned, spinning on her heel and returning to Emma, who had found them an empty table. Leaving Ali and Scott alone.
Or, at least as alone as they could be at a crowded bar…
“Scott, you look nice,” Ali murmured. They sat so closely that their knees bumped from their perches on the slender barstools, sending a pleasant little shiver of excitement into her stomach. Ali noticed a small bowl of beer nuts and nudged it toward him, taking a few for herself.
“You dressed me,” he commented.
“I didn’t think you’d take me seriously. I like it.”
“I’m glad. Figured I can trust someone who goes out the door looking pretty sharp herself.” She flushed to the roots of her hair.
“Thanks.”
“Let me get you that drink.” He signaled the bartender.
“Lemon drop?”
“As many as you want.” This time, Scott wasn’t worried about his wallet. Ali’s smile was wicked, a delicious pout glossed in red, looking ripe as an apple. “Needed a night out with the girls?”
“If you wanna call it that. Got stood up a while back. Needed to get some ya-yas out. Shake my booty.” She did an experimental wiggle in her seat that made him guffaw.
“I’d pay to see that!”
“You might want your money back!”
“Stood up, huh?”
“Yep.” She didn’t mention that Art conveniently left her a voice mail that sounded like he made it up off the top of his head.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he reminded her. “Don’t waste time on someone that strings you along, Al.”
“Thanks, Mom!”
“Hey, you don’t get opportunities like this every day,” Scott growled, pulling an indignant face that she didn’t believe for a second. “I’m a guy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how guys think.”
“So you’ll give me the guys’ eye view?”
“If you want.”
“Okay. Why did I get stood up?”
“Eh. Guy could have hooked up with someone else at the last minute. Another possibility is an Eagles game he forgot about and his Tivo DVR went out. Could’ve even lost your phone number.”
“Laaaammmeeee,” she sang with a roll of her eyes. Scott grinned, tracing patterns in the condensation of her glass and stirring the ice cubes with his fingertip.
“Or he could have just punked out.”
“Or he could have just punked out,” Ali repeated. “Right. We’ll go with him losing my number, since that option makes me feel the least like shit.” Even if it wasn’t true. Voice mail, she fumed. Jerk.
“Killer,” Scott agreed, gulping down the last of his gin. “Wanna refill?”
“God, yes.” The first one was going to her head, making her feel warm and buzzy. She swayed without thinking to the music drifting in from the patio, and her arm grazed Scott’s. He studied her from hooded eyes, and she blushed under the intensity she saw there. His skin felt so supple, the fine mat of hair tickling her, heightened by the drink and the press of bodies all around them. Arousal bloomed in her belly, and she felt her cervix squeeze itself into a knot before mentally shaking herself.
This was Scott, for cryin’ out loud. He was the Boy Scout. He worshipped at the Temple of Goddess Jean. Well, then again, not anymore he didn’t. But still…
Jean was Jean. Scott liked his women grounded and organized. The kind of women who knew things about china patterns and the difference between Thomasville and Ethan Allen. On Ali’s salary, she couldn’t even afford the Todd Oldham line at Target. Ali could readily admit it. She was scattered. Her grocery list consisted of Special K and hair spray. She sang in the shower and anywhere else that someone would listen, waiting for that big break
Ali admired his patrician profile in the hazy glow of the dimly lit bar. His nose was long and straight, not prominent enough to detract from those gorgeous eyes or sensuous mouth. He had a long and narrow jaw, and she noticed that he was actually sporting a hint of shadowy stubble that made the sharp angles stand out even more.
Once again, she couldn’t help touching him. “You didn’t shave.”
“Didn’t feel like it today.”
“You look dangerous.” She didn’t recognize her voice, and she didn’t expect him to hear it over the din of the pub.
“I feel dangerous,” he admitted, surprising her. His eyes smoldered as she traced his jaw with the backs of her fingers. His skin was hot; his stubble rasped against her and made her tingle. The bartender brought their drinks. He slid hers into her her hand. “Bottoms up.” Wordlessly she obeyed, tipping it back and gulping its contents. It burned on the way down. He never took his eyes from her as he finished his own. They were leaning so closely that her arm was tucked along his against the counter, almost intertwined.
“I could use a dance.” He rose from his stool and laced his fingers through hers. Her heart slammed inside her chest, and she seemed to have misplaced her stomach…she found it, there, where it dropped into her shoes. “So could you.”
She nodded. “So could I.” Damn. They abandoned their perch at the bar and wove their way through the crowd to the patio. Scott’s grip on her hand was firm and sure, and she felt oddly safe.
Lila was working the crowd, crooning a cover of “Beast of Burden” that turned Ali’s insides to maple syrup and loosened her up. She swayed to it before Scott even pulled her to him to dance on the fringes of the crowd. Her arms slipped up around his neck, and her hips felt right in his hands. She grinned up at him, faintly tipsy but enjoying the way he smelled. His chest was solid and firm, and he moved with fluid grace, falling into step with her as though they had always danced like this.
I'll never be your beast of burden
My back is broad but it's a hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
I'll never be your beast of burden
I've walked for miles my feet are hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
I'm not too blind to see
I'll never be your beast of burden
So let's go home and draw the curtains
Music on the radio
Come on baby make sweet love to me
Ali found herself languorously humming the melody as she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against his chest. Her body moved instinctively, his flesh seeming to ripple and flow together with hers, even through their clothes. Scott’s hands crept to rest in the small of her back, caressing her satiny skin, and she purred like a satisfied cat. She heard the crack of his smile above her ear.
“You’re good,” he murmured.
“At what?” She was too content to care. I’m good, she thought. Tra-la-la…He felt exquisite beneath her hands.
“You can sing.” Her eyes snapped open.
“Shit…I wasn’t even paying attention. Sorry. I know some people find it annoying when you just ‘bust out into song.’ Sorry,” she repeated, and the rapport was diminished somehow as she fought for composure.
“No. You can really sing. Jean never mentioned you can sing.”
“She wouldn’t have said much about it, anyway. Once in a while, we used to hit the karaoke bars. We had fun.”
“Nothing’s stopping her from having fun now,” Scott muttered bitterly.
“How are you holding up, Scott?” She drew back to really look at him. His jaw was clenched, and he radiated frustration. She was pleased as a bit of tension eased from him when she lightly stroked his neck.
“I’ve gotta be honest, Al. I’m not. Hurts.” Her brow furrowed, and she leaned back into him, and gave him a hesitant pat. “It was like someone just kicked me in the balls.”
“No shit. With size sixteen boots,” Ali grimaced. “Ouch.”
“I don’t know how long or how often she was with him. He’s moved in. I moved out. Our lawyers do all the talking. I can’t wait til this damned mess is over.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a mess. It was supposed to be happily ever after,” Ali mused. Her hands absently stroked him, and he relaxed beneath her touch. Her hair tickled his lips, the fragrance enticing him. “Or even dysfunctionally ever after. Whaddever.”
“Whaddever,” Scott agreed. “Something like that. We did all the things that you do when you fall in love with someone. You become infatuated with them at first sight. You call. You date. You shop for groceries together and spend more time at their place than yours. You practically abandon your friends and try to convince them you won’t. You get wrapped up in their baggage and decide, what the hell, might as well bite the bullet. You’re in love. Love makes you do crazy things.”
“Loving her wasn’t a crazy thing. Her loving you sure as fuck wasn’t crazy, Scottie boy.” Ali smiled to herself. Jean had baggage? Hm.
“How about Cain?”
“No. Cain was crazy. Loving him was like shooting myself in the head.” Scott threw back his head and guffawed. Ali grinned against his quaking chest, and felt a cool little jolt of pleasure when Art and Rory showed up outside, wending their way over when they noticed Scott. She didn’t look away when they approached, and she even smiled at Art, enjoying Scott’s firm embrace around her waist.
“We’re headed to Crazy Horse,” Rory announced, nodding at her. Art’s expression was mild, but she caught the way his eyes roved over her as if to regret breaking their date.
“I’m gonna stick around for the next set,” Scott replied. Rory shrugged, and he and Art departed, leaving Scott and Ali to ease back into their rhythm, edging closer to the tiny stage. They slow-dragged and followed Lila’s sultry vocals, losing themselves in the lyrics and whining bass guitar.
“You should be up there,” Scott murmured thoughtfully. His breath stirred the hairs at her temple and tickled the crest of her ear. Ali shivered.
“Never happen,” she replied, but she felt a pang of regret and longing.
“Never say never,” he shot back, catching her attention. Her body cried out in protest at the loss of his warm bulk as he whipped around and headed toward the stage, Ali in tow, almost stumbling to keep up with him in her kitten-heeled sandals.
“Scott, are you nuts? What’re you doing?”
“Hey, you don’t get opportunities like this every day,” he answered, repeating his advice from inside the bar. They made it to the tiny platform, and Scott leaned over and motioned to the bass guitarist, tapping him briefly. He waved him down to mutter something in his ear, and his face beamed briefly as he looked down at Ali, smiling appreciatively at petite body and flamboyant looks. He strode over to Lila while she was in the middle of announcing her number.
“I’m feeling a little nostalgic tonight, folks! Some of you weren’t even born when this next song came out. Some of you might have been teething on your daddy’s old eight-track tapes when this came out on cassette!” The crowd roared, and a few young punks up front piped up, “What’s eight-track? What’s a cassette?” She thumbed her nose at them playfully, amping the crowd up. Her bassist tapped her on the shoulder and conferred with her for a moment. Her eyes swung in Ali and Scott’s direction, and she smiled widely.
“Rumor has it, folks, that we have another little songbird in the house tonight. Think she can sing?” There was a loud chorus of cheers and stamping of feet. “Bring her on up! Don’t be shy, kiddo, come on up here!” Lila’s dark eyes danced mischievously. She was decked out in black mesh and leather, her black hair short and spiky, revealing multiple silver hoops in her ear. She waved Ali up, inviting her onstage.
“This is nuts, this is SO nuts!” Ali breathed, looking absolutely petrified.
“Pretend it’s karaoke,” Scott cajoled. “Lemon drops on me,” he added, sweetening the pot.
“Ohmigod!” she squeaked, as she was pushed up the short flight of steps. The crowd continued to clap, approving of the hot blonde in the snug jeans and little sweet nothing of a top.
“Do you like Alannah Miles?” Lila’s smile was infectious.
“Do I!” To Ali, it was like Christmas came early. Lila nodded back to her drummer, and he clacked his sticks together. The soulful licks of the guitar took Ali back, and she cut loose, a bubble of delight filling her chest. Her fingers stopped trembling once the microphone was held snugly in her grip.
She caught Scott watching her, a look of awe and admiration plain on his face. He stood with his arms folded, rocking back on his heels.
”Up in Memphis the music's like a heatwave
White lightening, bound to drive you wild
Mama's baby's in the heart of every school girl
"Love me tender" leaves 'em cryin' in the aisle
The way he moved, it was a sin, so sweet and true
Always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for
Lila joined her for the chorus, and they nearly brought the house down.
Black velvet and that little boy's smile
Black velvet with that slow southern style
A new religion that'll bring ya to your knees
Black velvet if you please
Lila’s voice was sultry, gritty and deep, evoking whiskey and tangled sheets. Ali’s voice was lighter but true, still tempting anyone with ears to sin right along with her, belting out one of the songs she loved best. It was a rush.
“What’s your name, babe?”
“Ali. Allison Blaire.”
“This one’s one to watch, right here! You saw her here first!” The applause made her euphoric. “Give her a hand! Hope you enjoy the rest of the show, folks.” Ali handed her mic back to the bassist, who placed it back on the stand. Lila drank from a water bottle sitting atop a nearby wooden stool before snaking her hand out to catch Ali before she left the stage.
A business card was pressed into her hand. Cat’s Laughing Internet site address was printed neatly across the bottom, as well as Lila’s mobile phone and email. “Hope to hear from you.” Ali’s jaw nearly hit the ground. She felt numb, tingly, and dizzy with shock. She turned and walked off the stage in a daze. Scott was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“That good, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded, handing him the card. He whistled.
“Nice! This calls for a drink!”
“They liked me. Lila liked me.”
“You were fantastic,” Scott assured her, giving her an “oh, please!” look as he took her hand. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.” If they were inside, her smile would have lit the room. Instead, it competed with the stars overhead, and some voice in Scott’s head shouted that he was a goner. They found a seat more easily at the outdoor bar, since the crowd was still surrounding the stage. Scott remained standing while he snagged Ali a barstool, and she was surprised and thrilled when he rubbed her back companionably as he ordered their drinks. A warm, giddy flush moved her lips. “I feel so high right now.”
“Oops…guess you’ve had enough?”
“Still thirsty,” she amended. The bartender slid their drinks over the counter, and Ali was grateful to notice a loose pitcher of ice water and some spare plastic cups beside a tray of drink garnishes. She helped herself to some water, pocketing a chunk of ice in her cheek. She plucked it from her mouth and ran it over her neck to cool herself.
Scott’s pupils dilated at the sight. “Mind if I have some?”
“There’s plenty; here, let…me…” He gently removed the ice cube from her fingers, brandishing it between his finger and thumb. Her offer to get him a cup of iced water evaporated on her lips as he followed the same trail she drew on her neck with the cube, proceeding at a more leisurely pace. She shivered at the sensation of fire and ice kissing her skin, and her eyes drifted shut on a small moan.
“Let me,” Scott husked, popping the ice cube into his mouth and crunching it into shards, before he captured her chin between his fingers, dropping a kiss on her forehead, anointing it with his icy breath. “Feel any cooler?”
“N-no,” she quivered.
He feathered his lips down the bridge of her nose. “Now?”
She shook her head. He reached around and rotated the seat of her barstool until he could easily step between her knees. Her blood zipped through her veins like lightning, quickening her pulse. Her hands trembled as she reached for her glass of iced water. “Still thirsty,” she pleaded, and she fumbled in the liquid for another cube. She prized one from the cup and lifted it to her lips, her eyes on him as she sucked it between them, her eyes closing as she drew on it. “That’s a little better.”
“I’m thirsty too.” She peered up at him through her lashes.
“Open up.” She lifted the morsel to his lips, heedless of the bracing liquid dribbling down her wrist. Voices of reason screamed that this was insanity, this was her friend’s soon-to-be ex-husband, her friend of several years…
Desire swirled in her belly, heat pooling between her legs as his lips engulfed the ice and pursed hotly around her fingers. He cleaned the gleaming trail of liquid from the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist, enflaming her. She stopped fighting the passion bubbling inside of her when she saw it reflected in his eyes and felt the insistent tug of his lips at her flesh. His thumb stroked her pulse. Oh, screw it…
“Cool enough yet?” A hint of a smile teased his lips. She shook her head, studying his face for one fleeting moment. His broad palm cupped her face, tilting it to give himself access before tenderly laving the column of her throat, his tongue slicking her flesh with cool fire. She was glad she was sitting down, or her legs would have given out. She ignored the chortled “Get a room!” from random passerby.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Scott.”
“You still look overheated, Al.” Without preamble, she reached for more ice. His arm slipped around her waist, and she fisted her free hand in his hair, the strands silky and cool when her fingers slid through it. She nearly yelped at the feel of his cold fingers grazing the bare flesh revealed by the cropped halter top, but her eyes screamed sin as she teased his lip with the ice, finally poking it between his lips. She heard the low crunch of his teeth pulverizing it before he murmured “Gonna hafta do something about that.” He breathed a cool puff of air over her eyelids before kissing one, then the other, nibbling the crests of her cheekbones, exploring the contours of her dewy skin with his lips before he captured hers. The kiss was langorous and thorough, and she whimpered helplessly into his mouth. She didn’t fight it when his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, twining around hers sinuously. He emitted a sound of longing and need that made her heart skip.
“It’s…it’s getting close in here,” she rasped when they came up for a breath.
“Out here,” he corrected her.
“Whatever.” She reached up to wipe away a smudge of her lip gloss from his mouth.
It felt surreal, Ali mused, when a familiar, clipped voice announced “Well, that didn’t take long.” Her stomach plummeted right back into her shoes as Jean and Lorna stood before them, staring them up and down. Lorna looked chagrined, standing behind her and holding her rum and Coke and Jean’s club soda. Jean’s eyes swept accusingly over Ali, and her arms folded themselves beneath her breasts.
Scott was the first to speak. “No. You’re wrong, Jean. It took a while. Months, if I remember it right. However long you were keeping secrets.”
Ali cleared her throat, knowing whatever she said would come out wrong. “How have you been, Jean?”
“That’s probably none of your business now,” Jean purred. “God, how could you even ask? Do you know how this looks?”
“Jeannie, let’s go,” Lorna begged, trying to pull her aside.
“It’s a free country. He doesn’t own the bar,” Jean hissed. “We came here to have a good time tonight.” She directed her next words at Scott. “I won’t let you ruin it for me.”
“Do what you want. It won’t have any effect on my night at all.” His eyes swept the patio as though he were looking for Pietro and noticing he was absent. Jean’s eyes narrowed.
“I guess I’m not surprised.” She shook her head and laughed humorlessly. “She’s just your type, Scott. A little damsel in distress for you to rescue. Have fun dodging phone calls in the middle of the night from Cain.” Hurt clogged Ali’s throat, but she mastered it.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Ali snapped. “Leave Cain out of this.” Ali refused to go on the attack, even though the night of Jean’s housewarming party still blazed like a firebrand in her memory. “Scott happened to be here. And I don’t feel like I should have to explain myself.”
“You’re right. You don’t.” Scott backed away from Ali long enough to tug her from the barstool. His fingers laced through hers possessively as he announced “Enjoy yourself if you can, Jean.” Her face twisted into a parody of a smile.
“That’s great. That’s just great. Run off.”
“I should have run a long time ago. Whatever you think broke us up, Jean, has nothing to do with me. I did everything I was supposed to do. Now you can do whatever you want.”
“Cute little speech…Scott…oh, my God!” Jean’s eyes watered, and she clapped her hands over her mouth, spinning and darting off. Lorna set their drinks on the bar and ran after her, sidling up to her as Jean choked up her accounts, vomiting into a potted shrub. She rubbed her back, wincing as Jean gagged, drawing the attention of the busboys. Lorna uttered soothing words, and Ali felt a pang of concern.
“Hold on a minute,” she begged, patting Scott before she let go of him and she approached her one-time and current friends, respectively. “Lorna, is she gonna be okay?”
“Just fine,” Lorna cooed. “Just got a little worked up. Naughty tummy. Not to mention a little morning sickness that doesn’t know it’s after nightfall.”
“Oh. Oh my.”
“I’m fine,” Jean snapped, wiping her mouth with a napkin Lorna purloined from the bar. She pinned Ali with her bloodshot gaze. “It’s none of your business anymore. Go back to Scott.”
“I wish you the best,” Ali managed. “Bye.”
“Fuck off,” was her snarled reply. Lorna shot Ali a brief look when Jean’s back was turned, mouthing “call me” before she retrieved their drinks and led Jean back inside. She turned back to Scott, who was watching the scene unfold with a look of irony.
“Normally I’d call that a mood killer.”
“What? The drama, you being cussed out, me being told to fuck off, or Jean puking?”
“One or all of the above. Normally,” he emphasized. “Ali?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
The Macarena, and Sillier Rituals by OriginalCeenote
“This is nuts. All these wedding chapels look alike,” Anna Marie groused, watching the little red arrow directing them down their path on the rented Navigator’s GPS system.
“Hey, there’s Elvis,” Ali grinned, bouncing up and down in her seat.
“Bet we’ll see a few,” Betsy chuckled. “I always wondered if Vegas was as ostentatious as it looks on TV.”
“And?” Anna Marie craned her neck around toward the rear seat, her green eyes twinkling.
“I feel the urge to hump the stripper pole like Elizabeth Berkeley, just because I can.”
“That’ll make a great wedding photo,” Ali snickered.
“It feels weird, not being a bridesmaid,” Emma murmured. “Ororo never said she wanted a small wedding.”
“She never made a big fuss about heirloom lace, either. Did ya’ll get the keep-the-date magnets she sent out?”
“Mine’s on the fridge. The picture was cute!”
“Logan’s so short,” Betsy mused. “But they just fit, somehow.”
“She’s radiant,” Ali gushed. “Man, this is gonna be good. Can’t wait to party!”
“I can’t wait to see the temple they picked,” Anna Marie agreed.
“What time are the guys getting there?” Lorna inquired.
“They said they’d probably beat us there. Remy drives like a maniac,” Anna Marie muttered.
“Everybody does out here.” Ali guided the car carefully through mid-morning traffic. “And again, you’ve gotta love a city that has slot machines at the airport.”
“One more spin, and I would’ve broken even,” Anna mourned.
~0~
Sage gave Piotr’s tie one more tug before smoothing out his lapels with her palms. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “You look good enough to eat.”
“Promise?” He looped his arms around her waist and kissed her deeply, not caring that they were in an open foyer at the chapel.
“Knock it off! It ain’t yer turn today, bub!” Logan growled, looking up from where he was pacing by the altar, wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks.
“Somebody’s gettin’ impatient, non?” Remy drawled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, mec. S’gonna go off wi’ dout so much as a hitch, y’hear?”
“You ain’t the one waiting,” he grumbled, but he spared him a half-smile as he sat back on the pew. He was back up thirty seconds later, pacing again. Remy chuckled.
“You’re worse than I am,” Scott nagged good-naturedly.
“Bullshit,” Logan shot back, then covered his mouth haplessly, remembering he was in a chapel, wondering if the same rules applied. “No one was more uptight than you on yer wedding day, Scooter.”
“Anyone would’ve been in my shoes. Saying ‘I do’ was the easy part. The two years of planning, stewing, indecision, insanity and holding myself back from stabbing out my eyeballs with a letter opener whenever Jean mentioned ‘centerpieces’ was hard. No, scratch that “ brutal.”
“That’s m’own definition of hell,” Remy shuddered.
“Yer next.”
“Yer a bunch of flamin’ pussies,” Vic sighed, grinning and dangling his hands between his knees. His long legs wouldn’t fit behind any of the rear pews, so he sat up front with his date clinging to his arm, looking every inch the showgirl in her skimpy red dress and flamboyant eye makeup. He introduced her as Leni Zauber, a Miss Universe contestant who won First Runner-Up. Aliyah stood nearby, poking at an arrangement of silk flowers on the altar before Sage admonished her quietly to stop. She retreated to Piotr’s lap and snuggled close, playing with his cufflinks. Sage straightened the band of ribbons and daisies she’d adorned her pile of moppet curls with and laid her hand on Piotr’s knee. Logan entertained himself by taking potshots at Vic and periodically making Boogey Man faces at Aliyah just to hear her squeal and cower into Piotr’s shirt front, giggling behind her hand.
Scott checked his watch, noticing they had fifteen more minutes before the minister arrived. He’d introduced himself to them, a lean, plain-looking man with dark hair and unremarkable features, but he had a garment bag draped over his arm as he had them sign in. He had disappeared briefly behind the curtain, leaving Logan to brood and pace.
Scott made himself comfortable on the cushioned pew and fiddled with a guest card, doodling on it with th stub of pencil in the slot. He chuckled to himself, wondering how he got where he was at that moment, but mulling that it felt right.
If anyone told him two weeks ago that he’d be showing up at a quickie wedding so soon after the dissolution of his own marriage, when he was in the middle of a divorce that made a root canal look like it tickled, he would have told them to stay out of the Schnapps. Ali had a lot to do with it.
~0~
“I can’t move my legs,” Scott groaned, running his fingers through Ali’s tousled hair as she stretched herself along his side, plastering her body to his in sated bliss. He was exhausted, and he couldn’t wipe the bleary smile off his face. She drew little pictures against his chest with her fingertip, retracing the same little heart over and over until he clasped her hand to make her stop.
“Then don’t try,” she advised. Her voice was husky and rich as they lounged in his bed in the dark, their bodies faintly illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the window.
“Sounds like a plan.” Her skin was satiny, begging his touch. He couldn’t stop caressing her. His lips feathered her hairline, and she peered up at him, kissing his lips, sighing with contentment. The faint flavor of Tanqueray still lingered on him, but she didn’t mind.
They’d managed to make it out of Harry’s, and ducked into a small pizza parlor for a quick slice, carrying them outside and devouring them despite nearly volcanic melted cheese and sauce. Ali complained that she burnt her tongue.
“Poor baby,” Scott crooned, and he kissed it better, evoking a moan of thanks and restless tugs on his shirt. She forgot about the raw chafe of the burn as he sucked her lip into his mouth. Ali had ridden with Betsy in Emma’s car, and she didn’t protest when Scott offered his apartment. They caught a cab and merely leaned into each other, Ali half-sprawled over his lap as he kneaded her neck, not wanting to give their driver a free show.
Their strides up his front stairs were quick and sharp. Scott mauled her, backing her against the door of his apartment and kissing her long and hard as he fumbled for his keys. Her hands crept beneath his shirt, stroking his smooth abdomen and making it tremble beneath her touch.
They got inside “ finally! “ and stumbled their way through the Spartan living room. Their lips and bodies met in a hungry, frantic fusion, and they landed against the rear wall, nearly knocking over Scott’s floor lamp as he claimed her mouth, trailing kisses down her cheek and jaw. His tongue swirled and wreaked havoc along her neck, and she clutched at his hair, clawing his shirt out from his waistband.
He was beautiful, even in the dark. His silhouette was lean and tapered, just as she imagined him to be when she saw him in the snug shirt and jeans. His broad shoulders invited her hands to stroke him and twine her arms around his neck as he began to undress her.
“God, Ali,” he rasped in her ear, licking the shell and making her quiver. She moaned even louder when he suckled the tender lobe. Two pairs of jeans hit the floor with a thud, and they nearly stumbled out of their shoes. Scott hauled her flush against him, grinding his pelvis against hers wantonly, determined to get closer, deeper…more. He hooked his hands behind her knees and wrapped her legs around his waist, carrying her to his bedroom down the hall. Her steamy kisses landed on his face in the dark, and he made short work of their respective underthings as she sprawled back onto the sheets.
“Scott,” she breathed, stroking him with her hands, tongue, lips and teeth, repeating his name as he thrust into her, rocking in and out in an irresistible rhythm, wanting to climb inside of her. She was slick and hot, wrapped around him like silk, and she squeezed him, convulsing around him with the glory of him filling her. All thoughts of Jean flew out the window as she sang a different song this time, one of want and need. Her cries filled the darkened room, music to his ears. They didn’t talk. They communicated with touch and hearing each other moan and gasp, their bodies straining together in near-perfect sync. Ali’s first climax nearly undid him. Before she could catch her breath, he grasped her ankles and flipped her to her stomach, kissing a blazing path down her back, licking wicked circles over each rounded, supple cheek of her ass. She gripped the covers in her fists and moaned as his plump head probed her moist heat and entered her again. Her mouth dropped open as he continued his assault on her senses, jerking her hips to meet him. Her nipples were abraded by the tangled covers beneath her, and her body tingled as she began to once again reach her peak. He was swollen, turgid and straining within her for release, and she reveled in his hoarse shout when he reached his pleasure, spasming and tightening his grip on her, never wanting to let her go. They collapsed and spooned together as she wiggled her backside into him instinctively. His kisses on her nape were one of the last things she remembered before she drifted off to sleep.
She’d dozed an hour before she felt him stirring to life again against her rump. She faced him, easing back into his arms and rolling on top of him, taking her time exploring his body and tracing his features with her lips. Not a single inch of his body escaped her scrutiny. She kissed an old appendix scar across his belly and laved a tiny birthmark on his thigh with her tongue, making him balk that it tickled. Ali fought back the urge to kick herself when this was over.
There was no way this would lead to anything else. She wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. She took him again, reveling in the blissful groans that issued from his throat as he came, the fact that she caused his reaction powerful, heady and addicting.
She didn’t want to speak. There was little she could say that wouldn’t break the spell.
“I’m working NOC shift tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’d like to take you out to lunch before I go in.” She snuggled more deeply into his chest as her breathing began to match pace with his. She purred happily in agreement.
“I’d like that.”
“This is nuts.” She leaned up and peered down at him, noting the quizzical look in his eye. He traced her lips lazily with his fingertip. “I didn’t expect this.”
“I danced at your wedding. Badly, as I recall. You don’t have to tell me twice, Scott.”
“You weren’t that bad,” he smirked, shifting her against him and stroking her back. She framed his face between her palms and kissed him sweetly, realizing how habit-forming it had become.
“Hey. It’s called an open bar, Summers. Give a girl some slack.”
“I’m not even that mad anymore,” Scott mused. “Well, I’m mad, but for different reasons.”
“You loved her.”
“And I trusted her. I trusted ‘Tro, too. It’s just that…”
“Scott, you were the best thing that ever happened to her.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“Her problem. You’re an amazing man, Scott Summers.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He cradled her tenderly, nuzzling the top of her head. “You were great tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Really, really great.”
“Thank you.” She beamed.
“What’d Jean say when you followed her?”
Ali held her breath, then exhaled it on a sigh. “She’s pregnant.” She heard Scott’s breath catch in his chest. “And then she told me to fuck off.” His hand paused mid-stroke, and she peered up at him again. “You probably didn’t need to hear that.”
“Are you kidding?” He shook his head, grinning. Then he began to laugh. Ali stared at him as though he was demented.
“Right. She tells me to fuck off, and he starts busting a gut.”
“Heh. Sorry.” She collapsed against him again, covering them with the blankets, and he smothered another snort. “I was wondering why she looked so green around the gills.”
“Don’t hold back, say how you really feel.”
“I just feel like I dodged a bullet.” Ali felt a quiver of panic in her gut.
“…oh.”
“We wanted to have kids eventually. Don’t get me wrong.” Ali felt some of the tension ease. “But if she’d gotten pregnant with me, with my child while she was running around and keeping secrets…imagine the train wreck.”
“Better yet,” she murmured, “let’s not.”
“Okay,” Scott agreed. His eyelids were heavy. “That’s not how you start a family. Or a marriage.”
“Speaking of which…Scott, Logan and ‘Ro are tying the knot.”
Silence.
“She invited me to the wedding. They’re flying out to Vegas.”
“How nice for them.” His tone was resigned.
“She doesn’t have anyone to give her away.”
More silence.
Then…
“…I’ll call Logan in the morning.” Ali smiled in the dark.
~0~
Scott stirred from his musings when multiple sets of high heels clattered into the chapel. Betsy trotted inside, her face flushed.
“We’ve only got the chapel for a half an hour,” Logan griped. “Ya look nice,” he amended.
“Still grumpy,” Anna Marie muttered to Ali.
“Let’s go check on the bride.” Scott caught her eye and winked. “One sec.” She broke away from Anna and strolled to his pew. She shucked her jacket and laid it on top of his.
“You’re late,” he chided her, even though his eyes traveled over her flouncy chiffon dress that revealed her tanned, lithe legs and skimmed over her curves.
“I’m worth the wait, right?” She bent down and stole a kiss, grinning at him as she wiped a smudge of her lipstick from the corner of his mouth. He pretended to take a bite out of her hand before releasing her.
“We’ve got a bride to marry off, Al!” Anna hissed. They tottered off to the bride’s changing suite and rapped on the door.
“Can we come in, shoog?”
“Give me a minute,” she carped from behind the door.
“She sounds stressed,” Ali observed.
“Bet she’s about ta burst,” Anna giggled.
“Okay,” Ororo called out. “Come on in.” She steadied herself and turned away from the vanity just as they let themselves in. Their mouths dropped open in awe, and Ali’s eyes instantly welled up.
“Oh, ‘Ro…” She fanned herself, only making her eyes glisten with more tears. “You look SO beautiful!”
“Yer gonna knock his eyes out, sugah, that’s fer sure.” She grabbed a generous handful of tissues from the box and handed one to Ali, who impatiently held out her hand for another as she dabbed her cheeks.
“I’m shaking. Look at me, I’m shaking!” Anna gripped her hands fondly.
“Yer man got all dolled up for ya, kiddo. Looks pretty damned gorgeous. Remy only had ta knot his tie three times before he was happy with it.” She circled Ororo and fluffed her veil. Ororo giggled nervously before she wrung her hands.
“I’m going to be Mrs. James Logan Howlett,” she breathed.
“And he’s gonna be the happiest man on earth. And if he’s not, I’ve got a rolling pin and some brass knuckles wrapped up as a wedding gift that says otherwise.” Ali breathed deeply, turning off the waterworks.
“That’s why I love you,” Ororo beamed, her own eyes beginning to mist as she hugged them tightly.
“I’ll get Scott.” Ali departed first. Anna straightened her dress in the mirror, the jade twin to Ali’s. Anna let him in when he knocked. His smile nearly made her lose it.
“I almost don’t want to give you away! You clean up nice!”
“Ali’s rubbing off on you,” Ororo observed.
“She’s contagious,” he grinned, the look on his face almost sappy.
“Don’t breathe on me!” She threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. Anna preceded them out the door and stood at the back of the chapel, waiting.
“Wait for it,” she murmured restlessly. Three endless minutes ticked by as Ororo fidgeted. Scott squeezed her hand.
Inside the chapel, Logan stood stiffly, fighting the urge to tug his tie lopsided and give himself some air. The air inside the snug little annex felt charged with nervous energy, engulfing him as he waited for the woman he planned on spending the next fifty years with, hoping, praying, BEGGING that it wasn’t a practical joke. That God wasn’t planning on pointing down at him and yelling “PSYCHE!” That he and ‘Ro wouldn’t hit another roadblock…
“Look alive, runt,” Vic murmured. Remy laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, even though Logan straightened his posture even further, puffing out his chest. He wasn’t demonstrative, he thought.
“It’s go time, mon frere,” Remy reminded him.
“Ain’t like I’m gonna fall apart an’ start cryin’ like they do on the TV, bub,” he huffed back, but his stomach was full of butterflies.
The opening strains of “Love Me Tender” floated to the back of the chapel, and Ororo took a deep breath, tightening her grip on the silk bouquet as her feet moved of their own volition down the ornate, red and gold tapestried aisle runner. All eyes were on her as she made her way toward the altar, her gaze pinned distracted initially by the most flamboyant Elvis impersonator she had ever seen. White jumpsuited, glittering Elvis, star-spangled cape and all, sideburns gleaming and topped with a fluffy pompadour. He performed a hip shimmy and broadly gestured her and Scott forward. He raised his hands, beckoning to the tiny gathering to stand. Ali, Anna Marie and Lorna aimed disposable cameras and snapped pictures madly while Betsy caught footage with a digital camcorder.
“We are gathered today to witness joining of this lovely, lovely lady to this hunka-hunka burnin’ love right here,” crooned the King, reaching for the missal as Ororo made her way to join Logan, smiling at the pretty picture she made.
Remy without even staring at Logan’s face, Remy reached out to steady him as his knees momentarily buckled, and muttered “S’alright, mec. Just breathe.” He heard Logan’s choked cry and a ragged sniffle and chuckled under his breath.
“Not gonna cry, my ass!” Vic snickered, before Leni elbowed him sharply to stop. He leaned over and nuzzled her wolfishly behind the ear, enjoying the spectacle of one of his oldest friends stumbling headlong out of his bachelor days and too many late nights.
“Hi, baby,” Ororo whispered, her voice catching in her throat. He stood tall and elegant in his white tie and crisply tailored black tux, Stacy Adams shoes gleaming, looking so handsome her heart clenched.
“Leggo of her, Summers, I can take it from here,” he rasped, and Scott pecked Ororo chastely on the cheek, stepping aside to let her switch hands with her bouquet and go to Logan. “Hey, darlin’.” He could hardly speak. His hand gripped hers firmly, and she finally breathed deeply, releasing a fist-sized knot of tension nesting in her chest, suddenly flush with heady excitement of what was to come. This was the beginning of something special with someone she was born to love.
And he was currently sniffling up a storm, making the backs of her eyes prickle. She reached up with her lace-gloved hand to mop at his cheeks. She was radiant, filling him with pride, eclipsing everything and everyone surrounding them. Despite the camp simplicity of their ceremony, Ororo had chosen a gown that her friends would comment on and remember for years to come, a white silk shantung princess-cut gown with a full-length, bustled skirt that swept up in cascading puffs, overlaid with sheer, iridescent chiffon. The train and sweetheart neckline were richly appliquéd, the off-the-shoulder bodice trimmed in tiny pearls and white sequins that winked and caught the light of the myriad candles and ambient lighting. Her ivory hair was gently pulled back from her face and trailing down her neck in abundant curls, competing with her gown for onlookers’ attention, and her veil was a floating confection of pearls and miles-long tulle.
“Any man in the world’d give anything to be standin’ in your blue suede shoes right now, my friend,” the King drawled, and snorting laughter stirred among the pews. “The lovely bride requested a poem for me to read to ya’ll today that sums up the love these two share so beautifully…shucks, just let me go ahead and read it, we’re on a clock!” He cleared his throat and read from a folded sheet of paper that he extracted from the pocket of his jumpsuit:
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
During the reading, several tissues came out to wipe wet eyes as Logan and Ororo faced each other, hands clasped tightly as Anna held Ororo’s bouquet, sniffling as she watched the proceedings.
“It’s true what they say, now, that some fools rush in when it comes to love. Logan and Ororo, you’ve come together today to demonstrate how that thing called love’s supposed to be done. Wholeheartedly, tenderly, and forever more.” He nodded to Remy, peering at him over the edge of his dark glasses. “Ya got the ring, Guitar Man?” Remy grinned, whipping them out of his pocket with a flourish. “Thank ya. Thank ya very much…” Ali dissolved into giggles.
“We all need that special somebody that keeps us from feelin’ lonesome tonight. It’s that one lady or that one dude in a million that comes along to make that go away.” Logan took Ororo’s hand, holding the ring between trembling fingers, stroking her knuckles with tenderness and reverence. His voice shook as he recited the vows, but he was smiling, beaming at her with so much passion, love and respect she thought she’d melt into a puddle of goo.
“I, James Logan, take you Ororo N’Dare, to be my wife, my partner in life and my one and only….” He hesitated, and drew her hands to his lips to kiss it, lingering while he composed himself. “I will cherish our friendship and love you today, tomorrow, and forever. I’ll trust you and honor you. I will laugh with you and cry with you.” She wiped more tears from her own cheeks, not giving a damn about her makeup. “I promise I’m gonna laugh with ya, darlin’! I will love you faithfully through the best and the worst, What may come I’ll always be there. Everything I’ve ever had, it’s yours, ‘Ro. So help me God.” Behind them, hands were being clasped and fanning at new tears, clutching at Kleenex. The pristine wedding band slid onto her finger, lying flush against the cherished engagement ring, looking so perfect on her slender hand.
“I, Ororo N’Dare, take you, James Logan, to be my husband, my partner in life and my one and only. I will cherish our friendship and love you today, tomorrow, and forever.” Her lips trembled, but she still smiled radiantly and with heartfelt promise. “I will trust you and honor you, Logan. I will laugh with you and cry with you. I’ll love you so faithfully, Logan. Through the best and the worst, through the difficult and the easy.” She smothered a laugh, and felt her friends agreeing with her when she said “We’ve already been through the difficult!” His wedding band found its way onto his hand, and she covered it protectively, stroking him.
“Bring it on!” Vic roared, and that set everyone off.
“What may come I will always be there,” she continued. “As I have given you my hand to hold, so I give you my life to keep; so help me God. I love you!” she sobbed.
“Thank ya. Thank ya very much,” the King repeated, in fine form. “Ya’ll know what’s next.” Logan grinned and snaked his arm around Ororo’s waist, completely jumping the gun and surprising no one when he dipped her, plundering her mouth shamelessly to hoots and applause. “Fine, then! I now pronounce you man and wife! You won’t be lonesome tonight! Hang up the Do Not Disturb sign!” He stepped down from the podium and proudly announced, “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Howlett. G’wan, boy, kiss yer missus!”
“We’ll be seein’ a lotta that tonight,” Anna mused, grinning when Ororo righted herself and leaned into another kiss, this time grabbing Logan’s backside for emphasis. Vic cheered her on and aimed his camera phone at the spectacle.
Ororo was restless and giddy on the drive to the resort. She rode over with Logan this time, and he swatted playfull at her hand as she teased him from the passenger seat.
“Yer gonna get us arrested, woman!”
“Can’t help it. You clean up nice,” she observed, repeating Scott’s words.
“Quit undressin’ me with yer eyes “ hey!” Her hand slid farther up his thigh than was ladylike, and she leaned over, pressing her bosom against his arm as she nipped his earlobe. He felt himself grow hot and hard, groaning at her antics.
“Didn’t plan on just using my eyes for that, handsome.”
“Married a friggin’ sex maniac," he grumbled as he retrieved her errant hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.
They adjourned to the buffet, snugly esconced in the casino lounge, and they wisecracked over cracked crab and champagne. Logan and Vic relieved the serving area of obscene amounts of prime rib. The women looked on in a mixture of awe and amused disgust.
Victor stood up and tapped his wineglass, which looked absurdly small in his enormous hand.
“Speech! Speech!” Remy and Scott chanted. Logan let out a shrill whistle of agreement.
“Don’t expect any of that sentimental crap from me, runt,” Vic warned.
“Ain’t expectin’ hearts and flowers, bub. Get on with it already!” Ororo leaned companionably into him, resting her palm over his heart. She was anxious to peel him out of the well-tailored silk vest and sleek black tuxedo jacket once they were behind closed doors, despite how fine he looked in it. She was relaxed, tipsy, and surrounded by everyone she loved.
“Here’s a toast for ya “ I’ve gt yer toast hangin’ right here! “ naw, just messin’ with ya. Here’s ta Logan and his lady. May ya always be able ta stick together through house payments, car notes, crappy jobs, burnt dinner and poopy diapers. May ya always be able ta be there fer each other ta lean on when yer older than dirt, and manage ta kiss each other every day, even when yer teeth are restin’ in a glass every night!” Piotr roared, wiping his eyes. Scott and Remy threw cat calls.
“Well, that’s romantic,” Anna muttered. Lorna was cakling too loudly to reply and rapidly turning red in the face.
“And this is Logan we’re talkin’ about,” Vic reminded them. He checked his watch. “Any time now…” He raised his glass. “Be good to him, Petunia.”
“Yes, sir!” she mocked, saluting him with her own glass.
They nearly took up the entire dance floor of the casino’s club. Piotr and Sage promised to meet them in the morning, excusing themselves to take Aliyah to Circus Circus. Remy sidled up to the DJ booth and conferred with him briefly while Ororo and her friends were beginning an impromptu Soul Train stroll.
“Rumor has it we’ve got a pair of newlyweds in the house!” the DJ boomed into the mic. “Your best man want to dedicate this next song to the two of you, and for you to share your first dance together as man and wife!” The club lighting changedfrom a dizzying strobe to a softly lit suite, and a disco ball descended from the ceiling, spinning slowly and bathing the wedding party in prisms of light that resembled bubbles.
Prince’s “Adore” piped from the speakers, and Logan took Ororo in his arms easily, moving them in a graceful dance that had Ali and Anna snapping pictures again. The dance floor was cleared as the club’s occupants admired the couple enjoying the reverie with so much honest affection.
They piled into their scheduled limo after several hours of clubhoppnig, gambling, and profiling in the streets, still dressed in their wedding finery. They blearily stumbled into the elevator of their hotel, chuckling at how ragged they’d run themselves, and all of them whooped it up as Logan hoisted Ororo into his arms, gown and all, and carried her over the threshold of their suite once Remy managed to pry open the door with the key card. The last they saw of them was Ororo yanking Logan away from the door by the lapels and Logan hastily slapping the Do Not Disturb” sign onto the knob before it was kicked shut.
“Keep the veil on,” Logan mumbled around Ororo’s devouring lips. She divested him of the tie first, untying the knot Remy had worked on so carefully and crumpling it in a heap on the side table. Her fingers flew over his vest buttons as he shrugged out of his jacket. His cufflinks clattered onto the table, and she managed to pry open his top shirt button before he yanked it off over his head. She collapsed back onto the bed, kicking off her mule-heeled pumps, barely missing the TV cabinet as they sailed across the room. Logan eyed her wickedly, loving the look of anticipation and lust on her face.
He knelt beside her, tenderly caressing her cheek as his fingers tugged off her dangling earrings one at a time, dropping them on the bedstand. “Need help?”
“Zipper,” she replied, running her hand over the sculpted planes of his chest. He swept her fall of hair aside and reached around her, releasing the fasteners and dragging it down to her waist. Yards of frothy fabric fell away from her body, and the air-conditioned coolness kissed her skin right before Logan did. Her gown landed in a swish atop the opposite bed as they sank onto the mattress.
They paid no heed to where the rest of their clothes ended up; Logan would wake up the next day to find Ororo’s garter belt hanging from the lampshade. All that mattered was losing himself in her touch. In the darkened suite, she fervently cried his name. Loving him. Trusting him. Completing him.
One door down, Anna and Remy made love sweetly, staring into each other’s eyes.
Three doors down, Ali and Scott lounged together in the Jacuzzi tub, soaping each other with lazy bliss.
Across the hall, Lorna, Betsy and Emma fell asleep where they dropped, having already devised a plan of attack for the brunch buffet and how to head off the inevitable hangover.
In the corner suite farthest from the ice machine, Sage and Piotr lay spooned together in the king-sized bed, with Aliyah tucked into the adjoining cot.
Two thousand miles away, Jean lay awake in the dark, tossing fitfully. Down the hall, Luna slept in her carefully appointed pink room that Jean decorated with such care. It had taken forever to convince her to go to bed, after an hour of bribing her with playing dress-up with the contents of Jean’s jewelry box. Jean was knackered and worn out.
Beside her, Pietro’s pillow was empty, the sheets cold. She listened futilely for the rumble of his Jeep in the driveway.
In the silence of her impeccably clean room, lying in the bed that she made, Jean knew she’d never sleep.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.