“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“I just made the suggestion, Wind-Rider. You took it without any pressure from me. Go ahead and act like I forced you, if it makes you feel any better. Besides, that new look of yours is just begging to be shown off.”

Ororo sighed, realizing it was going to be a long night. She allowed her slender, impishly pretty companion drag her down the crowded sidewalk to stand in line. The stars winked down at them from the indigo sky, and an errant breeze made Yukio shrug more deeply into her cropped leather jacket.

The street was as busy as you’d expect it to be on a Friday night, well after rush hour. Ororo drank in the sounds and sights of the crowded block, marveling at the swelling, reveling mass of club hoppers as she mused that this was somewhat, but not entirely different from the nightclubs she had frequented in Manhattan with Jean. She sighed as she remembered with a pang the evenings that the two of them had sipped wine and chatted in the dark corners of cozy taverns or Harry’s Hideaway, listening to sultry jazz and sweet soul.

Jean had laughed at Ororo’s losing battle with her striking looks whenever she wore a scarf or snood with dark glasses to cover her snowy hair and compelling blue eyes. “No sense in trying to blend in with the wallpaper, sweetie,” she’d giggled, sipping her chardonnay. “Just enjoy the attention, for once. We’re off duty, we’re allowed to show off a little and play once in a while.”

“I’ve almost forgotten how,” Ororo murmured, returning Jean’s gentle smile. Both women gave their attention to the stage and the voluptuous female singer who took the microphone and wailed an almost mournful, poignant rendition of a Teena Marie song that Ororo loved that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. A faint hint of tobacco, random scents of perfume, and the aromas of various kinds of alcohol mingled, tickling Ororo’s nose as she watched a handful of couples make their way onto the dance floor, stretching the definition of “slow dancing” to include the casual grope or caress. Her attention was yanked away by the sound of Jean’s voice, politely but firmly stating “No thank you, I’m engaged; I won’t be dancing tonight. Sorry about that.” Ororo was nearly oblivious to it, ignoring the sound of Jean’s rejection, since they were generally frequent when they went out.

Until she found herself eye-to-waistband with Jean’s would-be dance companion as he shifted himself, moving directly into Ororo’s line of vision.

“How about you, pretty lady?” Ororo’s eyes traveled up to his face from behind her glasses. He was passably handsome, clad in a button-down dress shirt that was open at the collar and tucked into dark slacks with a sharp crease. He had keyboard straight teeth and laughing dark eyes, but he reeked of cologne, and his hair was unfortunately styled in a Jheri curl that reminded Ororo of the piles of damp seaweed that lay in untidy clumps along the shoreline at Martha’s Vineyard when she and Jean had driven to the Cape for a well-deserved break. “Are you available? Care to dance?”

Something proud and defiant stiffened Ororo’s spine. “No, thank you. But thank you for asking.”

“I can’t change your mind?” He nodded at her half-empty glass. “Buy you a drink?”

Again, Ororo felt a tiny surge of annoyance. Jean stifled the smile curling the corner of her lightly glossed pink lips. Bristling, she raised her voice a slight notch and pronounced “No thank you, sir. I have what I need, right here,” and she saluted him with her glass.

“Maybe I can help you with what you need…?”

“I doubt that.” Ororo’s voice flattened, leaving no margin for misinterpretation, and her whole body tensed when he attempted to take her free hand.

“Suit yourself, babe.” His smile vanished, replaced with a disdainful sneer. Ororo’s hand itched to toss the remainder of her wineglass at his retreating back. She felt Jean’s light mind touch and heard her soothing tone whispering in her thoughts.

“I don’t blame you. He seemed like an ass.”

“It wasn’t just that. He made me feel…”

“…nauseous?”


Ororo chuckled under her breath. “Just…irked. It’s hard to describe, but…he came here and asked you to dance.”

“And I told him I wasn’t interested…?”

“Yes, pretty clearly, which he accepted without any problems when you said you had someone else.”
Ororo sighed heavily, taking another sip of her sauvignon blanc. “My ego’s more fragile than I like to admit. Forgive me, sister, but I hate playing second fiddle.”

“ORORO! You’ve got to be kidding? Is that what you think?”

“Yes. I do,”
Ororo admitted without shame, or hesitation. “If he was really interested in asking me to dance…maybe he would have asked me first.”

“I never thought you would have had it in you, kiddo.”
Jean shook her head in wonder, and didn’t bother to suppress her grin.

“What?” Ororo let her dark glasses slip a centimeter or two past the bridge of her nose to shoot Jean a curious, heavy glance.

“You didn’t really like him,” Jean pointed out.

“No. Ick!” Jean giggled into her wine.

“That’s what I thought. But you’re mad that he didn’t ask you to dance first, instead of me.”

“Exactly.”
It was her prerogative, Ororo decided. Her irritation was justified, her tone matter-of-fact.

“God, you’re a little pill, aren’t you?” Jean loved her for it. She waved the waitress over to refill their drinks and paid for the next round.

“I don’t want to settle for being anyone’s consolation prize.” Even if it occasionally got lonely. Being a goddess in her native land had elevated her standards. Jean thought of Scott and the boundless love that she felt in his thoughts and saw in his eyes “ what she could see of them behind his visor “ and shivered deliciously.

“Then you shouldn’t, sweetie. Not one bit.”


Now, Ororo’s eyes wandered through the crowd, noticing that several pairs of eyes were staring back at her at random, assessing her with interest. Yukio’s smile teased her before she stared back at the onlookers suggesting “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” in a tone that was utterly saucy and without shame.

“Maybe this is a bit…much.”

“Like hell. You’re a knockout. I don’t see anyone complaining, Wind-Rider.” Ororo felt a funny tingle of mischief darting through her stomach as Yukio threaded her slender arm through hers. Yukio’s light, spicy perfume tickled her nose as she leaned in, whispering into Ororo’s ear, “No more reserved wallflower tonight. You’re going to have fun. Or you answer to me. Don’t make me jump off another building to get a rise out of you, Storm.”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, urging her lips to smile as nonchalantly as possible at the gawkers who gradually, easily parted to allow them to cut a few spaces in line. The press of bodies began to surround them, and Ororo felt that familiar chill of apprehension. Too close. Too much commotion. Her claustrophobia reared its head and begged for an open space. The wind picked up, ruffling Yukio’s carefully gelled hair, which she hadn’t thought possible before they finished their grooming rituals at her tiny apartment.

“Ororo? You all right?”

“It’s a bit…crowded.” Ororo smiled weakly at two women that chattered admiringly at her in Japanese as one of them fingered her black vest of supple leather. She didn’t pause to translate their words amidst her discomfort.

“So? It’s a club. Crowds are kinda expected, y’know? We came here to party!”

“I…don’t like being boxed in, my friend. It’s…difficult.” Heat rose up into Ororo’s cheeks, and Yukio felt her body grow taut as a bowstring, the set of her plump lips thinning into a hard line.

“Ororo…did something happen to you?” Ororo’s eyes fluttered shut as she nodded.

“Then you can tell me about it when we get inside. Excuse me, EXCUSE ME!” Yukio threw propriety to the wind and began elbowing her way through the crowd, ignoring the cries of outrage, and what Ororo suspected was profanity as she felt herself being dragged behind her, almost stumbling in her three-inch heeled black leather boots. Bluish-white light from the overhead street lamp glinted off the steel studs on the leather anklets strapped over her boots and the similarly studded collar around her neck as Yukio yanked her to the very front of the line and nudged the ID checker insistently.

“Not so fast. What’s the rush, ladies?” He flicked his eyes over them without humor, noting the rising clamor of the crowd behind them.

“She has to use the bathroom…really, REAAAALLLY bad,” Yukio whined, her voice plaintive, almond-shaped brown eyes all innocence as she nodded to Ororo. Ororo flushed all the way to her hairline, or what was left of it with her recent haircut.

“My sympathies for your apparent lack of bladder control, but that’s not my problem.” Yukio eyed him slyly, but was unwilling to give up the game. That was half the fun.

“You’d turn down the chance to tell your buddies tomorrow that Tina Turner came in to your club to use the little girls’ room?”

“Who…?” Ororo whispered, her voice cutting off when Yukio pinched the tender flesh of her inner arm to silence her.

“What? You’ve gotta be…seriously, you’re not…”

“C’mon now, just look at her! Can’t mistake those legs!” Yukio was enjoying herself now, treating herself to a long look as she backed away a step, allowing the bouncer to scan Storm from head to toe, from her flamboyant white Mohawk to the fashionably pointed tips of her boots, lingering longest on the endless stretch of lithe, toned, mocha brown thighs exposed by the brief leather skirt. His eyes never made it all the way back to her face. Yukio struggled not to grin and blow their ruse.

“Go ahead in.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Yukio reassured him, patting his cheek warmly and flashing him a smile that she hoped was sincere.”

“Can I get an autograph?” Ororo heard him call after them. She almost asked him what for until Yukio yanked her over the threshold.

“Maybe on the way out!” she promised, releasing the bubble of laughter from her lips.

“What on earth…?” Yukio didn’t stop pulling Ororo through the people milling around in the large foyer of the building until they reached the coat check room. Yukio quickly shucked her black leather jacket and reached for the small money clip in the pocket before handing it to the pretty attendant. Ororo eyed Yukio’s outfit with a hint of confusion.

“Where could you possibly put that, my friend?” Her snug black vinyl pants gleamed and hugged her lean curves like liquid, and Ororo didn’t see any pockets. Or any pantylines. For some reason Ororo wouldn’t have been able to explain, she blushed again, glad no one could notice the rise of color in her cheeks in the dimly lit interior.

“Where do you think?” Yukio unabashedly rolled up the thin clip and sheaf of bills and tucked it deeply beneath the edge of her black leather corset, well below the sumptuous dip of her golden tan cleavage. Despite herself, Ororo chuckled.

She was just so much fun.

“C’mon. I’m thirsty, we need drinks! Lots of them!”

“Maybe one little glass of wine…” Ororo hedged.

“Psssh! Are you kidding, Storm?? Perish the thought, we’re here to have a good time. Wine won’t cut it.” Yukio tugged Ororo into the large, open bar with soaring ceilings, a spacious dance floor flanked by ornate cast-iron “cages” and a sunken DJ booth. She sidled up to the counter with her guest in tow and barked out, “Two tequila sunrises.” The bartender eyed her up and down, winking his approval at their attire, paying close attention to the tall, quiet brown one who was trying to avoid his eyes. He measured a finger each of the clear spirits, then splashed in some orange juice for color before sinking a maraschino cherry into each for garnish.

“They’re…very pretty drinks,” Ororo commented, swizzling the liquid around in the glass with her straw.

“Pretty potent, too. Bottoms up!” Ororo took a hesitant sip.

Whooooaaa…

Her sapphire blue eyes widened in delight. “What did you just give me?” Yukio whooped at Ororo’s look of shock. Ororo lightly fanned her hand over her cheeks at this new flush of heat as the liquor burned her nostrils, but was soon replaced by a delicious warmth that traveled straight into her stomach.

“Good, huh? Live a little. Have some more!” Yukio downed half of hers without a second thought. She’d half-guessed that Ororo would be a lightweight, but she was surprised that she’d even agreed to come. The two unlikely companions sipped their drinks and enjoyed watching the crowd as the dance floor began to fill to capacity. Ororo was amused to see that Manhattan wasn’t the only city that had embraced the “New Wave” movement as people in outfits more outrageous than hers occasionally walked by. Ororo almost enjoyed the faint, raspy draft of air against her skin through the diamond-patterned mesh of her fishnet stockings that Yukio had talked her into. Damn her eyes…I must be making such a spectacle of myself.

As if reading her thoughts, Yukio leaned in and muttered “We got all gussied up to have a good time. That ain’t gonna happen here with us huddled by the bar all night. I wanna dance!” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “Finish that!”

“You can’t be serious…do you have any idea how much alco-“

“Duh! I guarantee it, Wind-Rider, you’ll have an idea of just how much when your buzz hits you, and it WILL hit you! Just ride it like you ride those winds!” Ororo shook her head.

“You’re a bad influence, did you know that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And absolutely wicked.”

“Yup,” she drawled, her smile creeping up another notch, reminding Ororo of the proverbial Cheshire cat.

Ororo glanced at the dance floor, then back into her glass. Wordlessly she tipped it to her lips and glugged it down thirstily, all pretense of ladylike behavior thrown out the window. This time Ororo pulled Yukio out onto the floor.

“Let’s GO!” Yukio’s tinkling laugh rose above the throbbing rock music as they made their way onto the hardwood dance floor.


The two women waded through the revelers with some trepidation at first. Yukio sensed that Ororo wouldn’t be comfortable among so many strangers nudging and bumping so closely against her, especially when she was so scantily clad. Still, Yukio admitted, she looked amazing. Ororo’s old, long cape draped over what was otherwise a costume straight out of a Jane Fonda workout gear catalog was long gone, and Yukio gave thanks to whatever style gods and goddesses that intervened and blessed Ororo with the new boldness and attitude to carry her new look. The leather vest left her shoulders and surprisingly muscular, slender arms bare. Underneath it she wore more black leather, this time a snug, strapless bustier that stopped just above her navel, exposing a tiny inny navel that attracted the occasional peek and admiring glance. Her skirt was short and tapered, topped with a low-slung hip belt slanted askew and adorned with a silver buckle that spelled out “Bad Girl.”

The most striking thing, though, was her hair. Or what was left of it. Ororo’s cheekbones were higher and sharper thanks to the sleek Mohawk haircut, waving up in the air like a peacock’s comb. Her blue eyes appeared even bigger and more slanted without the masses of white hair that previously framed that majestic face. A shy smile blossomed on her face as they maneuvered and gyrated in the middle of the crowd; it widened considerably as she allowed the music to possess her body and spirit. The strobe lights flickered, casting a hypnotic glow on them and giving their movements more meaningful, sinuous emphasis. Ororo’s torso and hips undulated, each muscle and curve rippling and unfolding itself into the dance, gyrating with rhythm that Yukio suspected she had, but was almost enthralled by witnessing it close up. Infected by her enthusiasm, Yukio fell in almost perfect step with Storm, as though they had been dancing together on nights like this for years, instead of being uneasy acquaintances over the past few weeks.

Inside the club, Ororo’s vision was hazy from the drink and filled with the complex light show and Yukio’s infectious grin.

Outside, a light rain began to pelt the pavement and sent a grumbling wave of complaint through the people waiting in line. A compact, dangerous-looking figure clad in a fleece-lined, corduroy jacket crossed the street at the busy stoplight, staring down the driver of a sleek blue sports car who would have otherwise turned right over the crosswalk without a second thought. The driver nearly leaned on his horn but thought better of it. The pedestrian’s gait was jaunty and unhurried, and his gaze beneath the brim of his beige Stetson was unwavering. He reached up and tipped his hat casually enough, but the menace in his eyes left the driver no doubt that had he honked or cut him off, the stranger would have happily shown him the error of his ways by force-feeding him the steering wheel.

Live and let live…

Logan ignored his disgruntled neighbors as he fell in line and trimmed his Cuban cigar, lighting it with his pearl-handled Zippo. He sucked the nourishing curl of smoke deep into his lungs and blew out a perfect row of three smoke rings, to the delight of the questionably young girls a few feet ahead of him. He touched the brim of his hat, this time allowing a faint smile to play about his lips. Beneath the clamor, Logan heard excited whispers that piqued his interest:

“I heard Tina Turner’s here tonight! No, not for a concert, HERE! She came through with some other girl to use the BATHROOM!” Logan chuckled at the audacious rumor. He didn’t expect any thrills from this crummy little dive.

All he really wanted was to be alone. Indulge in a little people-watching, drink until his eyeballs swam, and do his level-best to forget. Yep. This was a flashy crowd. He’d fade right into the wallpaper. Unconsciously Logan’s feet inched him closer to the door, following the silent but persistent flow of the crowd as they buffeted him like ants swarming into a hill.

Back inside, Ororo and Yukio engaged in a deep and philosophical discussion with the sincerity and intensity only possible after the consumption of two tequila sunrises, a kamikaze, and four lemon drop shots apiece. Ororo’s blue eyes were drowsy but still twinkling with mischief as Yukio peppered her with questions.

“You wouldn’t lie to this little samurai, would you? A THIEF??? You, with your lily-white moral code of ‘I swore never to take a life, no matter what’ used to be a thief?” Yukio’s words weren’t slurred, but the so-fast-she-never-even-took-a-breath pace of her speech died down by a few miles per hour, and Ororo relaxed, enjoying her slightly accented voice with its light, rich soprano.

“A pickpocket,” Ororo clarified. “The best…PICKpocket in Cairo.” She stared blearily into the bottom of her empty shot glass, watching the strobe lights flicker and reflect back at her in the minute droplets of liquor.

“Still doesn’t make you any better than me,” Yukio gloated, lightly tugging on the stray lock of Ororo’s hair swishing against her nape.

“Owww! That wasn’t nice!”

“Yeah, well…neither am I.” Her grin wilted a little as she stared into her own cup.

“Liar,” Ororo murmured. “You have your moments. At least when you aren’t tempting me to knock you off of a cliff…”

“Admit it, you, I saw that look in your eye when you caught me with that updraft…you were gonna let me splat into the ocean without a second thought!”

“My second thought made me fly after you in the first place, Wild One.”

“Even after I got your goat.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.” Ororo reached into the shot glass and indolently sucked on the lemon wedge, pursing her pouting, ruby red lips around its tart flesh.

“Fine. Maybe you did. You seemed awfully determined.” Ororo’s tone was slightly indignant.

“Determined to do what?”

“To prove to me why Logan was right to warn me about you. You’re a dangerous woman, Yukio-chan.”

“Why? Because I don’t fear death? Because I like to take risks?” Yukio waved the bartender back over and ordered two more lemon drops, then helped herself to a stray cherry from the condiment tray beside them. “I never, ever love life more than when it’s about to be yanked from my fingertips, Storm.”

“That wasn’t all he warned me about.” Yukio was in the middle of dangling the cherry by its stem over her lips, about to bite into the succulent morsel, but she lowered it as she met Ororo’s eyes. “Logan told me about you. And him. How you saved him once. And about how you offered him something that very hard to refuse.”

“Didn’t stop him from refusing it; you were there at the wedding. What there was of it,” she scoffed, tapping the cherry against the rim of her glass. “He said her name. Right after he kissed me, he said that uptight little porcelain doll’s name.” Her lips hardened into a snarl. Ororo searched the bottom of her empty glass for clues of how to smooth it away.

“What did you do then?”

“The first thing that came to mind. I kicked his teeth in.” Yukio nonchalantly resumed her snack and sucked the cherry in between her lips, puckering her lips with a faint “Mmmmm” as she freed it from the stem and chucked it onto the cocktail napkin.

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“Felt good, though.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Their eyes met on a wicked look, and both women burst into spasms of cackling laughter. Yukio wiped the corner of her eye with her fingertips.

“Hooooo…I never thought I’d say this, but I’m so damned glad you came out tonight. I thought you were gonna be a boring old stick in the mud and run back to your little team, and play the good Girl Scout.”

“Let’s just say I needed some down time. They won’t miss me horribly in the meantime.” The image of Kitty running away with her hands covering her face and muffling her sobs furrowed her brows for a moment as that pain settled over her heart. I’m not her mother. So…why did it hurt so much?

“You could have spent that down time in the states.”

“This is a beautiful country.” Ororo hesitated to reveal her ulterior motive.

Logan had gone missing. The memory of him standing in the temple, hands fisted at his sides in his wedding regalia, staring hopelessly ahead still gnawed at Ororo. Her gut clenched as she remembered how the air was squeezed from her lungs, almost as though she had been punched in the chest. In that excruciating moment, witnessing Logan’s rejection and humiliation by the woman he loved more than his life, Ororo felt his pain as acutely as if it were her own. The look in his eyes, his muted assurances that he didn’t want to talk about it “ ever “ still invaded her sleep.

Yukio was about to say something, but their reflections in the mirror behind the bar caught her eye, and she straightened herself on her stool from where she’d been unsteadily perched. “Look, Ororo,” she hissed, elbowing her out of her stupor.

“What?” Ororo squinted into the mirror, unsure of what she was supposed to be seeing. She twiddled the lemon wedge between her finger and thumb, playing with the strands of depleted pulp. There they were…Yukio on one side, Ororo on the other. Ororo beamed serenely and waved at her reflection. Then waved at her twin. Then at Yukio’s twin.

“I thought you didn’t have a sister,” she accused.

“I don’t,” she huffed, tsking under her breath.

“Then…who’s that?” Ororo pointed to the blurry Yukio…Yukios in the mirror. All of them laughed at her without restraint.

“You’re drunk! You’re actually hammered! I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes!”

“Two?” She giggled. Yukio shook her head in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah! And you’re not paying attention.” She directed her glance to the two men beckoning to them from the other end of the bar. Both of them looked to be in about their mid-twenties, lean and attractive. Yukio raised her empty glass in a salute. Ororo smiled weakly. “You could show a little more enthusiasm, Storm.”

“How?”

“How? Are you kidding me…Storm, you’re hot! They’re staring over here, staring at you, and you really don’t have a clue of what to do next?”

“Ask me to pick a lock. Pick a pocket, even. Crack a safe. Or even leap off a cliff…”

“Already covered that.”

“Exactly!” WHAM! Ororo’s palm smacked the counter hard enough to make it throb. She’d notice the pain in the morning, she supposed… “What was I saying?”

“You asked me to ask you to leap off a cliff?”

“Right. RIGHT! Cliffs…what to do next. I’m not any good at this,” she moaned lamely.

“Talking to men?”

“Strange men.” Ororo live under the same roof with a handful of men, none of whom made the back of her nape prickle with excitement and fear. Well, all except one…

“They aren’t all that strange. I’ve seen worse.” Yukio eyed what looked like a diamond pinky ring and a relatively fat pocket on the one. He’d be an easy mark, if she could get close enough. Or a good lay. Both would be nice…

“I’m out of my element.”

“Then maybe we need to break the ice.” Yukio dipped her fingers into the condiment tray again and extracted a plump cherry. “Ororo? Do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Tip your head back and open up.” Yukio stared at their two admirers, watching them exchange knowing glances as they sized up the attractive pair.

“Why would I…?”

“Just do it.” Yukio’s eyes took on that look. Uh-oh… Ororo obeyed, tipping her head back and allowing her lips to drop open a tiny fraction. Rising from her stool, Yukio arched her back a bit, leaning toward Ororo, her cleavage brushing up against Ororo’s arm purposely as she dangled the cherry over Ororo’s lips. “More,” she hissed, suppressing the full-fledged grin, but shooting a knowing nod at the men. Their eyes widened as they nudged each other, watching the spectacle unfold with surprise and delight. Yukio gently, teasingly rubbed the fruit against Ororo’s lower lip, tickling it; instinctively her lips opened and sought to taste the sweet. Ororo gave in to the nagging urge to play along with this completely foreign but ultimately tempting big girl game and lipped the cherry, nipping it with her lips. Her eyelids drooped in surrender as Yukio lowered it into her mouth. With a light pop, Ororo sucked the cherry from the stem, lolling it in her mouth for a moment before chewing it triumphantly.

Goddess, what was she doing???

Before she could ponder the wisdom of her gesture, uncharacteristically wanton as it was, Ororo gasped moments later as the waitress sidled up to the bar, laid down a crumpled pile of bills, and asked the bartender to give “these two ladies” another one each of whatever they were having, courtesy of “those two gentlemen over there.”

“Ororo, hurry up and finish that! We’ve got more dancing to do!” Ororo hastily tossed back the shot, questioning the wisdom of it when her eyeballs felt like they were swimming in a tide of lemon and vodka. They returned to the dance floor, the wooden boards clumping beneath their boots as they moved with new purpose. Ororo was surprised at how steady she was amidst the press of bodies as they seemed to buoy her, not unlike zephyrs or warm summer winds when she took to the skies. Yukio adapted her rhythm to Ororo’s their bodies moving in sync, and Ororo eventually felt the heat from Yukio’s torso up against her back as she clasped Ororo’s hips from behind. Ororo gasped, “What on earth -!”

“Go with it. Let’s give ‘em a little show.”

“Didn’t we already do that?”

“This show has a one-drink minimum. Strut your stuff, Wind-Rider.” Compelled by the music and unseen fingers pulling the strings- perhaps it was Yukio’s madness again “ Ororo leaned into Yukio’s teasing embrace and danced, pulsed, and moved, watching their admirers back at the bar through hooded eyes. Sometimes, she mused, it was fun to be bad…

Outside the front entry way, Logan grumbled to himself at the exorbitant cover charge of the club, knowing damn well he would end up paying at least triple that in drinks as the night progressed, throwing back shots of Jack Daniels until he couldn’t feel his teeth. Too bad it wouldn’t dull that sensation of having his heart ripped out and his nuts kicked up into his ribcage to take its place…Logan was determined. Numb teeth were a start. He made his way to the coat check room and shucked his thick corduroy jacket, tucking his wallet and ID into the pocket of his chambray shirt and leaving on his Stetson. Mentally Logan counted his money and estimated how many shots it would get him as he wove his way to the bar. Hunh…interesting crowd. And they seemed to all be staring that way…

Logan swiveled his head toward the dance floor, feeling the throbbing music pulse through him but remaining unaffected by its thrall. The sea of dancers gradually parted, and Logan caught a glimpse of white above the crowd. His thirst forgotten, Logan drifted inexorably toward the dance floor. Various colognes and the scent of sweating beer bottles and shot glasses assailed his nose, but the faint hint of something achingly familiar and completely unlikely lay just beneath that surface layer of smells. A light, fresh scent of morning dew misted over English tea roses, mingled with sandalwood…unforgettable. Distinctive.

And not supposed to be anywhere near here, no how, no way.

“Holy - !” Logan tipped his hat further back on his head, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Out on the floor, undulating and rippling with careless grace and an almost sexual energy, Ororo danced questionably close with his one-time lover and partner-in-crime.

Shit. The friggin’ whiskey could wait…





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