Studio Lot 616, Xavier Pictures Studio, North Hollywood:
“All right, folks, don’t believe the rumors that you’ve probably heard that this next set’s haunted by Marilyn Monroe’s ghost,” Jubilation Lee chirped into her megaphone as the open studio trolley gamboled along the slightly hilly turf, gesturing with a flourish to a film noir-style street set in dark browns and beiges. “Marilyn never worked at this studio!” A polite titter greeted this announcement as she continued her spiel. “Xavier Pictures has filmed three Oscar award-winning features on this set. Ooooh!” she squealed, forgetting any semblance of composure for a moment, “and if you turn your attention to the front gate, we have Jean Grey reporting to the security booth.” Various heads whipped around and craned themselves for a view, and cell phone cameras flashed before she could remind them “Please, folks, no photographs, it’s against studio policy. We are a paparazzi-free set.” She inwardly cursed the marvels of technology as at least fifteen fingers hit “send.” At least Miss Grey was in one of her “professional” moods and bothered to do her hair this time. Her boobs defied gravity, though; they were still swollen, fresh off the cosmetic surgeon’s table from a lift.
It was a sweet gig, being an intern and studio tour guide. Stipend, rental discount as an Xavier employee, four credits toward film school, and the chance to earn valuable “public speaking” experience. Next stop, Disney parade floats as Snow White!
The tours were usually pretty uneventful. She could recite the notable points of every set on the lot, knew who occupied every trailer, and could recite which stars had a gag order on interviews after-hours. Every now and again Mister Summers would make half an effort to remember her name but usually ended up squinting at her name badge after an embarrassingly long pause after listening to her pepper him with questions. He was cute, for a stodgy old guy. Well, old for her, anyway. As Sooraya was fond of muttering, “Poor man looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“Shit. He does,” Kitty once piped up while she was adjusting one of her animatronic model robots for a fight sequence. Kitty “Don’t Call Me Kathy” Pryde was a low-maintenance techie geek and proud of it. Her attire for work normally consisted of sneakers and cargo khakis from the Gap, and she styled her hair with whatever office supplies came to hand, tucking pencils into her twisted bun like chopsticks or pulling it back into a ponytail with a binder clip. Her desk was cluttered with schematics of every piece of set equipment and Post-It notes littered the border of her computer monitor. She did the best Jean impersonation, hands down. The interns adored her. After all, she’d been one of them. Her tryst with Peter, the creative director, was supposed to be “hush-hush,” but Jubes figured, once five people knew, the secret was out, and it wasn’t off-limits anymore.
The latest buzz was about the set’s newest caterer. Jubilee and Sooraya had stood outside in line for an hour and a half while people milled all the way around the street corner, trying to get even the tiniest table next to the rest room at the Goddess, to no avail. They’d ended up starving and foot-sore before stomping down three blocks to El Torito for watery salsa and slimy guacamole.
Getting to fly overseas to nab some footage in Sapporo already had her over the moon; having one of the hottest restaurants in town doing the catering and rubbing elbows with the owner, who “ hello? “ had been on OPRAH, fer cryin’ out loud…well, that was just the icing on the cake.
The rest of the tour went smoothly enough; the crowd even had the chance to gawk at Cassandra Xavier as she stepped out of the security booth clad in one of her cream Chanel suits, tottering along on spindly Vivienne Westwood pumps with toes sharp enough to puncture a tire. Her skin looked as though it had been pulled too tight, and her smile as she waved to the trolley was saccharine and strained. Jubilee wasn’t overly fond of her after she curtailed the company Christmas party a few months ago, citing the workplace conduct policy. She led the interns in a mini-revolt by posting a Photoshopped picture of the Grinch wearing a Chanel suit and a boyish, spiky platinum blonde haircut that looked eerily familiar, printed on green paper on every cubicle wall in the main office floor. She took savage satisfaction that her latest face lift left her turkey neck even more prominent than before.
Scott Summers’ office, Xavier Pictures corporate plaza:
“We’re over budget.”
“So was Titanic,” Logan pointed out.
“So was Hook,” Scott countered. “We can’t do it. We’ve already set back the release date to Fourth of July weekend. Pixar’s coming out with their knockoff the week before. We’ve got three months. We’re burning daylight. Either cut some of the crew on the Sapporo shoot, or plan on fewer shots over the hills. For the price of fuel for the choppers alone, you practically have to sell your firstborn.”
“Or make the kid an intern,” Logan quipped.
“Don’t be cute.”
“It’s my goal in life. Quit yer belly achin’, Summers. I already scouted the sites. Found a real steal of a deal on the local rentals for the crew for the units they’d need ta keep filled ta make it worth their while. We already lined up a caterer, she’s givin’ us a helluva deal.”
“We’re giving her publicity that most businesses would give their soul for.”
“She almost doesn’t need it. She’s doin’ us a favor.” Logan leaned back in his chair and scratched his knee where his slacks were rubbing him the wrong way. “Ya read her cookbook yet?”
“Cookbook? What the heck for? Jean’s got the Zone’s delivery number on speed dial,” he groused. “Who cooks anymore?” Scott had him there. He couldn’t remember that last time he’d made anything more complex than dinners that had to be poked in the middle and nuked for five minutes on high. Raven hadn’t been much of a cook, either; Marie had been the mom in their household before they got married, and she’d already gotten used to having dinner on the table by the time her mother came home from the sets and dumped her makeup cases in the hall. Summers had the casual hatred of high-carb diets that were swelling to nearly epidemic proportions among the famous, and his physique was lean and spare. Jeannie had converted him, much how she controlled all of the other aspects of his life, such as which tennis club they would belong to or which ties he would wear with his silk suits.
Mariko never wanted him wrapped around her finger. He missed that.
“Figure out something else ya can cut. Weren’t ya thinkin’ about bringin’ in that new writer? Reggie whatsisname?”
“He could breathe new life into the story. He’d pull in the minority audience,” Scott pulled.
“We’ve already got the minority audience. His style and Chris’ are completely different. We’re marketing this as a suspense drama, not just an action flick. I read the script rewrite, and I wasn’t all that impressed.”
“What’d you think of it?”
“It read like ‘The Last Dragon, the Sequel.’”
“Hmmm…” Scott shot him a pensive look that Logan recognized as the same one from when he found a car insurance agency that gave him more collision insurance for his premium than the one he’d had a policy with for five years. “Let me look over Chris’ script again. He might have had it right the first time out of the gate.”
“Three Oscars don’t lie.”
Scott snorted. “Screenwriters are paid to lie.” His flicked his gaze over a framed photo of Jean sitting on his desk. “So are actors.” Logan leaned his elbows over his knees and cracked his knuckles.
“Speaking of ‘Last Dragon,’ whatever happened to that dude that starred in it?”
“Taimak?”
“Yeah. Him.”
“Dunno.”
“Seems like once ya get famous enough that ya go around only callin’ yerself by one name, yer five minutes of fame are up.”
“That’s not always the case. Look at Leon. Madonna. Cher.”
“T’Challa,” Logan grunted. “Can’t tell me that action flick he did wasn’t his one-trick pony. Guy’s been typecast ever since. Just saw his latest straight-to-cable flick on Cinemax last night at 2AM.”
“Cinemax?”
“So sue me. I was up. Nuthin’ better t’do.”
“Still…Cinemax.”
“I want the extra footage of the mountains. Whole thing’ll look like shit without it.” Truth was, Logan just wanted to get back up in the air to calm his itchy feet.
“Fine. But if it’s not back in the editing room in eight weeks for the final cut…”
“Kiss my balls goodbye.”
“Pucker up.”
Two nights later:
“You’re so distant. If I wanted distant, I’ve have stayed in my own bed.”
“Who’s stopping ya?” Logan padded over to the refrigerator in his bare feet and boxers and snagged the milk jug, uncapping it and taking several hearty glugs, leaving only the last quarter-cup in the bottom before returning it to the top shelf.
“That’s mature. And sanitary,” she grimaced. “That stuff’ll kill you. I gave up dairy ages ago. No mammal is meant to keep living on their mother’s milk beyond infancy.”
“That milk ain’t from my mom, last time I checked. Keeps me big and strong and cuddly, just how you like me.”
“Please!” she scoffed. She rose naked from the couch, retrieving Logan’s shirt and tugging it on over her head. He grunted under his breath. He hated it when she wore his shirts. She always left them smelling like that Tuscany perfume. She even kept perfume sample cards in the glove box of her custom, emerald green Navigator, refreshing them with the occasional spray so she could take her favorite fragrance with her wherever she went.
It was just one more thing about her that was overwhelming and growing tiresome.
She tipped into his bathroom and made use of the toothbrush that she kept there, and he grew increasingly irritated when he heard his medicine cabinet open and shut.
“When did you start taking Vicodin?”
“Leftover prescription from when I wrenched my neck last spring.” He’d only used half his supply, but he knew those little white tablets were like diamonds, and it was like pulling teeth to get anyone to prescribe it anymore, with all of the lawsuits stemming from overuse of painkillers and celebrities crying “Addiction!” to the tabloids.
She came back out to the living room and began brushing her hair, plopping herself onto the loveseat and propping her feet over the arm. He made a mental note to vacuum the cushions after she left. Hair like hers stood out like a sore thumb over the sedate taupe upholstery. He kept berating himself for not buying the leather sofas when he’d seen them the first time. They weren’t such magnets for stray hairs.
She chucked the brush onto the coffee table and began her usual nervous habit of twisting it into a bun and untwisting it again while Logan joined her, sitting on the opposite couch and flipping the channel to ESPN.
“What are we still doing this for, Logan?”
“You tell me, babe.”
“What do you want out of this relationship?”
“When did it start bein’ a relationship? Ya fergot ta notify me about our change in status. Don’t see how we can call it that, with you bein’ in yer delicate little condition an’ all.”
“What little condition might that be?”
“Married.”
“Great. That’s just great. Let’s just beat this to death,” she harped, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You were fine with this before. We were just having fun! No one was getting hurt.”
“Maybe I was just lyin’ through my teeth. Ya think Scott ain’t gettin’ hurt?”
“I can’t hurt someone who doesn’t feel. Scott’s made of stone.”
“I thought ya liked hard things.” At least below the waist.
“I can get those out of a catalog.”
“Nice,” he sneered, grimacing at the mental image. He found himself growing more interested in Tiger’s golf game than the high drama unfolding itself in the middle of his living room.
“You don’t give a damn about Scott. Don’t pretend you do.” She stretched out like a cat, letting her hair fall in a shining ripple over her shoulders as she got up and strode toward him, lithe and sleek, the evidence that she wasn’t done toying with him poking out the front of his t-shirt. She had that sly look that haunted his daydreams when they first met, but that drove him nuts now. No woman should be that sly, that constantly. Now all that look did was make him check to see if his fly was down.
“Ya oughta head back soon. No sense in making yer neighbors wonder why yer just gettin’ back in during the wee hours, when Scott’s car ain’t in the driveway.”
“Half of them are wondering why his car isn’t in the driveway,” she reminded him, but her sultry tone hardened just a fraction before she straddled his lip, pushing him back into the cushions.
“Quit it, Red,” he griped, hating his body’s response to her insistent grinding in his lap, sinuously rubbing herself against him until he stood at attention.
“You don’t want me to,” she pouted. “You’ll never be able to sleep like that.”
“I’ll muddle through,” he muttered through clenched teeth, but heat pooled between his legs and he began to throb against her softness. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and he could feel her downy mound abrading his cotton boxers and swollen flesh. He reached around her to change the channel. The effort was completely futile. She leaned forward and nipped his earlobe, making him flinch. He reached to still her restless hips, but ended up find the bare, silky curves of her firm and rounded glutes, and he couldn’t resist cupping them and exploring her, even as his mind screamed at him to push her away. She moaned in his ear; the sound reverberated through his tingling flesh…
His shirt and boxers ended up in a sloppy heap beside the floor lamp as they went at it again. Logan never even turned off his golf game, opting to just put the volume on mute. Jean never noticed the difference.
Jean tossed out her usual assurances that “Scott’s probably got some pretty little piece on the side,” and that Logan shouldn’t feel guilty before she breezed out the door. Logan’s “let’s just call the whole thing off” speech landed on deaf ears. This was how it always started. This week she’d be all smug about how she was doing him a favor. The next, she’d be sending him emails about what a heartless dick he was for not wanting to put up with it anymore, trying to convince him that he was selfish, and that he was ruining her marriage. No matter how you sliced it, he ended up the loser. He didn’t know why he even kept playing the game. He didn’t know whether to dread the day Scott cried foul, or be relieved that it would finally be over without the fur flying in every direction.
Logan woke up from a restless sleep the next morning and perused the contents of his fridge again. Yep. He needed to buy more milk.
He tossed a load of laundry into the wash, remembering to throw in the shirt Jean borrowed. He gave the covers on his king-sized bed a good whiff and decided to throw those in too. Jean would be busy all week, shooting on the set and doing a few red carpet appearances. She’d just won Harvard’s Hasty Pudding Woman of the Year award, so she’d even be on the opposite coast long enough for him to clear his apartment of her scent. He kidded himself that he just might regain some semblance of his sanity “ and his balls “ back without her saturating him with her presence. Absence made the heart grow fonder if your relationship worked that way in the first place. His heart had nothing to do with it.
Logan navigated his shopping cart a short while later through Safeway, nodding greetings to the clerks rushing around in their bright red smocks in the produce aisle, getting tired of replying that he didn’t need any help finding anything by about the fifth time he was asked. Then he wanted to kick himself when he forgot where they kept the trash bags. No trash bags or clerks in sight by the time he reached the household goods.
He was just about to head to the dairy aisle when a pair of long and familiar legs caught his eye over by the butcher’s window.
She was a tall drink of water in her tiny cargo pocket skirt, thong-toed mules and olive green halter top. Thin gold bangles laddered up her slender wrist, and a pair of hoop earrings emphasized her elegant jawline and swanlike neck. She leaned against her cart and had one hand on her hip as she argued over a cut of beef.
“I asked for the petite sirloin. This is London broil. Your ad in this morning’s paper said the sirloin was today’s special.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the member discount’s only on the London broil.”
“That’s the same discount you always have on that cut. Your ad’s right out front by the entrance. The sirloin’s supposed to be on sale, too.”
“We would have posted it here by the window, on the rack,” he shrugged.
“I’ve got the ad right here, darlin’,” Logan drawled, pulling his cart alongside hers. He unfolded the tattered piece of newsprint from his pants pocket. “Sirloin. Save with yer Safeway card. Today’s ad.” He jabbed a finger at it for the disbelieving genius behind the counter. The man made a face and finally caved.
“Fine. Let me have that a moment, ma’am?” Ororo handed him the package of sirloin, and he stamped it with an orange discount sticker. She beamed prettily at him and accepted it, sliding it into a plastic bag before tucking it into her cart. Logan took the opportunity to steal a look at her other purchases.
Egg bagels. Smucker’s strawberry preserves. Colgate toothpaste. Sally Hansen Tough as Nails Clear Top Coat. Short grain rice. Corn meal. Broccolini. Hm. Never tried it. Almonds from the bulk bin, neatly tied with a green twisty.
“Whatcha got on yer list?” he inquired. Her blue eyes crinkled as though she found his nosiness amusing and way off.
“Milk.”
Bingo.
They fell in step easily as they made their way to the bank of refrigerators along the back wall. Logan almost regretted his decision to talk to her when it occurred to him that he’d denied himself the chance to follow her silently and observe her stroll through the store, with those long legs flashing enticingly from that tiny little skirt, topped off by those hips that could stop traffic. His own shopping list was short and sweet; his days of standing in mile-long lines at Price Club were a thing of the past once his was the only mouth he had to feed. He grabbed the two for one special on the milk and eggs, just so he wouldn’t have to go to the store again. He could always offer the leftovers to his neighbor Wanda if he ended up heading overseas before he finished it all. Her twin boys could go through more milk in two days than Logan could drink in a week.
The she opened her mouth again, and his decision to stop and talk to her felt like a great idea again. Her voice was deep and honey-rich, and dripped with toe-curling sensuality now that they weren’t talking on the phone or in a stuffy meeting.
“Do you always shop here?”
“Can’t justify going to the bigger discount store when I don’t buy much ta begin with, I guess,” he shrugged. “I’m hardly ever home.” Jean never ate at his place, Zone purist that she was.
“Cook much?”
“Nope,” he admitted.
“It can be relaxing.”
“Sloppy pots an’ pans ain’t my idea of a good time.”
“That’s why dishwashers were invented.”
“These are my dish washers right here,” he deadpanned, holding up his hands for inspection. She gazed at them furtively as she selected a carton of eggs and lifted the lid, inspecting them for cracks before closing it and placing it gently into the seat of the cart. His fingers were long, with knuckles slightly thickened from working outside, maybe even from driving or operating machinery on a frequent basis, she surmised. His palms were broad and meaty, too; she’d noticed that when she’d shook his hand the night that he came into her restaurant. It was an enveloping, inviting, cushy grip that sent heat up the entire length of her arm, the sensations echoing in her belly. His hands, like the rest of him, were slightly tanned and burnished, but it wasn’t the bodybuilder “dipped in shoe polish” look from the local salons, thank goodness. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy that went for artifice. His face was his face, his body was his body, and he was his own man.
Lately, she was leaning toward the possibility that he was her kind of man. There was just one little…wrinkle. What was the deal between him the actress?
His eyes were her favorite feature. They seemed almost black the night she saw him across the bar while she was making a spectacle of herself onstage. Up close, they were a warm coffee brown that held a warm amber sheen in bright daylight, heightened even more by his temptingly thick, wavy black hair. There wasn’t anything trendy about his haircut. It was the mostly short, no-nonsense hair of someone who didn’t have time or patience for styling products, but despite the work of a skilled barber, each time she’d seen him so far, it always looks slightly tousled. It almost invited a pair of hands to run through it.
“I woulda figured ya ta do yer shopping at one of those fancy, schmancy, overrated stores like Trader Ricks, or the farmer’s market.”
“Farmer’s market’s my next stop. I get my produce there, along with a few other fresh herbs I can’t live without.”
“Hopefully not the bushy, five-leafed kind,” he kidded dryly.
“Not this week,” she quipped.
Yep. He liked her already.
“Gotcher bags packed fer Japan yet, darlin’?” She quirked her eyebrow at his familiarity before letting a smile creep into the left corner of her mouth. He was enjoying that mouth.
“I hate packing. I love going overseas, but I hate getting ready for it. I need room to spread out, I’m horrible about living out of my suitcase. Too many little things to misplace, too little time to double check if I lost anything or left something behind, and I always have to get things I forgot once I get there.”
“I always keep a ditty bag in my car with all of my ‘little stuff’ in advance. That way, I can just pack a suitcase with my clothes in it for long trips, or just a duffle if I’m gonna be gone for the weekend.”
“How often do you travel?”
“Enough that I only check my mail a few times a month. Post office hates me.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a living.”
“It must be exciting. You’re a cinematographer, right?”
“Yep.”
“So you’ve pretty much seen some of the best sights in the world with a bird’s-eye view, right?”
“Sure. Pretty much. Germany, London, Japan…done a few shots in Japan. Those were some of my favorites.” She nodded, noting his voice became a little wistful. “Love the mountains out there.” She almost laughed when he grabbed not only a gallon jug of whole milk, but a bottle of ridiculously frivolous strawberry Nesquik, pink rabbit on the label and all. What was it about bachelor’s and their crazy eating habits?
Then she caught herself: Was he a bachelor? She checked those yummy, big hands again and peered at his left ring finger. No band, and no tanline. Phew!
“I’ve been there once. I went on sabbatical there for a two month. Took a culinary seminar on a stipend. One of the best experiences of my life.” Ali had come with her. They’d developed a fondness for rice wine and, of course, karaoke. It was nice to be able to make a fool out of herself in a land full of complete strangers.
Logan felt a measure of relief that she really listened to him without any trace of faux-friendly, airheaded awe. She was impressed with his occupation, without acting like a celebrity-chasing suck-up. “So ya’ve probably already seen the sights,” he mused, almost disappointed.
“Not all of the ones I’d like,” she considered. “Bet I’ll be too busy for much sight-seeing. Catering all three meals a day for a whole crew is new to me.”
“I know ya can pull it off. I’ve got faith in ya. Not like that counts fer much, but I tasted yer cooking. That kinda talent is uncanny.”
“Thanks.” Another warm little curl of appreciation rose up through her vitals. His eyes were staring at her almost too intently; she ducked her gaze back down into her purse as she neared the checkout line. Logan stood behind her in line, until another cashier opened her register and waved him into hers. He reluctantly broke away from watching her bend over to lift her paltry pile of groceries out of the cart and load them onto the conveyor belt. She snagged two packets of Wrigley’s gum and some IceBreaker’s spearmint mints as an afterthought. She approached the little pedestal to prop her purse onto it and pulled out her Visa. She keyed in her Safeway Club Card code and waited for the clerk to announce her total, and Logan cursed his own cashier for not moving any faster, almost annoyed with her for babbling on and on about how the weather was, and how she hadn’t stepped out from the air conditioning since six A.M. Ororo refused the clerk’s offer of help, and Logan wanted to rip the guy’s arm off and beat him over the head with it when he caught him ogling Ororo’s backside with open admiration as she tipped off to the exit with her bags slung over her dainty wrist.
“Bye, Logan!” she waved, and she was gone in a flash of legs and swinging white curls. He barely had a chance to nod as he fished out his own checkbook.
Well, that sucks.
On her way out to her car, her cheeks felt flushed, and that funny little tickle still hadn’t subsided.
“Damn, he’s fine,” she muttered as she popped the trunk. Idiot, she chided herself. Shoulda hung back to get a mocha at the Starbucks counter. Or a scratcher ticket at the courtesy counter. Any little excuse to get another whiff of his scent and a better gander at that build. Sure, she towered over him, but the guy wasn’t “little” by any stretch. They’d probably be eye to eye if she sat down next to him, she considered. If she ever got the opportunity.
That was a big “if.”
The dinner meeting at the Goddess still left her feeling uneasy. Ororo had few illusions about meeting Jean Grey, so they weren’t exactly shattered when she showed up ripe and ready for plucking, smelling like she’d gargled in White Zinfandel on the way over. Her signature green eyes were just a tad too bright, and her voice, while sultry, was just a bit slurred. Automatically she’d clung like a burr to her husband, which Ororo certainly had no problem with…except her husband’s cursory kiss on her lips was the last vestige of affection he showed for her all night. She playfully patted him, not unlike a favorite family boxer hound, and cooed in agreement at half of what he said, and chastising him for the other half as dinner progressed. She hardly touched her food, a slight that didn’t go unnoticed by the wait staff or by Kurt, who was already on a short tether after slaving over it. She just toyed with the unagi, drawing little homely patterns in the artfully drizzled sauce on her plate, ruining the design and presentation before she took one bite and chewed it dispassionately.
Her most irritating flaw, though, was the way she looked at Logan when she thought no one else was looking. Ororo still didn’t know why she was looking. She couldn’t take her eyes off the scene unfolding in front of her. Neither could Dani and Shan, who were having a field day catching camera phone shots of Hollywood’s It Girl in her cups.
It was a possessive look. Even a hungry look. Ororo wanted to reach over and slap it off her face. Her greeting to Ororo was coy and oozed false warmth, a token of her pampered upbringing and years of struggling through modeling agencies and auditions. She salved her broken spirit with antidepressants and the occasional snort and just continued to laugh out loud when she snuck peeks at the tabloids. She saved her crying jags for the middle of the night. Scott, and Logan, were the only ones who’d ever heard her cry or held her when she hated everything about herself that the industry loved.
Ororo had known girls like Jean when she was in high school who always seemed to want all of the boys’ attention, but who never made female friends easily, fearing that they would be competition for the most worthy specimens. Ororo never cultivated friendships with girls like that. She hated to be caught in “hold my purse for a minute” hell with homegirls for whom cockblocking was a fine art.
Ororo never had the chance to get a word in edgewise with Logan throughout the dinner. At best, she managed to shoot a few polite questions Scott’s way, which he dimly “ maybe gratefully “ acknowledged while his wife hogged the spotlight. He made her look good, she drank in all the praise. Go, team! Ororo snarled to herself. Poor guy.
Ororo went home and unpacked her groceries and called Ali, arranging another date to kick back before her trip. After she got back from squeezing and sniffing produce at the farmer’s market and listening to a positively awful local band covering Grateful Dead tunes in the city square, watching the hippies dancing with babies in their peasant skirts and Birkenstocks, Ororo undertook the arduous task of cleaning her condo and puttering around in her wardrobe, selecting her outfits for the flight. She limited herself to three pairs of shoes and contemplated taking an empty duffle to bring back souvenirs. She dug inside her lingerie drawer, rooting through myriad pairs of pantyhose and unrolling each “rosebud” to check them for runs and snags. Three pairs made the cut; two pairs went into the garbage. A flash of violet satin winked up at her, and she unburied it from a pile of underpants, taking out the spaghetti-strapped babydoll nightie with black scalloped lace trim around the neckline and inserted into the side plackets of the hem. She’d loved it when she bought it. She’d never worn it since. She held it up to herself in the mirror and pulled a mock femme fatale look, then snorted at herself.
Why the heck not? She folded it neatly and tucked it into her lingerie bag. She followed that with her favorite pair of Victoria’s Secret shortie pyjamas in bubble gum pink cotton with the logo embroidered on the pocket.
“Why can’t I come along with ya? I’ve nevah been out of the country before, you and Mom nevah take me anywhere!”
“Them’s the breaks. Would if I could,” Logan soothed. Marie shot him her Sunday-best pout before pertly sticking out her tongue. She puttered around his kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, tsking in disgust at his usual lack of decent foodstuffs, but she improvised, and snagged a packet of dry salad dressing mix, throwing it in with some dried breadcrumbs and flour, using that to dredge some egg-coated chicken breasts. She sautéed two of them in a small frying pan that had seen better days, and Logan made noises of approval over the edge of his paper. “Yer gettin’ better at that, Anna Banana.”
“Don’t call me that in front of mah friends, if ya love me like ya say ya do, Daddy!”
“It’s my prerogative and my mission in life ta call ya stuff ya’ll never live down in a million years. Call it dad privileges. Stepdad privileges, anyway,” he amended.
“Same thing,” she shrugged over her shoulder as she poured a can of string beans into a saucepan. “Don’t matter that ya weren’t the donor, just that ya were mah daddy.”
“Ya don’t like the shiny new one yer mom brought home?”
“Vic’s okay. If ya like that sorta guy. Uses more hair gel than I do,” she grumbled under her breath. Logan gloated silently as he flipped to the sports pages. He was relieved not to feel as though he’d been replaced.
“Yer mom coulda done worse.” And she had. Raven’s men had been a neverending parade of boy toys, sugar daddies, and “self-made entrepreneurs” that fed her vanity and need to prove that she was still beautiful and vital. She fished for comments and reassurances from her friends that she looked more like her daughter’s sister. Before her sojourns under the surgeon’s scalpel, Logan was fine with the hints of character lines that made her beauty more mature, or they would have, if she would have left good enough alone. Logan and Anna Marie were slowly but surely kicked to the curb. Logan had at least been able to get a divorce at the cost of outrageously high child support and a modest allowance for alimony until Raven’s career as a makeup artist took off. Now that he was just chipping in toward Anna Marie’s expenses that her college aid didn’t cover, at least the moths weren’t flying out of his pockets anymore.
His place was sparely furnished mostly undecorated. A framed photo of Anna Marie sat on top of his desktop monitor. Another photo of Mariko graced his bedroom wall. Jean complained about it every chance she got, but he wasn’t putting it away for her benefit. It comforted him to look at it when he woke up.
He kept his place relatively clean. Once in a while he’d call up Merry Maids between jaunts out of the country to spiff the place up a little and to chase away the stale “old house” smell that resided in every rug fiber and drapery when he was gone too long. His refrigerator was frequently empty, except for what Anna Marie termed “a half a head of old lettuce, a packet of turkey meat with one dried up slice left, half a tomayta, some plain iced tea that no one but you ever drinks, and the heels of a bag of wheat bread.” They fought over the bottle of Nesquik once she spied it in his door shelf. He grudgingly split it with her when she promised to make dinner. The thaw-and-heat dinner rolls were starting to release their aroma into his tiny kitchen, making his stomach growl.
The thought sprang unbidden that Anna Marie would get a real kick out of visiting Ororo’s pretty restaurant and trying out the exotic food, if they could ever get back in. He wondered how much pull he’d have if he asked her to reserve him a table.
“Yer awful quiet, Daddy,” Anna Marie remarked.
“Mmm.” He flipped the page and read the classifieds, letting his eyes roam over the car section. He liked fantasizing about having a vintage car again, or better yet, a motorcycle. It’d been years since he’d rode one. There was nothing like it.
“What’s her name?” Marie prodded.
“Get outta here!”
“Ya get like this whenever ya got a new girlfriend. All secretive an’ stuff.”
“I ain’t seein’ anybody new, kiddo.”
“Sure ya ain’t. I found a tube a’ lipstick in yer drawer that somebody left behind in a hurry,” she drawled, shooting him a smirk.
Dang.
“Don’t got a clue where it coulda come from.”
“Looked new.”
Okay. Different tack.
“What color was it?”
“Hot pink.”
“Ain’t my color.” He rattled the pages at her and shot her a dry look. “I’m more of an autumn.” He mentally chalked up a point for himself.
“Wouldn’t hurt ya ta find someone new, Daddy.”
“That’s what they all say.” It hurt like hell when he lost Mariko. And every time he got too close to Jean, he got burned. Just like the proverbial friggin’ moth.
“It ain’t like yer gettin’ any younger, bub!” she accused.
“We can’t all be like yer mother.”
“Nice. Real nice. I worry aboutcha. I don’t wantcha ta be all by yer lonesome.”
“I’m not. I’ve got my daughter t’come over and fuss over me ever now and again when her busy schedule allows, and I’ve got a job that doesn’t leave a whole lotta room fer a full-time flame, anyway. Least not one that keeps the same hours I do.”
“Too bad ya couldn’t find one in the same line of business.”
“Wish one up fer me with her magic wand.”
Three days later found Ororo perusing the pitiful offerings of bestselling pulp novels at the airline gift store and stocking up on a couple of packets of cocktail nuts, gum, and book of sudoku and crossword puzzles. She’d enlisted Ali to housesit for her, giving her the hairy eyeball when she suggested she “might” have Kurt drop by to keep her company.
“Please. I’ve got to work with that man during daylight hours. Better not have any designs on showing him any of my unmentionables or going through my photo albums.”
“I promise,” Ali whined. “Pinky swear.”
“If he comes back to me with anything that looks, sounds or smells like potential fodder for blackmail, girl, I’m gonna post your high school photo of you with your Olivia Newton-John feathered haircut and blue eyeliner to the Internet!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Ali was aghast.
“Mwahahahaha.” Ororo pealed off gruesome laughter before goosing her and wrapping her in a sloppy, staggering hug. “I’ll miss you.”
“Miss you, too. I’ll be keepin’ it warm for you!”
“Dang, you’re fickle. You mean Kurt’ll be helping you keep it warm for me!”
“You know it!” Ali dropped her off at the check-in lobby and kissed her cheek noisily before she waved goodbye, leaving Ororo with the faint scent of her perfume and hairspray clinging to her lightweight cardigan sweater as she wheeled her suitcase through the line.
She didn’t expect the flight seating to already be underway as she reached the gate. First class had already boarded by the time she reached the counter to give the attendant her name and seat number.
“Right on time, Miss Munroe!” she chirped, flashing her a sunny smile that was the work of a skilled dentist. Perfectly gleaming veneers were heightened by a bright red slash of lipstick. That was Los Angeles, land of the beautiful people.
She filed into the line and made her way down the corridor, saying a silent prayer for a safe and uneventful flight, asking God for angels on the wings of the plane as she greeted the captain. She pretended his look was merely solicitous rather than a blatant leer, but she failed miserably. She still felt his eyes on her butt as she searched for her seat. She was just negotiating around a harried looking mother with a son and daughter who looked to be about five and three, respectively, praying that she didn’t have to sit across the aisle from them for the whole trip. The alternative wasn’t much better; she found her seat and was dismayed to find herself greeted by a woman who chattered a mile a minute and was dressed for a Vegas vacation in a glittery gold jacket and hot pink canvas track suit with tons of jewelry straight off of QVC. Ororo had just stowed her bag overhead, barely managing to fit it in the compartment, when the flight attendant strolled up to her and bent down close to speak.
“Miss Munroe?”
“Yes?” She wasn’t expecting to be addressed by name on a crowded flight at one of the busiest airports in the country.
“There was a mix-up with your seat assignment.”
“Oh?” She remembered asking the travel agent for a window seat, which her neighbor conveniently snagged before she got there, the picture of innocence.
“Yes. I’m taking you to your seat in first class!”
Obviously, those angels on the wings were looking out for her already. Hot diggety dog! She couldn’t suppress the grin playing around her lips as she bade her seat mate a hasty goodbye and followed the attendant behind the curtain.
The first class cabin was more spacious than she had imagined it, vaguely remembering a time when she’d flown that posh on a trip with her mother to visit some relatives in New York when she was a child. But that was nothing like this.
And she had a completely different traveling companion this time. He was already sipping a plastic cup of Sprite as the attendant deposited her at the aisle and relieved her of her bag.
“Go halfsies on a pair of headphones?” Logan offered.
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