[Reviews - 94]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 1862 times

- Text Size +




And if he tried to catch her, she glided from him in an instant, not in the least afraid of him, but thinking, it part of the game not to be caught.


Her arms ached. That realization dogged her steps on the way up to her loft.

She couldn’t hold anyone, any more. In any sense.

“Darlin’?” He didn’t knock. She sighed, keeping her back turned to him. The light from the hallway outlined his body in her doorway and felt stark and glaring at her back. She laced her fingers behind her neck.

“I’m tired,” she informed him. Her voice was eerily calm. It unnerved him and made his already strained control fray even further.

“I know that, darlin’. So’m I.” He clenched his fists and cleared his throat. “Wanted ta check on ya.”

“Check on what?” she said simply. “What is there to say? Here I am. Now you can go.”

“I can’t. That’s where ya were wrong.”

“It’s easy enough, Logan, just move your feet.”

“I ain’t leavin’ ya alone.”

“You ARE leaving.” She turned slowly. Her eyes were cold but held no anger.

He wanted to shake her.

“I know what yer doin’, and ya need ta stop it, woman! Yer tryin’ ta shove it all down an’ hold it together. Ya’ve done nothin’ else, darlin’.” Her laughter was mirthless, stunning him.

“No. I’ve just been here. Waiting. Hoping my father pulls through, even though I already know in my soul he will. He will, Logan. You need to know that about him. There’s no one like Daddy.” She sauntered over to him, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Exhaustion left dark circles beneath her blue eyes. “You don’t have to worry about my dreams anymore, Logan. I don’t sleep. But maybe you know that.”

“God, ‘Ro. Shit,” he hissed, planting his feet apart as if to bar her exit. She wasn’t moving.

“I don’t even really know why you’re here. I never have.”

“Ta help ya. Ta protect ya.”

“Protect me from what?”

“From losin’ yerself.”

“Bullshit,” she sniffed cavalierly. She turned her back on him again and headed for the large bay window as though dismissing him, but he heard rolling thunder, coming closer to the house.

“Are ya finished takin’ care of everyone else in the house yet, darlin’?”

“No,” she countered. “So why don’t you just go to bed?”

“Because I gave up sleepin’, too.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Needed ta come up an’ take care of somethin’ else, anyway.”

“What did you need to do all the way up here?”

“Hold ya.” She turned partially, only giving him her profile from over her shoulder. Lightning flashed across the sky and illuminated her delicate profile.

“Hold me,” she repeated in disbelief. He swallowed roughly and nodded.

“If yer done holdin’ everyone else fer the night. Ya’ve held up Jeannie and everyone else that’s been waitin’ fer Chuck ta improve. No one’s held you. No one’s comforted you, darlin’. Not like ya need ta be, because ya’ve convinced everyone ya don’t need it.” She faced him again and leaned her hip back against the sill.

“You want to hold me.” It wasn’t phrased as a question. Given their recent history, she was wholly skeptical.

“I need ta hold ya,” he corrected her. “And ya need me ta do it, too.”

“And you won’t take the easy way back downstairs unless I let you? Even if I want to throw you out the window without batting an eyelash?” She never raised her voice, or her fist. Everything was matter-of-fact and measured.

“Yer welcome ta try. Don’t wear yerself out.” She sighed. He rubbed his nape in customary fashion.

“Fine. If it will make you feel better, knock yourself out.” It socked him in the gut. He didn’t ponder it, didn’t hesitate. His boots carried him across the loft, thumping over the floorboards.

He embraced her, long and hard, groaning at the crush of her scent in his nostrils, her face buried in his throat where she sat. Obediently her own arms coiled around his waist as they took solace in each other’s drumming heartbeats. She felt the slow flex of his muscles, and his body radiated warmth, blanketing her.

He was taken back. Dragged headlong into the memory of cradling a vulnerable, sweet-smelling child in his arms, despite the pronouncement that he was a “mean man.” She was pure then. She was untouchable now, but what he wanted hadn’t changed. To protect her.

Of their own accord his fingers twined themselves in her ripples of hair; he reflexively rubbed his cheek in its softness. His voice rumbled in the dark.

“I know ya wanna get up and leave us. Maybe just a bit at a time. But I can feel it. Chuck wouldn’t want ya ta push everyone away. He loves ya. Back when we met, he went through hell ta find ya and bring ya back. If there was ever a worse night than that in yer life, darlin’, it was when ya found him in the woods. I know that ‘cuz it was mine.”

“I won’t care about you.” The words stabbed him. He scowled but didn’t let her go. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Her voice sounded wistful and sad. Like the little girl she’d once been.

“You’ll leave. Everyone I care about leaves. So I can’t care about you. Anyone who tries to save me gets hurt. When it’s time for you to leave, you can just leave.” Nowhere in those words did she say that she would get hurt. Her hands fisted in the back of his flannel shirt. She absently burrowed closer to his comforting heartbeat, like a child nesting in its mother’s womb. His hard, warm barrel chest was familiar and solid beneath her cheek. “You can’t save me.”

“Then ya know ya need ta be saved,” he replied.

“I can’t care about you,” she repeated dully. Outside, a cloudburst drenched the grounds, hitting the statuary in Charles’ gardens with hard slaps.

They both knew it was a lie.

“Ya don’t hafta be so hard and strong every goddamned minute of the day, darlin’.”

“If I don’t, then who will?” He felt her pulling back from him, even though she didn’t immediately release him. “You?” Her blue eyes held challenge and aloofness.

“Can’t remember a moment in my life when I didn’t hafta be.”

“Neither can I.”

“That’s where yer wrong, darlin’.” He brushed back a lock of her hair, letting his fingertips graze the crown of her cheek. “There were plenty of people takin’ care of ya, guardin’ ya like watchdogs the night Charles took ya away from Cairo.” She let go of him completely, dropping her hands in her lap. “Up until that night, ya were trustin’. Innocent, and just a vulnerable little girl barely old enough to lose a tooth. Ya shoulda had a helluva lot longer ta stay that way.”

“Tell me more, O Wise One,” she mocked harshly, folding her arms over her chest again and borrowing her own nickname for Jean. “What makes you such an expert on innocence and trust? Shit…where did Dad even find you? You think you know so much about me. What about you? Don’t tell me you’re just a handyman.”

“Nope. Not just a handyman. And fer a while, not such a nice man, either. Ya had me pegged when ya said I was mean. I fought. I was a soldier fer my country. Than a soldier fer hire. A merc.”

“How did you and Dad meet?”

“He was havin’ a drink and some R&R at a bar owned by the guy I worked for. He needed a guy like me.”

“Like you.”

“Someone who was good at getting in, doing the job, and getting out.”

“Ah. That’s clear as mud.” He sighed. They had a wary staring contest in the darkness. A brief flare of lightning outside cast them both in a blue-white glow.

“I ran guns. Did ‘collections’ work if ya wanna call it that. When it was time ta pay the piper, they paid me, and I paid Farouk.” Now she scowled.

“Farouk…” She tested the word on her lips, and her accent deepened, becoming more prominent. “Uncle.” Cold prickles washed over Logan and knotted his gut. Her eyes flitted over his face, asking silent questions. “Why do I feel like I should call him that?”

“Ya shouldn’t. And that’s all ya need ta know. I’ll leave ya alone.”

“Now you run.”

“Uh-uh. Now I leave ya in peace. Like ya wanted me ta do.” His body drew itself tight, thrumming with tension and unease. The gruesome truth of her past and his hand in the bloodshed clawed at him, fighting to erupt from his lips. He hated himself as he turned his back on her and strode for the door.

He bumped a small side table on his way there. Something small fell onto the floor, barely making a sound. He bent to retrieve it; the worn fabric felt flimsy and soft in his hand. His eyes narrowed as he studied it; she felt the change in him, the weakening of his stance.

“At least ya got ‘Moy-Rah’ ta keep ya company.” He set the doll on the table, propping her awkwardly into a sitting position. She looked stunned. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“How the hell do you know my doll’s name?”

“Ya were ready ta kill me for her. Wasn’t til I came abroad an’ met Doc that I found out ya named her after yer mother.” He thoughtfully tweaked the doll’s bedraggled curls. “G’night, ‘Ro.”

~0~

That following dawn found him tramping around in the bush, scanning the perimeter of the woods on foot.

Vic’s scent was scattered but strong. He managed to trace his footsteps in the gravel on the road, easily separating his from the Professor’s, growling under his breath at the blood stains where Vic had dropped him, and dropped him hard.

Charley was a good man, one worthy of his respect. No one deserved what Vic did to him. The only crime he’d ever committed was trying to save an innocent little girl from the Devil in his vile, human form.

Render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s.

Logan knew Farouk still regarded Ororo as his possession. He’d sent Vic to collect a debt.

And to teach Logan a lesson. He couldn’t kill Logan. Not in the old-fashioned way. But he could make him wish he was dead.

He tracked his pungent trail through the thicket, looking for signs of blood and traces of Charles’ scent that he would have carried back with him. He finally managed to find a gravel path back to the main road, about two miles out where ugly black skid marks wriggled over the asphalt like snakes. So he came on foot, probably driving in from downtown. He continued to pick his was through the brush, looking for any other sign. Vic was sloppy, something the twisted fuck’d never admit. Thought the sun rose and set on his dirty ass.

Bingo.

“Exhibit A,” Logan muttered as he plucked the tiny Hertz rental business card from the ground. It was slightly curled from spending time in the confines of a snug jeans pocket over a long trip. He had a phone call to make.

He waited until he was back inside the sedate car he’d borrowed from Charles’ garage, with the windows rolled up to mask the sounds of the outdoors. A young female voice chirped at him, “Hertz Rent-a-Car, how may I help you today?”

“Yeah. How ya doin’, Miss? This is Vic. Victor Creed,” he emphasized, scratching his chest. “Wanted ta see how much ya’d charge me if I rented the car another coupla days. Some business came up. Wanted ta see the sights.”

“Hmmm. Let’s see…when did we rent you the car?”

“Four days ago.” Logan hoped she didn’t call his bluff.

“Creed, Creed…” she muttered. He listened to her clicking away at her keyboard, murmuring the spelling of Creed’s last name under her breath and thinking out loud. “Blue Ford Cobra, right?”

“Yup.”

“Care to verify your birthday for me, so I can update your account?”

“February 14th,” he grumbled sourly. The irony was never lost on him, back when Vic told him that over tequila shooters. Logan couldn’t even remember his own birthday, something that might have served him well, after all.

“All righty! Can I charge the same Amex card we have on file, Mr. Creed?”

“That’ll be fine and dandy, darlin’, I’d appreciate that.” She giggled. More hectic typing followed.

“There we go. Would you like a confirmation number?”

“Lay it on me.” He dug for a pencil and scratched the digits she rattled off onto the back of the card.

“And is this the same number where we can reach you for a reminder of when to turn in the keys?” She read it off. Logan’s smile was hard and mean.

“Thank ya so much, darlin’. Place is lucky to have a sharp cookie like you on the phone.”

“Oh, that’ sweet! Enjoy your stay in Salem Center,” she chirped before they hung up.

“Gads,” Logan muttered. Whatever happened to information protection?

~0~

Moira’s voice was hoarse, but she never stopped humming.

“Well the cat’s in the cradle with a silver spoon, Little Boy Blue and the man in the moon…” she husked, stroking his cool, dry hand.

He’d always listened to it with a sense of irony. Charles never preferred much contemporary music, preferring to lose himself in the classics. But the occasional folk song that told a story would grab him and not let go.

“We’ll get together then…you know we’ll have a good time then,” she sang, until her voice died. There had been little change.

She cried. She yelled at him. She bullied him. And he continued to linger in and out of consciousness. She feared sleep, shunning it. An hour of sleep threatened to miss what precious minutes he spent awake.

“Love ye every day of me life, Charley. I dinna think badly of ye for a second. Know that.” She offered him an answer to his pleas he’d made through Jean at the time of his attack. Last words, she knew, were how he’d planned them.

Horror mingled with heartbreak that he honored her with such a gift. For her. For her.

She was greeted at the school by a harried looking Mr. Ramsey, Charles’ gardener, followed by his son Douglas.

“Please, Dr. Mactaggert, come inside! Stevie doesn’t look too good, she took a bad fall in the kitchen,” he stammered breathlessly.

“HUSH now, lad! What happened tae Charley? TELL ME!” She grabbed his father’s arm roughly. Her eyes were desperate green orbs, overwhelming the piquant lines of her face. She held him in a death grip unexpected in someone so delicate looking.

“He hasn’t come back here,” he replied fearfully. “Stevie said that Jean went directly to him. Spoke with her mind.”

“Aye, lad, that much I know! Och, sweet Mary, mother of God! He…he was going tae meet me at the airport…” The weight of the day was beginning to hit her; Doug and his father saw her about to collapse. They both flanked her and eased her to the front steps.

“Here, now, pay him,” she rasped, handing them the thick wad of bills. Douglas dutifully gave the whole of it to the cab driver, who chose to speed away from the drama.

Moira!

“Jean!” Mr. Ramsey looked flummoxed as Moira turned away from them and began talking aloud. She held up her hand to him to remain silent so as not to break her concentration.

We’re with him. We followed the ambulance. Scott and me. You’ll meet him…oh, God, Moira! Oh, God! It was horrible, and…and…

“It’s all right, lass!

No. It’ll never be all right again. It won’t. A lead weight settled in Moira’s chest, clogging it. She felt cold and frighteningly hollow.

“I’m coming.”

Come quick. Moira nodded to the Ramsey men, and the senior of them ran directly to the garage to collect a sedan. She gave Douglas detailed instructions of how they could be reached over the next few hours and sternly ordered him to stay with Stevie.

That was the beginning of her nightmare.

They briefed her on his condition, reading the anguish on her face and the stubborn set of her shoulders. “Dinna fash yuirself, in some attempt tae gentle the blow! I’m a doctor, for God’s sake! Tell me EVERYTHING!”

Each word was a stinging blow. Spinal ruptures. Crushed vertebrae. Compound fractures in both legs and clavicle. A broken nose and a puncture wound in his cheek, thankfully not high enough to compromise his skull. Multiple open wounds.

“I need tae see him.”

“Ma’am…”

“DOCTOR!” she cried raggedly. “Ye will na’ keep me from seein’ my Charley! Miserable bastards! I flew over the bluidy ocean tae see him, an’ look what happened tae the poor man! Ye dinna know what day it is,” she hissed bitterly. Tears pooled in her eyes but didn’t fall. “Check his wallet. Tell me what day it is.” The hapless RN stared at her.

“Er, Doctor, let us know how you want to handle his personal effects while he’s here…”

“Look in his wallet, aye, and tell me what day it is.” The RN quietly led her into the triage room, where they’d temporarily left his abandoned, ruined suit jacket. She reached into the pocket with gloved fingers, looking to Moira for permission.

She handed the wallet to her silently, waiting for her to open the snap. Moira’s trembling fingers extracted his driver’s license.

“It’s his bluidy birthday. An’ someone tried tae kill him. They might have bluidy well succeeded. So I have one thing tae tell ye, lass: Yuir goin’ tae let me see Charley before ye take him into surgery, or by all that’s holy, I’ll walk into that operating room, put on some scrubs, and do the bluidy surgery meself.” They shared a long, heavy look between them.

The RN nodded numbly and tucked Charles’ ID back into his wallet, restoring it to his jacket. “Our daughter will come tae take his things home when she gets here. Dinna expect her tae leave any time soon once she does.” She preceded the nurse out of the room. “She’s not as nice as I am, lass.”

She wouldn’t be spared the gruesome spectacle of him lying so still, battered and broken beneath the sodden white blanket. He wasn’t conscious. She was thankful for that, at least, but her heart and stomach both pitched.

“Charley,” she whimpered, finally letting the tears fall. “Och, Charley! Baby!” The LVN’s assisting him into surgery paused long enough, adjusting his IVs, to let her approach and take his hand. “I know ye can hear me, Charles! So ye know verra well that I expect ye tae tell me yuir going tae be fine in yuir own words!” She kissed his limp fingers. “Promise me.” She gently laid his hand over his abdomen and barely stroked his brow, afraid to touch him more than gingerly.

“We’ll take care of him,” his surgeon assured her, gently urging her to back away from the gurney.

“Aye. Ye will.” All hint of tenderness was gone. She was brittle, in charge, and not someone he wanted to fuck with.

She held her vigil stoically until Jean arrived with Ororo. The two women caught each other’s gaze and Jean collapsed into her lap, fueling Moira’s pent-up grief. Their sobs were loud and harsh; the neighboring occupants of the waiting room shied away and watched them with pity.

“So…much blood,” Jean whimpered into her blazer.

“Och, lass, hush!” Moira chided her. Jean swallowed and wiped her tears, finally seating herself beside her on the vinyl upholstered bench. “Tell me, but not that way.”

It was the worst thing I ever saw.

We were afraid we wouldn’t get there in time, Mummy. Jean had drawn Ororo into their rapport. Ororo flanked Moira’s other side and held her protectively, like a mother bird sheltering its baby. It was still unnerving, feeling the solid presence of the girl who’d been so fragile when they’d met, supporting her when she needed it. It humbled her, and it made her feel ancient.

You were with him, lass? He saw you, could reach you?

Yes. We didn’t get there in time to keep him from being attacked.

Ye tried, lass.

They wanted us to find him, Mum.

What d’ye mean, Ororo?

Whoever it was left a message. I See You.

Bluidy hell!

Moira, I need to share some things with you. Things Professor Xavier meant for you to hear. She temporarily broke the link among the three of them and channeled her impressions from the frantic drive home into Moira’s mind. Ororo contemplated them as she thumbed through a dog-eared magazine, not reading it. She felt slightly resentful at being cut out of the communication.

I’m a telepath, Moira. Feeling his pain…it was as though it happened to me. I felt him nearly die. I held onto him as hard as I could.

“I know, Jean, I know,” Moira soothed, squeezing her hand.

No, Moira. I held his soul. I made him promise not to leave, not until you finally came to him. The rest is up to him.

“Jesus,” she whispered, sagging against Ororo as her strength left her. She cradled Moira across her lap and fanned cool air on her face while Jean hopped up to fetch some water.

~0~

“Ye promised me a ride on Amelia, Charley,” Moira reminded him now as she adjusted his blankets. She continued to hold his hand, fondly stroking his cheek above where it was trussed up with a thick bandage. His eyes were still swollen and bruised. His lids didn’t even twitch as she continued her monologue. “Spent so much time, aye, braggin’ t’me about what a smooth ride she gives. Ororo spoils that mare, from what Jean said.”

Ororo was the only other visitor allowed in the ICU. She had the benefit of being named as his daughter on his medical records and next-of-kin, but it was cold comfort. She spelled Moira for meals. Neither woman wanted to leave, but they dutifully attended him in shifts.

Once in a while, they would hear his thoughts as he fought his way back from the darkness. It gave them hope.

It was soon Ororo’s turn by his bedside. She took his hand, drawing comfort from the contact.

“So Dad,” she began, making her tone almost flippant. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Logan.” She sighed and shook her head.

“Why on earth does he think he has to save me?”

She felt him gently pushing back at her with his thoughts, confirming that he heard her, even if he couldn’t yet speak. Ororo drifted back to last night. How he said he needed to hold her.

She still felt the soft brush of his flannel shirt against her cheek, and his heartbeat thudding beneath it.


~0~

The bar was packed. Logan waded his way toward the back. The crowd seemed to part, making way for the sullen loner with dangerous eyes. His boots thudded over the hardwood floor, and he approached the table nearest the dart boards. He sighed.

“H’lo, Vic.” Glittering eyes peered back up at him. Vic tsked with disgust and tipped his drink back, draining the shot and slamming it back on the table. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Hey, asshole.”





You must login () to review.