Chapter Seven
El Desafío
She started acting differently the night he first used the handcuffs. She seemed more pensive, subdued. Admittedly, they didn’t talk much, so maybe he wasn’t the foremost expert on her moods. Knowing a woman’s body had nothing to do with knowing a woman’s mind, but still she seemed different lately. He had been with her enough to know when she was acting a little strange. Then again, someone might say the whole relationship was strange.
It was strange. It wasn’t really founded on any emotion other than lust. He didn’t know how to express what happened between them in words, but he had never been good at expressing himself verbally. Honestly, he didn’t think people expected him to be able to express himself. He was a brute. All muscle, no brains. Everything he needed to say could be summed up in a stare.
Hell, they were probably surprised he talked and didn’t grunt. Though, he was known for his fair share of grunting from time to time. He was capable of complex thought, but still, it was hard to truly sum up what happened with Ororo. The only way anything about Ororo made any sense was when he thought about things from the beginning.
The moment he knew he had to have her was when he saw her dancing alone before the club opened while Kurt”known in most circles as DJ Nightcrawler, a German DJ infamous for his blue body paint, his freaky shit contacts, and makeshift tail”mixed a warm-up set. She was standing in front of the DJ booth, her eyes closed, her palms raised in genuflection to the sky, her body moving in unison with the beat, while the flashing lights washed over her body. The way she moved made him feel like doing something really bad.
She didn’t know he was watching her. In fact, he had just arrived and was stocking the bar when he spotted her on the second floor, dancing to a dance mix of Song to the Siren. “Did I dream you dreamed about me? For you sang, touch me not, touch me not. Come back tomorrow. Oh my heart, oh my heart shies from the sorrow,” echoed throughout the club. Her body flowed with the music, swaying sensually, invitingly. It was as if that dance was meant for him, to lure him in. And damn if it didn’t work.
Could this be the same woman he worked with day in and day out? He had never seen her look so free, so uninhibited, as she did in that moment. She could have been someone else in another lifetime “ a goddess or something. She always seemed so solemn when they worked together. It was as if she went through all the actions, but she didn’t really feel them. Her mind seemed a million miles away most days. Now, to see her dancing like that, putting so much of herself into it, showed him there was a different side to her.
He wondered what things would be like if she danced like that for him privately. Well, he knew one thing for sure, she wouldn’t be dancing too damn long if they were alone. He’d have her bent over the nearest table before she could say “cha-cha-cha”. He stood there captivated, gripping a bottle of crème liqueur with a death vise. He was surprised the glass bottle didn’t break in his hands.
He heard Creed snort behind him. “Dream on, runt. You’d never know what to do with a woman like that. No sense in gettin’ a hard-on for her.”
Maybe he was right. He could have went up to her right then and told her what he wanted to do to her. She could have slapped him, laughed at him, whatever. She would probably tell him to lick the pavement or something, but those thoughts didn’t discourage him.
“Why don’t you mind your own goddamn business, Creed?” he shot over his shoulder, which was rewarded with only a throaty laugh from the man. Then, he made a comment that he knew would really hit home. “Just because you can’t do better than that cuntface Birdie doesn’t mean we all can’t.” That remark caused quite an uproar, but that was a story best left for another time.
That night when Jean came to his apartment needing her “fix” he channeled that lust into their fucking, and God help him, it was Ororo he envisioned above him, gripping his shoulders, straddling his hips. And when he came, he nearly moaned her name.
Afterwards, he casually asked Jean about Ororo while they lay in his bed. Jean told him she met Ororo while they were in college. They were roommates who became fast friends. There they met their future husbands, Scott Summers and Lucas Bishop. Lucas and Ororo had recently divorced. It was a mutual decision, but still Ororo had felt she failed in the marriage department.
That feeling of failure sent her into a slump, especially when she found out her ex-husband had already started dating someone new. That’s when Ororo started working at the club. Jean paused, her eyebrows pulling together. Sudden realization appeared on her face. She turned to Logan and with a chilly voice she said, “She’s too good for you.” Was she a fucking mind reader or what?
“And what about you? Are you too good for me, too?” he asked coolly. He knew the answer to that question. He was her sordid secret, the forbidden bad boy who was lusted after by the good girl. She probably tittered about him behind his back with her friends. He wondered if Ororo knew. He didn’t like the idea of Jean and Ororo laughing about him behind his back.
“It’s just that you’re so rough, and Ororo’s so regal. You and I just have fun. She would take it too seriously, and I’d hate to see her get fucked over by you, especially when she’s in such a vulnerable state.” She said, her eyes glittering a little meanly. She had a mean streak a mile wide, but she was good at hiding it. She was nice as she could be to her friends, but there was also something cruel about Jean, especially when it came to him.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he muttered. Basically, she was telling him that he wasn’t Ororo’s type. She was telling him what Creed had told him. He couldn’t have Ororo. Nobody told him he couldn’t have anything he wanted. He had wanted her, and he got her. What made Ororo any different? He wasn’t asking Jean’s permission to be with Ororo. He didn’t need her approval.
Jean continued. “You’re not a bad person, Logan, but Ororo… she wants to find love again despite what happened between her and her ex-husband. She needs someone stable in her life, someone who’s truly interested in pursuing a long-term relationship with her.” She ran her hand along his bare chest, down his stomach, a diversion tactic that was working.
So, he let the momentary infatuation with Ororo die down… or at least, he tried to. He had tried to convince himself that Jean was right. Ororo was a burden he didn’t want. She had nothing to offer him that he wasn’t already getting, but that still didn’t kill the curiosity.
He’d watch her while she was preoccupied, picking out things he’d never noticed before like the way a slow smile crept across her face when she heard something amusing or the stern way she looked when she had to tell one of the younger clubbers that she couldn’t sell them any alcohol. She was like one of those paintings that seemed so simple at first glance, but as you looked more, you began to see intricate, complex details. Ororo was complex, and he wanted to peel away every one of those layers.
Then, one evening when they opened the club together, they had gotten into an argument about a fucking drink of all things. He had never seen her so angry. He’d never seen her angry at all, and he wasn’t convinced that she was that angry over a drink recipe. He had never heard her raise her voice above a genial tone until that night. Seeing so much emotion coming from her was stirring.
She stormed away, hiding herself in the storeroom. Typical. Why was the storeroom everyone favorite hiding place? He followed. One thing led to the next, and the next thing he knew he had her up against a wall with her skirt hiked up to her waist. He never said he was a romantic. He had expected that to be the first and only time, but he craved another taste of her “ just one more time.
She seemed innocent, yet carnal. She covered her body when she was nude; she blushed when he went down on her. But she’d respond to his every little touch and was never afraid to try something new. He shivered thinking of the way her fingers softly caressed him, the bold way she explored his body, and how she always ran lingered in the spots that made him shudder. He loved the way she pulled his hair and bit him in frenzied moments. When he was horny, she was like a cool bottle of water. She could cure the thirst.
Then, he would feel guilty. He took and took from her and didn’t give her anything in return except a few hours of his time and a couple of orgasms for her trouble. He knew it shouldn’t be like that, that there should be more. He should give more, take less, try to get to know her. Every time he told himself that something was going to change between them, it didn’t. Nothing ever changed, it seemed like as long as she was giving he was taking.
He didn’t even talk to her while they were working together, and he saw the pain in her eyes when he would deliberately ignore her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that he felt inadequate around her outside the bedroom. He felt that she would decide that he was an idiot and that she really was wasting her time with him. He didn’t want her to think he was another mindless moron like Creed. He felt like if he really tried to talk to her he would say the wrong thing and she would laugh at him.
That was piss poor excuse, but he was afraid to admit to himself that he maybe that wasn’t really the reason why didn’t talk to her, that maybe he didn’t honestly know why he ignored her. He could see that she cared about him, and he didn’t know if he cared as much as she did. He had to care a little. Right? He couldn’t seem to stay away from her. And believe him, he had tried to purge himself of her. He’d try, unsuccessfully, to go weeks without seeing her, but he could never go too long without being with her. She was like an obsession that he couldn’t get over.
She was a constant, something he frequently needed in his life. He always knew where to find her. There were no excuses about a husband, a boyfriend, anything, and she never turned him away.
When he officially bedded her (the storeroom didn’t count in his opinion), he had expected it to be no different than being with Jean, but it was a lot different. He tried to keep up the front that she didn’t affect him, that it was about getting what he wanted and nothing, but it was a bit more complicated than that. His pulse would pound until he thought his heart would explode whenever he around her.
But he refused to believe he actually loved her. Love fucked people over. It was a prelude to pain, an excuse to get hurt. Love was such a strong word to use. Sex was clouding his judgment and he was starting to confuse himself. Maybe Jeannie was right, maybe he was playing a game he couldn’t win. He hadn’t meant for things to get so far. It was supposed to be a romp in the bed, and they were supposed to go their separate ways.
He didn’t mean for emotions to get tangled in the mix, and he sure as hell didn’t want to hurt her -- despite what Jean thought about him. But he couldn’t promise her any kind of commitment at the moment. At least, he didn’t have any plans to promise one. He wasn’t looking to settle down or do anything domestic. He liked being free to do as he pleased. If he decided to leave New York that very night, he could do that without worrying about any strings. That was the way his life was supposed to be “ problem free.
Things were so complicated now, and he could only vaguely remember how things were before Ororo. Now, she said she was leaving and he had a tight feeling in his chest that he couldn’t get rid of. She showed little emotion when she told him. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t believe her, but he knew resolve when he heard it. And goddamn did his chest hurt.
She wouldn’t tell him where she was going. She had a faraway look in her eyes when she told him she was leaving. It actually didn’t take a lot of work to find out where she was going. He had snooped through her drawers when she was in the bathroom and found some travel stuff about Spain. “Who moves to fucking Spain?” He asked himself aloud. He figured a broad like her would want to go back to the Mother Land or something, not Spain. Why in the hell would she want to go to Spain? One name came to his mind: Joaquín.
He couldn’t even think about the bastard without retching. There was just something about the guy he didn’t like. Maybe it was the fact that every female in a five-mile radius thought he was perfect. He was an artist, which automatically put him on some sort of pedestal by women. Women never knew what they wanted, anyway. One minute they want a tough guy, the next they want a sentimental sap like Joaquín. What could Ororo possibly see in Joaquín, anyway?
And… and… if he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was jealous of Joaquín. Impossible, he snorted to himself. How could he possibly be jealous of that guy? He looked like the type who would chicken out if he ever had to defend Ororo’s honor. And even if he did try to defend her, what was he going to do? Bludgeon someone to death with a paintbrush? Hardly.
What could Joaquín possibly be doing for her? It was obvious they weren’t sleeping together. He knew. There was just something about the way two people acted together that told you whether they were getting it on or not. And in Joaquín and Ororo’s case, they definitely weren’t. He wouldn’t say they were fooling around or getting to that point, but there had definitely been no sex. There was just something about the way people acted when they come (or didn’t come) together that made things different. He didn’t even want to think about the two of them… ugh, he was going to lose his lunch.
Calm down. Calm down.
He had to put this in perspective. This was a good thing. He shouldn’t see this as a negative thing. She could move on with her life; he could move on with his. She had this opportunity to be truly happy, and he should be happy for her. He couldn’t expect her to be happy with an occasional fuck-and-go. He was just holding her down. They had to see beyond one another. They were too busy focusing on the sun that they couldn’t see there was other stuff outside like the trees and shit.
And what kind of bright and shiny bullshit was he trying to feed himself? He sounded like a motivational speaker on crack. He had to be honest with himself. He wasn’t happy with the idea of her leaving, and he was even less happy with the idea of her leaving with Joaquín. He’d rather have her stay than be happy. He may have been selfish for thinking that, but it was true.
Then, he was disgusted at himself. How could he let one woman bother him this much? He shouldn’t be having this internal debate with himself. Not over her. Not over any woman. The way he saw it women came a dime a dozen. There were more women in the world than Ororo. He could have just about any woman he wanted, yet he worried about Ororo leaving. There were plenty of warm bodies to replace hers, including Jean.
Why didn’t that make him feel any better? And why wouldn’t his goddamn chest stop hurting? He felt like his heart was about to open up and suck his whole chest into some black hole.
Maybe he had heartburn…
Or maybe he felt that way because he Ororo was leaving…
What was the difference, anyway?
*
Author’s notes: Cheer up, kids. *hands her reviewers some Zoloft* And please don’t hurt me, NemB. I’m trying. I swear. I know I promised two chapters, and honestly, I did write two chapters. There was a final perspective chapter from Ororo’s point of view, but two things occurred to me a.) you all would have probably killed me for it and b.) I have other plans for that. For that reason, I had to revise this chapter, so it may be full of mistakes cause it’s hot off the press. I’ll try not to be long with the next chapter. I’m working on something new as well, but I won’t unveil it until I’m satisfied with how it’s going and get a beta to check it out. Song mentioned: Song to the Siren (Did I Dream?)
