His weathered boots sloshed through the puddles. He fretted as he remembered the dainty little sandals she’d had on, knowing damn well they probably got ruined on the way back to her car. Logan scanned the parking lot, then instinctively cut to the left when he heard the faint sounds of an engine that wouldn’t turn over. The street lamps illuminated a silver Jeep, probably old enough for its owner to have finished the payments.
And to need a new alternator. Logan wanted to shout his relief to the sky. He approached the car, picking out the silhouette of her luxurious mane of hair and watching her smack the flat of her hand against the steering wheel. When he got close enough, he could hear her cursing through the window. He braced himself and exhaled, then rapped lightly on the window. She looked up at him through troubled eyes. Go away, she mouthed at him.
“No,” he barked aloud, “I won’t. Open up.” He saw her shoulders sink in defeat before she opened the door, barely missing Logan as he backed away to give her room.
“Ya coulda rolled down the window.”
“No I couldn’t. The windows are automatic. Not originally my choice, back when we bought this car.” Logan didn’t miss the “we.” That just spawned a whole flock of questions that he shoved down for now.
“Ororo, did I move too fast? I didn’t mean…”
“No. Yes. God, I don’t know!” That didn’t help him much. He stood there helplessly, running his hand through the hair at his nape out of habit, watching as she leaned back against the Jeep, not caring that the back of her fragile dress would be soaked when she moved away. The water was already beading up in her hair and on her skin. She rubbed her temples and closed those compelling blue eyes. “I don’t know. You weren’t moving too fast, Logan, but maybe…maybe I was. I feel so damned stupid!” she railed, fling her hands open and fisting them shut again, before she hugged her arms around her ribcage. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“You…lost someone? A break-up?” The raindrops slapped the pavement and deepened the wide puddles, making them spread together. Logan knew she had to be freezing, but she didn’t flinch. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d gone numb.
“I wish,” she groaned. Then he thought he heard a hitching breath escape her chest as she scrubbed the back of her hand across the tip of her nose, which the raindrops were dribbling off of with increasing pace. “That would have been a walk in the park.” She met his eyes. “I could have dealt with it if it were just a break-up. Logan, my husband died. I don’t expect you to know how that feels…” She stopped talking when Logan grasped her hand and placed the fingertips of his free hand over her lips to silence her.
“Maybe I know exactly how that feels.” He removed his fingers and reached up to smooth a damp lock of Ororo’s hair from her eyes. “And it’s been too long since I’ve had someone whose ear I could bend who could relate. If I didn’t already ruin yer night?” She opened her mouth, then closed it, thinking better of trying to find anything coherent to say. She shook her head, still slightly shocked.
“Wanna come back inside? Scott and Alex were a little worried about ya.” Before she could respond, both of them looked up, temporarily stunned by the screeching sound of tires rounding the corner of the lot too quickly. Big tires. The enormous pickup truck plowed through the puddles on monster wheels, heedless of the couple that they were nearly bearing down on as they tore through the back lot. The wheels made a rushing sound as it disrupted the nearby, lake-sized puddle; a wave of water arched up, making a “shussing” sound as it drenched Ororo and Logan from head to toe. The freezing water dashed the tentative calm between them to bits. Ororo wanted to kick herself for sounding like such a girl as she shrieked in outrage.
“Holy - ! Oh, God, Ororo, look at ya. Geez, yer soaked.”
“Yeah. I noticed that,” she grimaced, holding her arms away from herself as though she didn’t want to touch the sodden mess of her dress. Logan felt a bit differently, seeing her curves shrink-wrapped in the now clinging satin, her nipples standing out stiffly and in stark relief. “I don’t mind the rain so much, but…yuck,” she grumbled. “I don’t know where those puddles have been.”
“Guess this means ya don’t wanna go back inside?” He fought a smile.
“S’not funny,” she insisted.
“I know it ain’t, darlin’,” he agreed. That smile kept winking in and out of the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she snarled, trying her level best to glare at him. She failed miserably. Finally he joined her as she dissolved into giggles, that graduated into full-bodied guffaws.
Logan wiped his eyes, then shook his head, reminding Ororo of Chuckles as he released excess puddle muck from his hair. “Can I offer ya a suggestion?”
“Be my guest.”
“Why don’t you be my guest? My truck’s over there. Let’s head back to the shop.”
“What, to stay in one of your bungalows out back?”
“Uh-uh. To come up to my place and dry off. If ya wanna head back down the hill with yer boys, that’s fine, darlin,’ but I don’t wanna leave ya here for as long as it takes ‘em to say their goodnights to present company,” he reminded her. Ororo thought back to the two cozy couples that the four of them made back at the booth. She hated to break that up. “Units are all rented, otherwise I’d rent ya one fer free. I got a perfectly good couch, or ya can stay in Jubilee’s room.”
“Right, right. She’s with Yukio.” She stared at her feet, which were soaking in a chilly puddle. She pictured her bare toes turning into prunes. She looked back up at him and surprised him when she looped her arm through his. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
If there had been anything lascivious in his offer, even the faintest hint of a leer, well, maybe she would have waited it out or tried the engine of her Jeep again. Or, her body traitorously suggested, maybe she wouldn’t have.
She remembered something. “Hold it.” She dragged him with her to the passenger side door and opened it, pulling out her denim jacket. As she reached for it, the photo that she had been staring at so intently when she left her house picked that moment to fall down again. Resolutely she tucked it into her jacket pocket and shut the car door. Logan looked quizzically as she took his arm again but said nothing.
Logan’s truck was old but big, with a slightly dented front fender and a few dings in the paint, but the upholstery was in good condition. Ororo detected a faint hint of cigar smoke embedded in the comfortable cushions, not unlike the faint hint of tobacco that she’d smelled on him back at the store. It wasn’t unpleasant. The pair brought the damp, fresh scent of rain into the truck with them as Logan reached up to click on the overhead light. “Ya okay, darlin’? Cold?” She shook her head.
“Wet,” she tsked. She kicked off her clammy sandals and sighed. The thorough immersion in the puddles soaked the uppers half off the soles; she could kiss those goodbye. Ororo attempted to smooth her skirt, but it was no use. She settled for stretching her legs, enjoying the fuzzy feel of the floor mats under her toes. Logan pulled out of the lot, pausing at the exit as he put his blinker on. He turned neatly, joining the stream of headlights as they headed up the road. Lightning crackled overhead; the flash of light lined her profile in silver, drawing Logan’s gaze. He ached to touch her. Even frazzled and dripping, she was beautiful. He kept his hands on the wheel and brought his eyes back to the road. “Not much longer,” he promised.
Ten minutes later they pulled into the lot. Logan steered the truck to his private spot in back and put it in park. He cleared his throat. “My place isn’t much…”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she murmured. “No need to get fancy for me. I’m not exactly standing on ceremony now, am I?” Her smile reached her eyes, and Logan felt hopeful that the night, not by any means perfect, was definitely salvageable. He got out of the truck first, then circled around to help her out. She carried her sandals in her hand, dangling them by the thongs. Logan tsked in dismay.
“Sorry bout yer shoes.”
“Not your fault.”
“They looked good on you.” Logan had no complaints about her long, slender feet and bare legs, though, as he reached out to take her hand. He was relieved when she didn’t pull away. “It’s upstairs.”
“I was curious about who lived there earlier today,” she admitted.
“We call it home.” Logan’s keys jingled as he fiddled with the ring, locating the electric blue one and inserting it into the knob. He swung the door open and reached in to flick on the light before making a sweeping motion of his arm. “C’mon in.”
Ororo made a sound of approval. “This is nice, Logan.” She ran her fingertips over the Corian countertops as her bare, damp feet squeaked against the clean linoleum of the kitchenette.
“Make yerself at home.”
“I don’t want to get anything wet,” she reminded him.
“Don’t sweat it. Have a seat.” He pulled out an armless, pine kitchen chair and beckoned to her to sit. “I’m gonna get ya something ta wear. You prefer anything in particular? Sweats? Shorts?”
Ororo swallowed around a lump that appeared out of nowhere. “Do you have another flannel shirt like the one you have on? Or something else with sleeves?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. He was dying to get out of the one he had on. Then it dawned on him.
“Ororo, I feel like an idiot. Ya need a shower. The bathroom’s that way.” At her look of uncertainty, he said “I’ll get you the shirt and a towel, and whatever else you think you need ta get comfortable. I can take one after ya finish up.” The tension left her shoulders, even though something inside her screamed that separate showers were a perfectly good waste of water…
“I appreciate this, Logan.” She laid her jacket on the table and unfastened the silver and turquoise barrette from her hair, ruffling the mass loose with her fingers and kneading her scalp.
“No problem.” He didn’t add “Any time,” since it felt unlikely. Didn’t mean he wasn’t thinkin’ it. He headed down the hall to retrieve some towels from the linen closet, selecting the fluffiest one he could find from the slightly threadbare offerings, and he rummaged for a washcloth. He flicked on the light in his room and silently gave thanks that he’d thought to make the bed, even if he didn’t end up sharing it tonight. The hamper wasn’t full to overflowing, either; he’d already done enough laundry to expect a clean shirt or two to already be in the drawer. He dug inside the bureau and pulled out a light blue chamois button-down that reminded him of her eyes. As an afterthought, he added a pair of his old boxer shorts. They were lounging shorts that reached a few inches above his knees, but on her, who knew? He added a pair of thick white socks to the pile and turned out the light on his way back.
Logan found her standing by the refrigerator, smiling at the array of magnets and stickers on the freezer door. Without looking at him, she pointed to a magnetic picture frame. “Is this your goddaughter?”
“Yup. That’s last year’s school photo.”
“I have the funny feeling that she’s spunky, looking at this picture. Spunky, and then some.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I think I’d like her.”
“I know she’d like you.” He plopped the clothes onto the table. She turned to study the offerings.
“These look fine.” The shirt looked and felt invitingly soft. She picked it up and on impulse, held it up to her nose. Logan stared as she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent. She rubbed it against her cheek, making Logan envy the garment.
“Does it meet yer expectations?”
“Mmmmmm. You’ve mastered laundry.”
“Acquired skill. Might wanna take yer shower.” Ororo saw the bit of tension return to his jaw and wondered what he was thinking that threw up that wall. He began emptying the dishrack to busy his hands.
“Back in a flash.” She scooped up the clothes and made her way down the hall. She flipped the wall switch and instantly chuckled at the surprisingly girly bathroom. Bubble gum pink shag rugs matched the plastic shower curtain rings, tissue box holder, and toothbrush jar on the counter. The shower curtain itself was clear and covered with pink and red hearts, with a red plastic magnetized liner. The wastebasket was white and covered with more of the same red hearts. Two toothbrushes stood up in the jar, one plain blue Reach brush with a compact head and firm bristles, and one yellow one with a Spongebob Squarepants handle. No confusing whose was whose.
Ororo turned on the shower and gratefully shucked her dress, laying it in a sodden heap on the counter. Even her underwear was soaked; she didn’t know how she would get around that. She peeled off her damp panties and underwire bra, thankful that they didn’t appear stained. The dress would need dry cleaning; if she hung it to dry, it might at least hold its shape. Ororo stepped into the steaming tub and leaned her hands against the cool tile wall, dunking her hair under the spray. She didn’t use as much of the shampoo as she was tempted to, not wanting to abuse their supply. She had so much hair.
Logan seemed to like her hair. Jonathan always had. Ororo pushed aside a brief flash of how it felt to cuddle against Jonathan’s lean, firm brown chest as he raked his fingers through it. Those were happier days. Before everything went to thoroughly, spectacularly wrong.
Ororo allowed the shampoo foam to sluice down her body and watched it spiral down the drain. She bent down to free the grit from between her toes, wishing she had some of her lotion to rub into them. At least he’d given her socks, bless him.
Reluctantly she turned off the spray, saving him more than enough hot water. She reached for the towel and dried off her hair and body as well as she could before stepping onto the rug, not wanting to soak it. She hated wet bath rugs squelching under her feet…
Once she was decent, she strolled back to the kitchen, where she was greeted with a familiar, delectable smell. Logan was standing by the range, stirring something in a small saucepan. She eyed the large Captain Morgan bottle and butter cubes on the counter.
“Whatcha makin’?” she demurred.
“Something a buddy showed me how to make in the service. Hot buttered rum.”
“That’s my favorite!”
“I make mine with brown sugar,” he warned.
“Please tell me you have clove powder, too,” she begged. She crossed the kitchenette to peer into the cupboards. “Mugs?” Logan pointed to the cup rack on the opposite counter before reaching for the spice rack, pulling out the container of whole cloves, tossing two of them into the concoction in the pan. He let it simmer and searched through the cabinets for a packet of vanilla sandwich cookies. Ororo peeled open a butter cube and fetched a knife from the drawer. Logan poured the mugs as equally as he could and let Ororo top each with a pat of butter. He spooned some brown sugar into each and put the open packet of cookies between them on the table as they sat down to enjoy their drinks.
“You’re still wet,” she observed. At least he had the chance to take his boots off. He had wide feet, which bumped hers underneath the narrow table.
“I won’t melt.” The rum was mellow but burned a tingling path down his throat, filling his gut with a delicious heat. Ororo’s eyes were drowsy but content over the rim of her cup. “I can make up Jubilee’s bed, if yer tired. Ya look beat.”
“Thanks,” she groaned, then smothered a yawn. Shoot, she was beat. “I can take the couch, so she doesn’t wonder who’s been sleeping in her bed.” She stared into her cup as she asked him, “Logan? How long…how long were you married?” He paused mid-sip and set his cup down, instead fiddling with a cookie. He unscrewed the top wafer and bit into the iced side before replying
“Five years. Anniversary woulda been this fall.” He nudged the cookies closer to her. “You?” She took a cookie and popped off the top like he had, but instead licked off the filling. He watched her tongue lave the cookie and his gut clenched.
“Wow. My own marriage lasted seven years, but we were separated for a while. We tried to work things out, but there were some issues.” That was putting it lightly. “Jonathan was a firefighter, too. That’s how we met.” She reached for her jacket pocket and withdrew the photo he noticed her rescuing earlier. She handed it to him and sipped her toddy.
Logan studied the photo. “Where was this taken, a powwow?” he inquired.
“Uh-huh. That’s one of the only shots I have of him in full regalia.” Logan grunted as he continued examining the man whose memory sent her running out of Mac’s like a bat out of hell. So he assumed. Ororo’s husband had been perhaps an inch taller than her and lean, with wiry strength in his upper arms and broad shoulders. His smile was easygoing, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache. His black hair was clubbed back from his face in a pony tail, and he wore buckskin leather leggings tied at the waist with a beaded belt. A choker of bone tubes and turquoise and flint beads circled his neck. Ororo stood beside him with her arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She looked young and radiant in the photo, and very much like a woman in love. “That was back when we still lived in Dallas.” He handed it back to her, and she tucked it safely into her pocket.
“Thanks for sharing.” He reluctantly left the table. “Let me get ya some blankets.”
Stay. She fought against the urge to call him back. She hadn’t even realized that his feet were still rubbing up against hers until they were gone, taking that soothing contact away with him.
Just leave her alone. Don’t make an ass of yerself. Logan rummaged through the linen closet again and pulled out a flat sheet, blanket and thick comforter. He retrieved a pillow from his own bed and brought it out, laying it on the couch.
“G’night.” Logan set his empty cup in the sink, knowing if he stayed any longer he’d have to tuck her in, maybe even carry her back to his own bed. He couldn’t afford to fuck things up. It meant too much to him to still find her there in the morning and not make any excuses, or have any regrets.
“Good night.” She watched his retreating back, enjoying the way he moved, his straight posture and the way his jeans, still damp, hugged his muscular legs and firm ass. She was itching to follow him, to strip him out of those wet clothes and warm him up, starting with his lips and working her way down…No, Ororo. She sighed and finished the last gulp of rum, wincing at the bite as it burned its way down.
Ororo got up and made up the couch, pulling the sheet tightly enough over the cushions to bounce a quarter, then fluffed the pillow. She turned out the lights, and despite being exhausted, she lay awake with her thoughts. She listened to the comforting hiss of the shower down the hall. It’s not too late to join him.
I shoved him away. That’s sending a mixed message.
Bull.
Well, it is.
You’d be correcting an oversight. Righting a wrong. Undoing an injustice.
It’s too soon. Jonathan…
He’s gone. He’s not coming back. You can’t bring him back. He’d want you to move on.
I wasn’t there for him when he needed me. I was weak. Still am weak.
He was the one who shut you out and pushed you away. Don’t forget that.
Instead, Ororo remembered. She shifted herself, flipping over to make herself more comfortable.
Coffees at Starbucks. The night her roomie, Anna Marie, introduced them at their favorite seedy bar on dollar shot night. The way he smelled when he asked her to dance. The tickle of his mustache against that sensitive spot behind her ear.
Ororo tried to lie on her stomach. Minutes ticked by loudly on the stovetop clock.
Their early days at the firehouse as rookies. Their first call to put out that stove fire in that brownstone downtown. That rice dish that he knew she liked so much. How his lips felt against her temple when he kissed her awake in the wee hours of the night.
The couch springs creaked as she continued her futile struggle to get comfortable.
Logan lay awake in the dark. He became keenly aware of his bedroom door being slightly ajar, but he was afraid his feet would carry him back out to the living room if he got up to shut it. He rolled toward the empty space in his bed, devoid of the second pillow. He wondered what it would be like to smell the scent of her hair on the pillowcases, or to bump against her sleep-warmed skin in the middle of the night.
Mariko used to steal the covers. She was always chilled. She couldn’t sleep without thrusting her bottom against him and pulling the covers up to her chin.
Something was lumpy. She was sure of it. The cushions were slightly worn, but felt springy enough when she first laid down. Okay, maybe not. Ororo turned onto her back again and stroked the nubby texture of the sofa, wishing for the friction of Logan’s denim-clad leg rubbing against her thigh as it had at the shuffleboard table.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
****
Logan was too hot. He flung away the covers and flipped over the pillow so he could enjoy the cool side. He sat up and fanned his white undershirt out from his chest, flapping cool air on his skin. He flopped back over and closed his eyes. Mariko used to hate it when he kicked the covers loose from the foot of the bed in the middle of the night.
Ororo felt tangled up in the comforter. The shirttails twisted around her torso and bunched their way into the waistband of her shorts. She grunted in disgust and flung them onto the floor. Jonathan used to sleep in the nude. He said it felt like swimming between the sheets. No matter what part of him bumped up against her, he became aroused instantly. His handy knack with tools and equipment at the station house earned him the nickname of “Forge.” Ororo always wondered if it wasn’t a little selfish of her, in hindsight, to switch back to her maiden name after he’d passed away. Silvercloud wasn’t a name that fitted who she was once he no longer defined her as “Wife.”
That was the moment that her blood pressure chose to drop, creating unsettling numbness in her fingertips. Ororo exhaled all of the breath from her chest through her nose, then found to her absolute horror that she forgot how to inhale. For one blurry, dizzy moment, her brain screamed. Gotta breathe, gotta breathe, gotta breathe… She was wracked by a coughing spell as her esophagus finally forced itself open, flooding her chest with oxygen. “Oh, God!” she wheezed. She flung herself upright, pulling in breaths in heavy gulps. She flapped her shirt collar in and out, trying to fan some air against her face and neck.
That’s how Logan found her. She heard his footsteps hurrying down the hall.
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