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“One hundred feet, ‘Tro,” Ororo stated flatly, her eyes icy blue chips. “You’re too close.”

“No. I was invited.” His voice was cool, every syllable in its nice, neat little place. Behind her, Ororo could feel Logan’s hackles “ if a man could have hackles “ standing on end.

“You’re lying.” She didn’t add “You’re an expert at it.” Pietro smiled sheepishly and reached into his pocket, withdrawing the small rectangle of pastel-plaid cardstock, overlaid with vellum and tied at the top with raffia. Ororo recognized Jean’s girlish script as he held it up beneath the glow of the porchlights.

“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” He tapped the invitation against his lips thoughtfully.

“We were just leaving,” Ororo insisted coolly.

“You’re being awfully hasty. Doesn’t sound like the way to treat your best friend, Ororo. Wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, but this isn’t the first time, is it? You’re good at leaving the party and walking out on her without so much as a hug goodbye. Seems like you’re following a little pattern.” Ororo was still rooted to the spot, unwilling to step down onto the porch.

She was unceremoniously yanked backward, nearly losing her footing as Logan planted himself between Ororo and Pietro, mindless of Jean’s brand-new textured doormat from Pier One beneath his feet.

“Shouldn’t matter to ya why ‘Ro wants ta leave, pal,” Logan declared. Pietro and Ororo were each of a height; Jean jokingly told them that was one more thing that made them such a striking couple. Therefore, Pietro towered over Logan by a good eight inches and enjoyed this vantage point to its fullest. Logan, by contrast, was sturdy and built like a bull, with fists so big he could palm a basketball. His stance was wide, forming a protective bulwark before her. She didn’t know whether to feel safe, or indignant.

“You were on your way out before could even knock. No one will believe she decided to leave because of me,” he shrugged. Ororo longed to smack him. No one except for at three people she could name who saw her little show upstairs.

“And that makes a difference why, bub?”

“Ask Ororo.” Pietro’s voice was loaded.

“She’ll tell me when she wants to, bub. Ya might wanna move now.”

“What’s the rush?” Pietro directed the question at Ororo, licking his lips as he finally noticed her party clothes.

“She’s got cramps.” Logan heard Ororo’s smothered shriek of outrage and cringed inwardly. He knew he’d have to make it up to her later.

“Logan!” Dude, I figured you’re be gone by now. You sure you don’t want to stay for the second half…oh. Hi, ‘Tro. I didn’t know you were coming tonight, ‘bro.” Scott’s tone rang with more confusion than anything else. Scott typically always kept Pietro at the top of his guest list for everything. Ball games. House parties. Work shindigs. He stopped himself from telling Jean to invite him out of common sense, knowing full well she’d want to invite Ororo. Their tenuous friendship with their favorite couple was at a four-way stop, and he wisely let Jean have the right of way. He loved her.

Now, his gaze swung from Logan and back. His best friend looked cool as a cucumber. His normally stoic coworker and erstwhile houseguest look like a dog guarding a meaty bone, nostrils flared, eyes dilated…oh, yeah. “I’ll just…check on Jean, I guess. Take your time, ‘Ro. Sure you don’t want some dip?” The look on his face was classic: Old boyfriend+New boyfriend=Not good.

“I’m fine.” Her smile was strained, her eyes pleading.

“You don’t have to go, do you? Jeannie was so glad you could come.” Pietro watched the exchange with amusement. See? his eyes seemed to crow.Now you’re the one who looks bad. I win.

“I know.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want to cut things short, Scott. It’s not your fault, everything was great.” His dark eyes were soft and full of sympathy. Telling him the truth would be like kicking a puppy. Suddenly it hit her.

She felt sorrier for Scott than she did for herself.

“Jeannie did everything. It’s just her thing.” Scott peered back through the crowd of attractive people;; the tiny divot appeared between his eyebrows that Ororo affectionately named his “thinking mark” as he continued to watch out for his wife. Amidst the din, Ororo heard Jean’s light footsteps descending the wooden stairs, with Lorna and Ali in pursuit. There went her clean getaway. Ororo fought the urge to look back and lost; her eyes were drawn to Jean as she reached the landing. A quick glance told her what she needed to know. Jean nodded quick hellos and effusive greetings, occasionally tilting her head around her guests in a furtive search. Her skin was flushed; no more handprint or crocodile tears, Ororo mused sourly.

Their eyes met. Time stood still. Jean’s hands smoothed the drape of her skirt, searching for something to do. She clutched her hands…and twisted her wedding band in a tense, tidy circle around her finger.

Everything, Ororo mouthed. You had everything. Tears pricked at her, threatening to fall. Scott loomed between them, gratefully swooping down and wrapping his arms around her waist, gobbling the side of Jean’s neck fondly.

“Mind moving out of the way?” Pietro’s voice roused Ororo from her stupor. “I’d like to come in.”

“Sure ya do.” Logan’s chin jutted stubbornly as he reached up to scratch his stubble, making a thoughtful little growl in his throat. “Ain’t my place ta tell ya no. Yer good at that.”

“Excuse me?” Pietro huffed. A tiny vein worked in his smooth, sharp jaw.

“Yer always wantin’ ta let yerself back in, eh? Betcha feel at home at a shindig like this. Nice house. Great grub. Pretty people. Bein’ in good comp’ny.” Logan flicked his head back, nodding toward Ororo. “A guy’s gotta get out an’ mingle, right?” Logan’s eyes dared him to mingle…

“Not much point in mingling. I know everyone here,” Pietro boasted, taking the opportunity to stare past Logan into the foyer, venturing a stop toward the door and waving at random guests, making a point to look straight over Logan’s head. His eyes raked over Ororo’s outfit, staring covetously at her lean curves shrink-wrapped in the softly gathered black Lycra dress.

“Go mingle anyway. Don’t mind us.” Logan was on a short tether. He felt Ororo’s satiny skin as he reached up to cover her fingers in his warm grip where she clutched him. Pietro’s smirk beckoned to him. He was dying to wipe it off. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. His throat. The tension from that morning when he drove Ororo home flooded back to him, burning him. That look of unease in her baby blues; that expression on her face, like a kid trudging inside for a spanking. The last place Logan wanted to be was in the middle. Still, he planted himself between Ororo and her ex-boyfriend, doing just that.

The fucking irony of it all, he sighed.

“Shame to leave so soon.”

“Shame.” Logan slid Ororo’s hand from his shoulder and curled it snugly in his, lacing their fingers together possessively. Pietro chuckled under his breath and shook his head, backing up and swinging himself aside like a door to let them by, hands raised in surrender. Logan stared into his face with undiluted challenge written over his features as he tugged Ororo after him.

Ororo’s breath caught in her throat as she felt herself tugged back by the wrist. She yelped in protest as her fingers were wrenched from Logan’s grasp. Logan smothered a curse, whipping around as Pietro dropped the other shoe.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening…

Ororo’s arms were clamped at her sides as Pietro hauled her against him, his wool coat rough against her skin, searching her as he levered one final insult.

“You’re not leaving yet. I didn’t say you could leave yet,” Pietro crowed, his expression a mockery of the way he used to look at her, right before he crushed her mouth with a bruising kiss.

“MMMRRMMPPH!” Ororo’s choked cry was outraged as she flailed her hands, pushing at him with ineffectual slaps. “Mmph! NO! STOP IT, ‘TRO!” He didn’t release her, even as she turned her face away, only allowing him to paint her cheek with his hot breath.

“Awww…ya had ta do it. Ya just had ta pull that shit.” Logan’s voice was resigned. Ororo turned briefly to Logan, her eyes beseeching him not to misinterpret it, pleading that this wasn’t what she wanted. Wasn’t who she wanted…until she was his expression, looking for all the world like someone force-fed him a double helping of chili peppers and raw onions soaked in Tabasco and turpentine.

“Miss me, baby?” he purred, cupping her jaw roughly, skimming her mouth with his thumb and smearing her lipstick. Anger sparked in her eyes, never leaving his even as she felt Logan’s boring into her back. Contemplating what Logan was thinking at that moment, seeing Pietro treat her like that was the final straw.

Ororo sank her teeth into the pad of Pietro’s thumb. She was rewarded by the deafening shout of outrage and the weakening of his hold on her as she spun away. Logan’s body blocked her from tripping and stumbling off the porch. She fell against him and searched his face.

“Y’all right?” She nodded breathlessly, her hand reaching up absently to wipe her mouth. “Fine,” he muttered. “Wait in the car.” She hesitated, clutching his sleeve. His scowl was thunderous, even though she wasn’t the target.

“Huh-uh. No. Not without you.”

“Wait in the car,” he greated out, releasing her and focusing past her to Pietro’s leer. Her hands felt empty as he rushed forward, and she numbly trodded down the steps, watching the scene unfold like a five-car pile-up. She stood rooted to the spot, disobeying him as Pietro taunted them both.

“This is a joke. You, coming here with him. Five years. Five fucking years. Were the sheets still warm, man? She let you in pretty quick, probably quick enough to smell my cock on her p- “

CRACK!!!

He was too focused on releasing weeks of bile and frustration to realize Logan wasn’t going to offer him “one for the money, two for the show” to get warmed up. Work-thickened knuckles slammed into Pietro, connecting with the bridge of his nose. The sickening impact of flesh striking flesh made Ororo’s stomach lurch; adrenaline made her dizzy. She still found breath to cry out.

“LOGAN! Oh, God! PLEASE, no!”

Adrenaline had its own wicked way with Logan, dilating his pupils and momentarily deadening the sting in his bones as he hit him again, driving him backward. Pietro’s stark shout roused a murmur from the guests inside; one or two voices paused in asking who left the door wide open on such a drafty night. Ororo choked back a small moan, smothering it before it could blossom into a scream. The irony hit her that she old movies and booked that always found two suitors fighting over the woman they desired wasn’t the romantic, exciting spectacle it was cracked up to be.

The were out on the front porch, in New York, on a tree-lined suburban street. Ororo had five dollars that said Jean’s neighbors were calling the cops right now.

With a grunt, Pietro locked his knees and pushed back, lowering his head and driving his shoulder into Logan’s sternum. Ororo’s eyes were riveted to Pietro’s face. Angry color suffused his skin where Logan struck him, the tissues around his eyes already beginning to swell. Logan barely shifted, huffing as he kept his balance. Pietro pressed him as Logan beckoned to him, waving him forward.

“C’mon, ya pansy, try that again!” Pietro feinted and looked for Logan’s weak side. He swung, catching Logan in the ribs just to see which was he moved. “Ya call that a hit, dumb ass? That shit tickles. HERE!!” BAM! A stream of blood-tinged spittle flew from Pietro’s mouth. He spat more of it onto the porch.

Jean’s cried rang out, startling Ororo from the spectacle.

“STOP! Stop it, NOW! You WON’T DO THIS! This is MY house!
The whites of her eyes were visible beneath the porchlight, glittering with a mixture of horror and outrage. “SCOTT! she shrieked. He was by her side in a second, then pried her away from the doorframe.

“Are you out of your fucking minds? Lo- HO! Holy SHIT!” Scott flattened himself against the doorframe, narrowly missing Logan plowing over him, jacking Pietro up by the lapels, and slamming him back against the siding. The sound of Pietro hitting the house felt so satisfying that Logan did it again.

“You don’t touch ‘Ro,” Logan rasped. “ya never look at her like that, ya sorry, cheatin’ fuck. Ya won’t soil her with her filthy mouth.” Pietro struggled for purchase, his hands clawing at Logan’s strangling hold around his throat. He coughed and sputtered curses, panting for breath.

“Logan, take it easy, knock it off!” Scott was back on the porch, whacking Logan soundly on the back in frustration. “What got into you? Let him up,” he demanded. “Let him up now,” he repeated, pulling Logan back with some effort. Logan jerked his face toward Scott, at first keeping his eyes riveted on Pietro. He thumped him back against the house again, warning him that he wasn’t done yet.

“Ya would be stoppin’ me if anyone’d messed with Jeannig that way, Scooter,” Logan growled. Fresh tears spilled down Ororo’s cheeks, destroying her precious efforts at keeping them in check. The irony left her raw to the bone when Jean’s shoulders slumped, and she bowed her forehead into her templed fingers. Scott was too busy playing referee to notice her sudden silence. Jean felt Ororo’s accusing eyes, telegraphing pain and blame: This is all your fault. Ororo shook her hear to make it go away and covered her mouth with trembling fingers.

It wouldn’t go away.

“This isn’t about Jeannie. It’s not even about Ororo, is it?” Scott’s jaw worked at the sound of his wife’s name.

“You’re fucked in the head if ya think this ain’t about ‘Ro! I ain’t kickin’ his ass just ‘cuz I don’t like his face, bub!”

“This isn’t some pissing contest you can just bring into our home. You’re not bringing this bullshit to work with us, either. This stays here, Logan, but it ends here,” Scott barked.

“I didn’t just show up, planning ta kick Chuckles’ ass tonight, Summers.” Logan loosened his grip a mere fraction of an inch.

“Fuck you,” Pietro rasped indignantly.

“Let go of him,” Scott reasoned. “Enough.”

“He ain’t had enough yet, and neither have I.” The admission coming out of his mouth managed to sober him, though. He let him go. Pietro made a show of wiping Logan’s hands away and shaking off Scott’s attempt at straightening his jacket.

“You’re not man enough for ‘Ro,” Logan informed him disgustedly.

“No one’s man enough for that whore,” Pietro smirked, completely heedless of the favor both men did him. He turned back to Ororo, sizing her up, and Ororo saw a strange soup of hurt, longing and haughtiness in his silver eyes. Scott reacted first.

“Tro, knock it off! Shut up with that shit! You don’t “ “ Scott grabbed Pietro by the shoulder, but any further recriminations died on his lips when Logan carefully, cleanly shoved him out of the way.

“Think yer a smart ass,” Logan grunted. Without further preamble he grabbed Pietro and threw him over the porch rails. Ororo’s muffled scream filled his ears but didn’t stop him. He jumped over the railing and tackled him before he could rise. He was deaf to anything but the echo of that bastard’s words. They grappled in a blurry tangle of fists; Logan had the advantage of sheer endurance and strength despite Pietro’s reflexes and long reach. Logan spun Pietro around and knocked him down again, letting momentum send him skidding face-first into the new sod. His booted foot drove into Pietro’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

“No,” Ororo sobbed raggedly. “NOOOOOOOO!” She shook her head against the sight of Logan committing such violence. “Stop,” she cried, slowly regaining her voice. “STOP IT, LOGAN, HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” He faced her at last, his scowling brows reassembling themselves. His face seemed to crumple, and he opened and flexed his bloody fingers.

“Aw, geez…’Ro, I…no. Not til this sorry fuck says he’s sorry,” Logan grumbled. He kicked him again as he was struggling to get up and jerked him roughly to this feet. “Apologize, Slick!”

“Sorry,” Pietro hissed, panting and gazing upon her with contrition, mingled with pain that she couldn’t appreciate. She was still trembling.

“Ya can do better than that, asshole!” This time his boot connected with Pietro’s ass, knocking him back onto the grass. Pietro cursed under his breath, hissing as he spat a bit of grass from his raw lip.

“LOGAN!” Jean’s voice was indignant and accusing. “He said he was sorry! That’s it, I’m calling the police!”

“Fine,” Logan snarled. “Do whatcha want. I’m done,” he announced, holding out his hands in surrender. He turned back to where Ororo was standing, only to be greeted by the sight of her retreating back as she fled down the driveway. Panic squeezed his chest. “Shit.” Belatedly she fumbled in her purse for the keys before she realized that logan had driven them in her car. They were in his pocket. His footfalls gained volume behind her as he caught up, stilling her reach for the door handle. She felt his pulsing, solid bulk at her back as he pulled her to him.

“Wait, ‘Ro!” he pleaded, his voice hoarse but no longer angry. His gusting breath stirred the fine hairs by her ear, tickling her chilled flesh. Her hair whipped out and teased his throbbing lip.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered. “No…you CAN’T do that. This wasn’t the time or place, Logan!” Humiliation crawled over her with scrabbling paws, making her chafe all over.

“Then when? What was I gonna do? I didn’t have a clue that he was comin,’ darlin’, did you?” She spun on him but didn’t shake off his grip.

“DUH! NO! Of course not…did I know he was coming, he says,” she groaned. “I wouldn’t have come if I had known, Logan. You know that,” she insisted. He grunted and stroked her hair back from her face, searching it. He offered no words of agreement, but his face finally softened as his thumb stroked the crest of her cheek.

“I didn’t wanna be in the middle,” he reminded her.

“There’s nothing between ‘Tro and me to be in the middle of, sweetie, except an expensive restraining order. You hear him.” She swallowed. “He sleeps around, and I’m the whore?” Her voice cracked, even though she tried to laugh. The quiver of her lips tugged at him and pierced his heart. Growing sounds of chatter reached them from the crowded house, and Logan cringed guiltily as Scott approached, arms crossed over his chest.

“Jean’s upset. If you have any decency, you’ll apologize.”

“Ro’s upset, too, Summers, or haven’tcha noticed?” Scott took in the strain etching itself over her features and recanted.

“Hey…’Tro’s my friend, but Jeannie and I only talked about Ororo showing up.” He reached out to stroke Ororo’s arm comfortingly. “I didn’t know,” he insisted.

“Scott…Pietro can’t come within a hundred feet of me. It’s complicated.” Scott withdrew his hand before scowling back to the porch, where Jean was approaching Pietro with a clean dishtowel. Lorna and Ali watched them soberly, then saw Ororo and Logan beside her Honda. They strode around Jean and Pietro, their faces giving away nothing.

“Don’t leave without giving us a hug goodbye,” Ali demanded, pulling Ororo away from Logan to embrace her. Her hold on her was firm and steadying, and she rocked her like a small child. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered. She released her to Lorna, who embraced her just as fiercely.

“He’s not worth it, Ororo,” she murmured.

“I’m not worth it,” Ororo corrected her stubbornly.

“Bullshit,” Lorna chided her, frowning. “Don’t say that. You worry me when you do. Ali and I love you. We’re all your friends here. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. That won’t change.” Tears spilled onto Ororo’s cheeks again. Her makeup was a lost cause. She sobbed brokenly and enveloped both women in a hug that was more desperate. Logan sighed and rubbed his nape absently, scuffing his boot in the gravel.

The roar of a rebuilt Mustang engine interrupted him from his dark thoughts. Remy and Anna honked and waved from the window before they parked. Their smiles evaporated as they got out of the car and locked up, spying Ali and Lorna gathered protectively around her and Logan looking resigned and defeated. And guilty.

“What happened, homme?” Anna dashed forward and gasped at Ororo’s condition.

“Ya look like hell, shoog,” she snapped She glared at the sight of Scott now seated beside Pietro on the porch steps, Jean hovering over them both and fixing an ice pack. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care,” Ororo lied. “I just want to go h-home.”

“Yeah, ya do,” Anna agreed. She kissed her. “I’ll call ya,” she promised. Drive safe,” Anna warned Logan, for good measure.

“Gym tomorrah,” Remy offered. Logan nodded, then saluted him before bundling Ororo into the passenger seat of her car. Remy pattedthe hood affectionately as they drove off.

Logan fumbled awkwardly with Ororo’s stereo and turned down the volume, relaxing a half a degree when he found an oldies station. Al Greene’s voice filled the closed up space with a soothing lilt. Logan felt hot and uncomfortable. Ororo’s sorry and frustration rolled off of her in waves. She made herself as small as she could, curtailing herself from talking by chewing her knuckle. The window felt cool against her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered once they reached the freeway and passed the first three exits. The stars were obscured by rolling clouds that promised morning rain. He stared at her, incredulous.

“Why?” He hated seeing her like that, unwilling to look at him. He needed to see her eyes, and to know he hadn’t lost everything when he wiped that smug, my-shit-don’t-stink leer off that asshole’s face. He could take Ororo being mad, as long as he could take her home and explain himself. He didn’t give a damn that he hadn’t a clue as to how.

“I would never …ever do that. Put the two of you in one place like that, after what happened. I’m not like that.” She sniffled roughly and Logan saw her wiping impatiently at her cheeks.

“Dammit, Ororo, I know that! Shit, I’m sorry. I mean that,” he emphasized, reaching into her lap and clasping her hand. “I’m sorry. I get pissed off. I knew he hurt you when he broke up.” He stroked her fingers and settled her hand more comfortably, feeling a small measure of relief when she didn’t pull away. She squeezed his back, but it tore at him when she whimpered softly and her shoulders shook.

“I…” Her voice was strained and low. Logan waited patiently for her to recover. “I’m…not ““

“Don’t say it,” he growled. “I heard ya before. Yer gonna tell me it wasn’t worth it fer me ta make him take back what he said.”

“I’m not worth the trouble,” she insisted. “Not for that. I can’t watch you do that, Logan. It…it hurts. I was so scared, and you “ you were so angry. You work with Scott, for God’s sake!”

“He looked like he was having second thoughts about stoppin’ me back there, when I asked him if he’d have done the same thing if it was Red,” he argued. Ororo faced him now, chin defiant as she sat up to her full height and turned her body away from the door.

“He might have,” she admitted, “but that’s no excuse. You’r a grown man, Logan. Adults get arrested for that playground shit.”

“He wasn’t just stealin the kickball, darlin’. He was pickin’ on my girl. Ya don’t pick on girls. Grown men don’t,” he grumbled, releasing her hand only for as long as it took to turn off onto the ramp. Once they made it through the intersection, he rested his hand on her knee, cradling it as through she were made of fine china. “Yer special, ‘Ro. Special, and special ta ME.” She shivered and shifted in her seat before tentatively reaching out to him, caressing his neck. “He was a dumb ass ta run around on ya, and just cuz he threw ya aside, that doesn’t mean yer not precious, sweet, and so pretty ya make me ache. I care about ya. I don’t wanna run around on ya, because I ain’t built like that.” She feathered her fingers through his thick waves of soft hair and rubbed his nape. The tension knotting his gut uncurled and eased. He groaned low in his throat, wanting to close his eyes and savor the contact. He was grateful she was touching him at all.

“You can’t just act the donkey when someone gives me a hard time.”

“This wasn’t just ‘someone.’” He bristled. “Well, he ain’t.”

“I loved him. I don’t anymore, but I did for a long time. That’s why it hurt, watching you hit him.” Logan winced. “But I hated it just as much watching him trying to hurt you, too. Each time either one of you landed a punch, I felt it. I wanted us to have a nice night. Scott and Jean and Pietro and I had a great time together. I didn’t want to squeeze you into some little mold and force you to take his place by going over there tonight. Scott knows Pietro and I aren’t a package deal anymore.” She said nothing about what Jean thought, and Logan didn’t feel any better, even though he didn’t realize yet that where was a piece missing from the puzzle.

“Let me know if yer not over him,” Logan retorted.

“Why don’t you let ME know if I seem like I’m not over him? Sweetie, he did so much to destroy what we had. Cheating was one thing; it began to show in little ways every day. He nitpicked and ranted. He showed up late. He tried to play it off like everything that was wrong with us was my fault.” She sighed gustily before continuing. “He broke my things.” Logan’s hand stopped mid-caress as he stared at her.

“That motherfucker…awright, that tears it. I wanna be sorry, darlin’, but that makes it might hard.” Then it occurred to him, “Ro? Didn he try anything with you?” Her eyes darted into her lap. “Look at me,” he insisted, catching her chin and tilting it up so they were eye-to-eye. “Did he hit you?”

“No. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to.”

“Don’t hold back, ‘Ro.” She could hear him grinding his teeth.

“He tried to force himself on me. Kind of sickening, since I didn’t know where all he’d been up until then.” She tried to force humor into her voice. It didn’t work.

“Sonofabitch.” Logan banged the steering wheel, then shook his head in dismay. They pulled into Ororo’s driveway and parked, and Logan turned off the ignition, pausing to rub his hand over his face. When the overhead light clicked on, Ororo paused in exiting the car, gasping when she saw his face.

“Oh, God, baby, look at your poor hands, and your lip,” she cried, reaching for him. She touched his face gingerly, and Logan’s misgivings befan to melt away as she leaned over the console, cupping his jaw in her satiny palms. “It tears me up to see you like this,” she husked. Her face was stricken but he heard determination in her voice. “I’m going to clean you up,” she informed him, leaning her forehead against his and gazing deeply into his dark eyes. “If you care for me at all, or for what we could have, don’t do this again, Logan. Please,” she murmured. She felt the tension ebb out of his body, and heard him groan low in his throat as she bestowed a kiss so lightly upon his lips that he wanted to pull her back for another, just to make sure it was real. Instead, he felt her reach up and palm his heartbeat, urging him, “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

Logan and Ororo avoided real conversation as she led him inside. He groaned under his breath as he sat himself on the sofa, resting his battered hands on his lap. Ororo went upstairs and came back minutes later, carrying a small first aid kit under arm. She laid it out on the table in front of him and seated herself there, patting her lap. He eyed her curiously as she lifted his foot and rested it over her thighs and pried off his boot. He groaned in relief as she freed his foot and set the well-worn leather aside and rolled his sock off. She gently kneaded the ball and freed lint from his toes. His eyes shuttered, and his lips dropped open on a small moan. “Damn, darlin’. Thanks.” She made a sound of indulgent dismissal and reached for his other leg. He offered it to her readily and she unshod that one, too, watching him through lowered lashes, her smile sad and introspective.

“You need ice for that lip,” she insisted, moving out of the way as she rose and propped his feet on the table comfortably. He sighed and caught her by the wrist before she could get very far. “I’ll just be a minute, Logan,” she assured him He shook his head slowly before tugging her back and urging her to sit on his lap.

“I just need a minute right now, ‘Ro. Stay.” Hegently pulled her arms around his own neck, encouraging her to hold him. He studied her face, imprinting it on his memory. He flattened his palm against her lower back and massaged her, tracing the fine line of vertebrae and exploring the taut muscle. Bit by bit she relaxed and sagged against him, dropping her face into the crook of his neck. She was afraid to hug him too tightly, knowing he was sore.

“Tell me now if ya want me ta leave,” he rumbled. Her arms twined around him tightly this time in response.

“No,” she murmured. “Want you to stay. Please.” It was true. Warring emotions swirled in her chest. She didn’t want to reward him for hurting Pietro, even if she’d wished him assloads of ass-kickings when he walked out. To make things worse, when Pietro violated her with his kiss, she felt branded. Shame at Logan seeing Pietro treat her like a possession he could discard and reclaim burned her to the quick.

Logan mumbled something under his breath before reaching to shift her, and she felt herself lifted and turned so she straddled him. Her dress rucked up her thighs, and his palm traced the length of her leg, clad in silky taupe pantyhose. His touch raised gooseflesh, skimming over her through the nylon, and his expressing was raw and full of yearning. Ororo’s eyes darkened with need. His fingers dawdled lazy circles over her skin, memorizing the texture of her skin beneath the silk, and she felt herself grow wet, sensations rippling through her belly.

“Stay, Logan,” she repeated, leaning down and nuzzling the very tip of his nose with hers. Their breath quickened and mingled as she whispered into his mouth, “It want you. Not him.” She feathered kisses over the notch of his upper lip.

“I don’t share, darlin.” She met his eyes squarely, gently shaking her head.

“Neither do I,” she assured him, before she framed his face in her palms and tilted his jaw where she wanted it. She claimed his lips with hunger both desperate and sweet, and Logan emitted a small, helpless moan as he opened for her.

Relief and joy flooded through him as she combed her fingers through his hair greedily, wantonly straining against the growing bulge in his jeans. Her heat scorched him, and she thrilled all of his sense: the sound of her choppy breaths, shuddering out when he stroked her; the fragrance of her cologne and shampoo tickling his nose and enticing him to explore her throat; her gossamer-soft hair tumbling down and brushing his face, tangling around his fingers; and the taste of her, that kept him coming back for seconds, thirds and twenty-fourths.

Pleasure rippled over her skin as he allowed his hands to roam over her through the Lycra dress, eventually lifting her hips long enough to prize it up, up and off; it pooled in a shining puddle on the floor. She sucked his tender earlobe into her mouth while she worked at unfastening his shirt buttons and belt buckles.

“Sweet Jesus,” he gasped, nearly losing it as her tongue continued its naughty work, swirling around the whorls and crest like a tasty lollipop. She ground herself against him, and within seconds she was naked, savoring the flesh revealed by his shirt and jeans, how messily splayed open as she freed him. She gripped his hot length, feeling him throb and thrum to life. He exhaled harshly, eyes fierce and full of need at her touch, aching to be inside her softness, to feel it wrapped around him. She impaled herself on him, feeling pulse within her damp heat, and she cried out brokenly. It sounded like his name and some semblance of a prayer.

“I…want…you. Want you,” she insisted breathlessly. She rose up and lowered herself in an easy rhythm, wrapping her arms around his neck and feeding on his kisses.

“Ya have me. Aw, God, darlin’, ya have me. Every damn bit,” he grated. She squeezed him, loved him with her hands and mouth so thoroughly that he ignored the rasp of the upholstery against his back. He was gonna have a serious case of rug burn. He didn’t give a shit.

She wanted him.

He was hurtling toward a climax that would knock him senseless, he knew. Her eyes were closed and her skin was flush with heat and color, glowing as she reached her peak, pistoning over him with speed that threatened to wring him dry.

“Ororo…” He jerked back, releasing a hoarse, guttural cry as he spasmed, draining himself within her slick depths. He arms crushed her as close as he could bring her, fingers clutching has as he whipped back and forth, taking her with him. She contracted around him, sharing his fulfillment before they collapsed against each other limply, boneless.

The unwelcome image of Pietro claiming Ororo with his kiss on Scott’s porch was chased away as she eased back on her haunches, still coddling him protectively inside her and kissed his lips with casual ease. Her features were dreamy, soft and etched in satisfaction. Her walls flexed around him one last time for good measure; he grunted, evoking giggles that made him grin.

“Oof!” he winced, chuckling. “Stop that, darlin’! Gimme a change ta get my bearings.”

“You feel too good,” she grinned back, before disengaging him and letting him up. He staggered to his feet and they retired upstairs, their clothes bundled in a pile under Ororo’s arm. She fetched him a dose of Motrin and a glass of water before fussing over him, cleaning his hands. He snorted over her choice of Band-Aids, deciding Scooby Doo was the least of three evils. Minutes later, the lights were out, and Ororo lay sprawled and out cold atop Logan’s chest. Logan’s eyes were wide open in the dark as the memories he’s long put to bed roamed free. He pulled the covers up and tucked them more securely around Ororo to keep her from getting a draft.

She didn’t want Pietro. But would she want his own past?

Fleeting snatches of moments between Ororo and Pietro nagged at him as Ororo slumbered pliant and warm against him. Maybe the reason why he thought he could, was because he could, Logan reasoned. Jackass. He didn’t have a fuckin’ clue of what he threw away. Ororo sighed, and snuggled closer, her hands idly searching him as sleep-puffed lips sought him out.

*****


Piotr once told him he hated lilacs.

Logan knew about sensory recall. Some of the worst memories of his life were attached to certain scents, tastes, or textures. Piotr confessed that the sight of the flowers, the smell, walking past them made him choke, even if he started out feeling fine. Sprays of the bluish-purple blooms graced the polished wood of Illyana’s casket before it was lowered into the ground; Logan dimly recalled the salon of the Rasputins’ fine home. Every spare tabletop was cluttered with flowers. Clusters of lilacs battled for dominance among the taller, more sedate irises and white lilies. Logan and Piotr kept each other in stoic company as his mother offered food at the drop of a hat, just to have something to do.

Mary had burnt the rice again the day that she’d left him bleeding. Logan couldn’t stand the smell since.

Logan came back to her apartment at the crack of dawn, pausing to grab the paper from the stoop. He shook off the early morning chill, once again hating that he was turning in just as the sun came up. Daylight and pulling five all-nighters in a row driving for Justice Chcekered Cab didn’t mix, let alone his second gig that was driving him into the ground. His tongue felt like sandpaper and still held the rusty tang of Jack Daniels. It practically weeped from his pores.

On a night much like the one he’d just finished, Vic and St. John stumbled into his life after last call at Harry’s, each ushering an underdressed, over-highlighted girl into Logan’s cab on their way to Denny’s for an after-party breakfast. Logan felt Vic’s hard amber eyes studying him, even as he avoided peering into his rearview mirror to steal looks at his passengers. St. John schmoozed the leggy brunette who was practically occupying his lap with lines older than Logan’s high school yearbook. Vic canoodled briefly with the buxom blonde, playfully biting the side of her neck before he turned to stare at Logan, his reflection gloating and filling the mirror.

“This the best gig ya could get, runt?” There was no malice in his voice, just a sense of overentitlement.

“Pays the bills, bub.” Logan steered the car one-handed as he reached into his shirt pocket for his gum. He craved one of his Cubans, bue he had another hour til his break. His pick-up list from dispatch was already half a page long. It was gonna be a long night.

“Not every friggin’ night?” Vic huffed. Logan shrugged. “Damn. That sucks,” he muttered. The blonde tried to distract him, and Logan tried to ignore where her hand was. Victor seemed to growl at her, grunting at her to behave and let him speak. “Yer gonna thank me,” he announced, fishing in his pocket. He extended his hand and tapped the security screen, urging Logan to take the small rectangle of cardstock. Logan scanned it briefly.

“Smiling Bill’s Saloon?”

“They need a bouncer. Pays better than whatcher doin’ now. No lease, no gas, no drivin’ ‘round in circles all night.”

“What’s Bill got ta smile about?” Vic returned Logan’s smirk, eyes feral and knowing.

“C’mon out next time ya have a night off, runt.” That was all he offered before going back to the blonde, practically gnawing off her lipstick. Logan sighed, then tucked the card into his shirt pocket, cracking his gum.

He didn’t know it yet, but he’d taken his first, slippery step onto a downward spiral that he’d ride for two wasted years.

Logan found out what Bill had to smile about through gappy teeth that spoke of fights lost and won in his own establishment, hair-curling tales shared with Logan over stale beer nuts, whiskey and a place at his sticky bar counter. Bill made his money the no-frills way, spending the money on booze, live bands and hiring good help, while cutting back on lesser luxuries such as plumbing and utilities. The toilets were poorly lit and in miserable shape; heavily graffiti’d walls and cracked mirrors magnified the shabby porcelain, and more than once Logan came away with his boots sticking to the floor. Bill followed the same lighting scheme with the main lounge, making it dim enough to make every patron feel like they were walking out at the end of the night with a Playmate or Chippendale after their bargain pitcher of beer.

Those chicken enough to skip the mechanical bull tried their luck at the arm-wrestling table. Like Vic had promised, there were perks. Logan racked up a killing at the table with a steady hand and a gaze that made every taker pee their pants before they ante’d up.

Logan remembered the night he’d lost, in every sense of the word. Mary had walked in on skinny stiletto heels and a cloud of LuLu perfume, and he felt as well as heard the chatter die down to nearly nothing when she swept through the lounge. Logan’s fingers curled one at a time around the beefy meathook of a man calling himself Santo. He shifted his grip and sized him up. If he took Logan down, it was gonna hurt like a bitch.

Mary sauntered by, her voice like thick honey as she ordered a tequila shooter. Out of the corner of his eye he had the impression of glossy brown hair in a rippling nimbus.. His eyes were locked on Santo, his grip still true. He gained an inch. Santo’s cheeks reddened. He pushed harder, reaching that do-or-die, can’t-go-back, forty-five degrees. Swear glowed around Santo’s temple as Logan’s shoulder began to burn.

Feminine laughter broke his concentration, making him flinch. Santo’s eyes crinkled so subtlely that Logan thought it was a trick of the lighting, or his own sweat fogging his vision. The flat ofher hand hit the bar. Santo flicked his eyes to the left, challenging Logan silently: You know you want to look at her. She’s hot. His arm thrummed like a guitar string.

He took a hope-to-heaven glance at her garbed in blood-red satin and black leather.

Lick.

Drink.

Suck.

Ruby-red lips pursed around the wedge of lime, leaving flecks of pulp in their wake. Her pink tongue snaked out to clean them away. Logan’s gut clenched.

BAM!

He saw stars when Santo took him down. His last vision before he was practically flipped out of his seat was Mary’s eyes roving over him, taunting him. She smiled. He was a goner.

He was still nursing his shoulder, cursing under his breath over the loss of the night’s take, fat enough to pay rent.

“Hey.” Light footsteps scratched across the gravel. “LuLu” tickled his nostrils again, this time kissed with tequila and limes.

No way does she look as good as she sounds, out here in the open… He steeled himself for disappointment, wincing as he turned. Damn muscles still burned. “Hey, darlin’.”

“You’ll need ice for that, sport.” Her lips tempted him.

“Eh. Guess so.” He smoothed his nape with his good hand and drank his fill of her curves and porcelain skin. He nearly didn’t believe it when she walked up to him and prief his keys from his hand and unlocked the passenger door. His hands itched to touch that wild tangle of hair, caress that red satin…she let herself in and leaned over to tuck the key into the ignition, treating him to a peek beneath that skirt. Her eyes glowed back up at him as he gently nudged the door shut. He snapped out of his trance long enough to get in and pull out of the deserted lot.

One month turned into two. Mary was practically a fixture at his apartment; he didn’t question her reticence whenever he suggested seeing where she lived. She distracted him, rolling him onto his sheets, flat on his back, and loving him til he couldn’t walk straight. She made no bones of how she was on the rebound. He was a soldier once, she said. Discharged three years ago. Random talker, short attention span. Went by the name of Wade.

Logan continued those long, grueling nights. Mary accompanied him when he worked at Bill’s, cheering him on at the table and pulling in a killing herself at darts. Logan shook his head in wonder.

“How d’ya manage workin’ every mornin’, darlin’, comin’ in as late as we do?”

“Been taking my vitamins, short stuff. Give Momma some sugar.” Logan never second-guessed her at first, even when she never told him where she worked. Or when her wardrobe never seemed to fit the description of “business casual” of any business that Logan ever heard of. He’d learned over the years not to ask questions he might not want the answers to. He later kicked himself for his silence.

Naturally, it threw him six months later when she invited him over. The sex was loud, raucous and left him walking funny, or would have, if he had made it that far. The mattress springs creaked and groaned, nearly muffling the sound of a key in the lock.

“Don’t stop,” she hissed, seemingly heedless of footsteps thudding up the stairs. Logan was buried hip-deep and so close to paydirt he could taste it… he couldn’t go on, even as his body raged at him to finish it. The door swung open behind him. The funk of sex hung in the air.

Logan craned his neck around. Eyes met eyes. Mary groaned beneath him.

Logan couldn’t remember a previous time when he’d fought someone to within an inch of his life, with nary a stitch on. Ward swung at him before he could reach for his briefs. Mary threatened to call the police. Wade left with wounded pride and a black eye. Mary filled Logan’s ears with excuses as he sat clad in his boxers at the kitchen table.

“Logan…I’m sorry. It was the only way he’d see. I had to let him find us.” He swatted away her hands and left with the injunction ringing in her ears to give him time.

She gave him a week. She showed up crying on his doorstep, and his arms ached for her even as his mind screamed at him to throw her out. She kissed away his rebuke with hunger that scorched him. It went on like that forever.

She blew hot and cold, never the same person for more than a week at a time. She ranted at him, pleaded with him, cried for him. They broke up and made up, sometimes within the space of a month. She never moved in with him. They split utilities. Groceries. Never rent. Her absences varied in frequency, but grew longer, remaining unexplained.

So, on that particular morning, when he landed on her doorstep, bringing in the paper, the first smell to greet him was ruined dinner. Stale chicken grease and burnt rice. Something felt wrong as he came inside and took off his coat.

Scuffling feet upstairs. The rustle of clothing. Giggles. More than one voice. He waited for her to come out front. His stomach growled, but he waited.

She stumbled out into the hall, impeded by two rough hands groping her and pulling her back. Logan’s breath stilled in his chest as she turned to face her guest. He reached into his overcoat and pulled out his wallet, unfolding a roll of twenties that disappeared into her robe pocket.

“Nice,” Logan snarled in disgust. Blood drained from her face, and he saw her eyes widening and spinning tales before she opened her mouth.

“LOGAN…oh, no. No. Please, it’s not what “ “

“Save it.” He stared at the floor, disgusted at the sight of her. With savage candor, he grilled her, “Is this why ya burnt dinner?” He turned on his heel and left, with Mary hot on his heels.

“Wait! Logan, it’s okay. It’s not like what happened before,” she cried, chasing after him, flapping bathrobe swirling out behind her, shivering against the chill. He didn’t slow down until she tried to touch him. He spun on her, past his patience.

“It’s worse, doll. This is yer job, ain’t it? Some modeling. Some dancin’. A little of ‘this an’ that.’”

“It’s not like that at all,” she insisted, her voice rising to a girlish whine.

“Bullshit.”

“I love you…this, this is just what I do, sometimes, Logan, once in a while.” Logan was already in his car. Logan didn’t stick around long enough to hear more, but he did see Mary shouting at her guest in her driveway. Their words escaped their mouths in angry little puffs of frozen breath in the morning sun. He caught snatches of their spat as she tried to straighten her hair. What is that asshole to you? Is this what I’m paying you for?

It doesn’t matter, he’s leaving…don’t go! PLEASE!

Hey, buddy, get the fuck back here…HEY!

Logan made it three blocks. His grip on the steering wheel was impatient. He watched Mary in the rearview, crying, before he focused on beating the traffic to head back to his own place. He was just approaching the four-way intersection when he caught the large blue Ford truck bearing down on him with Mr. Wonderful at the wheel. The light turned red. Logan felt every muscle in his body stiffen into knots as he realized he wasn’t gonna stop. He’s forgotten his seatbelt in his haste…

He woke up to the sound of someone reading his blood pressure numbers in the E/R. Adult male, late thirties. Trauma to the head and neck, shattered wrist and humerus. No known relatives to notify.

He wasn’t awake the first time Mary showed up. Everything was a foggy blur when he came out of surgery. He remembered her voice. Her words didn’t make sense til his fifth day in-house.

She was a mistress, she said. Not a whore. Wade was her client. He got the wrong idea. He sponsored her, she said, but he read things the wrong way. He wanted to marry her. Logan tolerated her presence, telling himself this was a dream. He was going to wake up. He had to. No way was this shitpile his life.

On the seventh day, he rasped, “Get out.”

He stayed home on disability for months. He crossed paths with Vic at the gym while he completed his physical therapy. He met Piotr at the community college at a life drawing class he was teaching; Logan couldn’t draw worth shit, but he needed the elective. In the midst of budding artists and the “models” who ranged from lithe and petite to dumpy and sagging, Logan reconciled himself with the limits of the flesh and the human body, and the spirit, including his own. The models sat still as a stone, only quivering in those brief moments leading up to dismissal, fighting to hold it together. It took him back to that night at Smiling Bill’s.

He was done struggling and wasting time.

*****


Ororo moaned in her sleep, and her hand drifted up to bat at him, tickling his lips as if checking that he was still there. He kissed her palm, inhaling the taste of her before he dozed off.





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