“What about this one?”
“Nope. Kid’s mom seemed like a real prima donna. Hate working with stage parents on the set. Gives me an ulcer,” Sage reasoned, handing Peter back the eight by ten. “Too bad. She’s damned cute, too.” He slid it back into the manila envelope that the child’s talent agent sent over, sighing with regret. Sloe-eyes full of mischief peeked out at him from a chubby-cheeked face, framed by dark pigtails before he closed the sheaf.
“What else have we got?”
“Here’s a cutie. Kind of commercial, but pleasant to work with.” Sage eased the next black-and-white over to him. This one was named Elsie Dee.
“That’s her real name?”
“Yup.”
“Eh. Not much personality.” Her face was slightly freckled. Straight, shoulder-length blonde hair was held back from her face with butterfly clips, and her smile reminded him of a young Kirsten Dunst. “I’m still leaning toward Athena Galliano.”
“You haven’t worked with her mom, Selene on the set before, have you?”
“Next!” They perused the head shots, landing on one that made them both murmur in appreciation.
“Wow. Look at those eyes. They’re like crystal.”
“Wonder what color her hair is?”
“Strawberry blonde, I bet. That’ll look pretty on camera.” Sage peeked at the name. “Luna Maximoff. New client, from what it says on her bio. Did a stint last year playing Annie.”
“She can sing, too?” Peter’s voice was hopeful.
“Uh-huh.”
“I think we might have our next Princess Poppy girl,” he considered, tapping the glossy paper. “Call her agent, then give her mother a ring. I like her. I really like her.” His eyes skimmed the lines of contact information. Crystal Maximoff…why did that last name ring a bell?
“She almost reminds me of Illyana,” Sage pointed out.
“Just a little.” He tucked the glossy eight by ten back into its envelope and shook off the twinge of melancholy that shivered through him. Sage realized her error a moment too late.
“Piotr…I’m-“
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.” He dismissed it lightly, recovering himself. “Don’t think I wouldn’t have brought her photo in with me if I thought she’d have had a chance, once upon a time.” Sage patted his shoulder affectionately. He radiated warmth and strength, and she pried her hand away before it could linger too long. Soft, clear blue eyes with faint laugh lines etched at the corners peered at her quizzically before he smiled.
He’s your coworker. He’s your coworker. Stop picturing him naked on a bed strewn with rose petals…Down, girl!
It never failed. Piotr got up from the table and stretched, letting various joints pop from being cooped up at the tiny light table in the studio. He unfolded himself to his full height, towering over Sage as he laced his fingers together and flexed them, palm out. Cords of muscles rippled in his neck with the motion. “Boszhe moi, that feels so good right now.”
“Have I kept you too long?” Her tone was apologetic and teasing at the same time. She peeked at the clock; they had only let their meeting lag for ten minutes longer than planned.
“Nyet, nyet. I’m late for my lunch workout. I hate missing it.” She didn’t doubt it. He turned away from her, granting her a perfect view of his broad back and tight, round glutes as he shrugged into his thick leather jacket.
“Don’t let me keep you. I’ll send the rest of these back to the agencies with the next courier run,” she assured him. She tucked the Maximoff girl’s photo into her brown leather folio. “Think we’ve got a winner.”
“Set up the shoot for Friday. If the first spot looks good, we can use her for the whole ad campaign.” Piotr gathered up his laptop case and slung his satchel over his shoulder, looking every inch the creative director that he was, if the typical mold for that occupation was to be built like a linebacker and boyishly handsome to boot. “Dosvydanya.”
“See you later, Piotr.” She waved him out the door, mentally kicking herself and only letting her smile drop once he was gone.
Great. After shuffling a week’s worth of appointments and meetings, convincing Piotr that they didn’t need to call in the full staff to go over the photos, and “nudging” him to accommodate it so close to when he went to lunch, all she’d managed to do was bring up a sore subject and look like an ass.
“Nice going, genius,” she muttered. She gathered up the photos and called downstairs to the receptionist that she’d be dropping the envelopes into her in-basket for the next delivery.
Roughly an hour later:
Piotr toweled off his shining waves of damp black hair, letting it spatter droplets over his shoulders and the rough track carpeting in the men’s locker room.
It wasn’t Sage’s fault.
Remembering how Illyana looked the last time he’d seen her in the hospital tugged at him. It was going to be hard to return to work for the rest of the afternoon, but he still had to go over the ad campaign with Charles, including the budget for the next string of commercials. When Nova Toys threw you a bone, namely a two-year contract to handle their advertising for it’s new line of high-end fashion dolls, you didn’t wait around for the competition to write something bigger and better and plaster their pictures across the city’s billboards, buses, and subway tunnels.
Work was all he’d had when they’d lowered his sister’s casket into the ground. Dimly he recalled the scent of lilacs in the flower arrangement that they removed from it before he took his place at the front left corner as pallbearer. He hadn’t stumbled. He couldn’t afford to. He avoided meeting his father’s eyes across the polished wood as they lowered the coffin into the back of the hearse. He knew the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He felt his brother Mikhail clap his palm soundly over his shoulder when it was time to close the gate, but he shrank away from his touch, feeling it was too soon; that things were still too raw. His brother’s presence at his back drifted away, taking away his protective bulwark from the frosty November air. The pall of anguish was so thick, sending a hush of mourning over the assembly that Piotr hardly even felt the cold.
He shook himself, dispelling the memory and pulling on his clothes. He made use of his sports stick and the gym’s supply of hair gel by the sink. A familiar pair of eyes caught his in his reflection as he finished up, nodding into the steamed mirror.
“Long time, no see, LeBeau.”
“Hey, mec. Where y’been hidin’ yaself, eh?”
“Nowhere new. Same old hiding place.” They clasped hands in a high-five bordering on an arm wrestling hold out of old habit. Gambit’s grip was strong despite long, slender hands that belonged easily to someone who played piano for years. Piotr dwarfed him, even though he stood slightly over six feet and was athletically built. “Still breaking hearts?”
“Sure, mon ami. Call it whatcha like.” Remy’s lips twisted in a slight grimace. “It’s a living. Gotta make my rent.”
“Mail room’s got an opening on the night shift,” Piotr offered, as he often did.
“Fo’ the minimum wage. Might as well just get me a McJob.” Piotr chuckled and shook his head.
“At least it’s a regular check to take to the bank. Beats hauling in a pocket full of singles.”
“A pocket, he says!” Remy scoffed. He tossed his gym bag down and yanked open his locker, shucking his guayabera shirt and hanging it neatly on the hook. “Logan’s practically my accountant. Last week’s take was my car payment. Did a bachelorette packed to the rafters with retail princesses and trophy girlfriends.”
“Logan hated it, didn’t he?” Piotr still didn’t know why Logan continued on. He’d known him for years. Still stoic as a judge, and Logan still had an axe to grind.
“No shit. Don’t he always, mec?” Remy strutted over to the scale in the men’s room suite and checked his weight on the digital scale while he was still in his boxers. Piotr smirked at his shamelessness. Some people just had no problem with running around with no clothes…he looked away and made sure his toiletries were tucked away into his satchel. He zipped it shut and prepared to duck out.
“Hey, Petey! Don’t fo’get, mec, we’ve gotta li’l gig tomorrow night at Harry’s out on the back patio. Lila’s gonna be wailing with us for a few numbers.”
“It’s been a long time. I’ve missed watching her perform.” Piotr smiled as he remembered a random appearance she’d made last Christmas on Good Morning America while people on the street were being interviewed at random in Times Square. She’d jumped in front of the cameras and belted out a few bars of “Joy to the World,” whipping the crowd into a singalong before they panned to the lighting of the tree. A night of live entertainment might just fit the bill, after all.
“Save me a seat up front,” Piotr suggested. “Text me.”
“Will do, mon ami. Later, gator!” Remy cocked his finger at him like a gun as Piotr took his leave, catching Remy’s wink.
Peering out at the sea of power-lunching occupants taking up the stair climbers and treadmills, Piotr was thankful that he’d purchased a two-year membership here instead of the luxury day spa that Laynia had tried to talk him into. The clientele didn’t make him feel out of place. No women in jewelry, makeup and big hair, wearing couture track suits with brand names emblazoned across the rear. The men lifted weights, jockeyed for a spot in the boxing suite or signed in to play basketball. Old-fashioned weight benches and barbells lined the walls while Nautilus machines and assisted lifts occupied the middle. A man could sweat here without his ego suffering from gym fluffery.
A familiar, guttural grunt off to his left roused him from his reverie.
Victor’s skin gleamed with sweat, plastering the fine down of hair on his arms and matting his thick blonde hair, clubbed back in its sloppy ponytail. St. John was spotting him, urging him to do a couple more.
“That’s it, come in, ya know ya want this one, just a little more,” he chanted, barely supporting the bar. Victor was hoisting his weight, or possibly more over his chest. He’d been making his rotation around the free weights and had been there for a while before Piotr even came in an hour ago. “C’mon, pussy!” he muttered, risking Vic’s wrath but not giving a damn. He wasn’t the one pinned beneath the barbell, pressing nearly a quarter of a ton. Victor’s veins stood out in stark relief along his jaw and throat. If he had to guess, Piotr figured he’d been dipping into the steroids again.
“Fuck…you…Ray!” he huffed, eyes blazing silver fire. “What’s…up…Fancy…Boyyyy,” he drawled, managing a shaky nod at Piotr. “YeeeeaaRRRGGGHHHH…” The barbell levitated up, up, up until his elbows practically locked, before he painstakingly lowered back onto its rest. Ray backed up, preferring to get out of his way. Spotting Vic was like that. Piotr paused long enough to offer him a hand up. Vic waved it away and sat up, grabbing the towel and swabbing his ruddy face. “Hoo. Shit. Gonna feel that one tomorrow. So whose dick do they have ya sucking in the office this week, Rasputin?”
“No one’s. That’s not what they pay me for,” he reminded him gently, shrugging.
“Writing ads. Making folks buy shit they don’t need. Sucking dick. It’s all the same thing,” Victor reasoned. This was a talk they’d had before. “Ya oughta go ta work for something like Sports Illustrated or some other shit. What’re ya working on now?”
“A toy campaign. Girls’ fashion dolls.” Piotr cringed silently. Wait for it…
“Doll babies! That’s some pansy-assed shit, Rasputin! Niiice! He’d advertising for dollies! Friggin’ Barbies!” He elbowed Ray, who managed to grin along with him but wisely remained silent. He mimed a little girl holding a tea cup and saucer. “Oooo-wooooo! I feel so pretty in my widdle Barbie dress!” His grin was positively feral.
On the other hand, Piotr decided, at least he hadn’t chosen Remy’s “profession.” Lord only knew what kind of verbal punishment Vic dished out to him on his way in.
“Logan’s on the court, sinking a few,” Ray offered.
“Thanks,” Piotr accepted, relieved for the save. Like owning a boxing studio and doing a side job as a bouncer was so great… Victor had to build himself up by putting Piotr down, or anyone else who made a living working for other people instead of for themselves. Piotr reminded himself at least he was the only one of his friends who managed to make enough money working only ONE job instead of two, living in the city like he did. He had his master’s in fine art and public relations to thank for that.
He loped off to the court and the sounds of thundering feet and bodies slamming up against the boards greeted him within a few feet of the glass doors. Logan was steadily mopping the floor with his competition, two young men who looked like college freshmen. The leaner blond one towered over him; the dark-skinned one was about medium height and had a wiry, compact build but he wasn’t as brawny as Logan, nor as fast. Logan faked and lunged, driving down the court and sinking a lay-up that he made look easy.
Piotr chuckled. He hoped they weren’t playing for beer money. Logan would drink their pockets dry.
It was over fast. Despite both boys’ defense covering him like white on rice, Logan let a sweet three-pointed swish into the hoop. Piotr caught muttered curses and looks of disbelief, soon replaced by grudging respect from both young men before they both clapped him on the back.
“Good game, old man,” the dark-skinned youth proclaimed.
“Harry’s tomorra night?” the blond suggested.
“Yep. Sounds good.” They tapped fists in a soul-brother handshake and parted ways. Piotr met Logan with a towel that was wadded up on top of Logan’s gym duffel. “Thanks, bub.”
“Sure. Harry’s?”
“Yep.”
“Lila’s singing with Gambit tomorrow night.”
“Nice. They’ve been needing a songbird since Ali quit.”
“I still miss her up front. I liked her style.”
“Ain’t no one like Ali.”
“I’m headed back to work. Might pick up a sandwich on my way back to the office.”
“I ain’t gonna be done that quick. Gotta NOC shift at the E/R tonight. College kids are back in town. We’ll have a full house,” he muttered, nodding at his two competitors as they waved their way off-court. “Kids get away from home for the first time, they wanna get good and liquored up. Never fails. Even money says we’ll pump at least three stomachs before the night is over.” He raked his fingers through his sweaty black hair, rumpling it hopelessly but not giving a damn. “I just need time ta myself before all hell breaks loose. And that means I can’t just stay home and stare at the TV or four walls.”
“I know what you mean, tovarisch,” Piotr admitted softly. He avoided spending much time at home. His mother left him voice mail at least once a week. He returned it about once a month, and she’d inevitably keep him on the phone at least an hour.
“Harry’s,” Logan declared.
“Harry’s,” Peter agreed. They nodded at each other and he departed the funk of sweat hanging on the court, craving the cool autumn air outside.
Logan shot a few more baskets by himself, relishing the solitude and the hollow bounce of the ball against the shiny floor. Bounce. Shoot. Swish. Bounce. Shoot. Swish.
Yup. A sweaty basketball court beat staring at four walls and reruns any damned day. At least Pete was good company, even if he hadn’t smiled much since last fall. Still…it beat Vic running off at the mouth about his night job or his next bodybuilding competition. Everyone knew his supplements weren’t legal, but if he had the looks, the moves, and could pull his weight…no, press his own weight, well, who was he to make a stink about it?
Logan considered his options; Harry’s was the safest one. Laynia was back in Russia, having grown tired of waiting for Piotr to get off his ass and propose, so Logan wouldn’t be a third wheel. Being “alone” and being “lonely” were two different things in the long run. He could manage “alone” just fine. So could Piotr.
Twenty minutes later, he exchanged the usual battery of shit-shooting and insults with Vic and Ray and made his way out, dressed in his scrubs and name badge, covered by his worn out leather motorcycle jacket. He dug his helmet out of his duffle and jerked it on, looping the handles of his bag over the pegs on his seat. The hog’s black enamel winked in the fading sunlight as he gunned the engine, letting it thrum to life between his legs. Yeah, now he was awake. He turned into the tide of midday traffic and headed to Westchester General to begin the first half of a double shift that he wasn’t looking forward to, but it beat standing in as Remy’s chaperone at another twenty-first birthday shindig, basement party or bachelorette. Stand-up guy, but geez…you wouldn’t get him oiled up in front of a bunch of screaming women waving singles at him and leaving him sticky with whipped cream and God knew what else. Thanks, but hell no.
He parked his bike in the rear lot and pocketed his keys, heading straight to the hospital’s cafeteria. He pondered the salad bar and decided against it, peering at the sandwich items instead. He piled roast beef onto two slices of rye and slathered it with spicy mustard and mayo, throwing on some hefty slice of tomato and selecting a garlic dill pickle spear. He approached the cashier, winking at the attractive blonde as she retrieved his plate from him, weighing it before she rang it up. He winced that a few cold cuts ended up costing six dollars. “Prices go up?”
“Yup. America’s insurance dollars at work. More people come in to the hospital that don’t need to, don’t pay what their plan doesn’t pick up, and we end up writing it off and running up our operating costs.”
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Yeah,” she sighed, smiling at him.
“Working the NOC tonight?”
“Yup. Laundry. My favorite,” Carol grimaced. “Get to take off my apron and shower cap and put on my scrubs and gloves instead. Fun stuff.”
“Can’t say I envy you, kid.” Logan didn’t envy anyone laundry shift. The smell alone of the bins was enough to wake the dead.
“Still beats glowing in the dark,” she jibed.
“Har-de-har,” he replied. He grabbed his sandwich and a bag of Lays that was included in the cost.
“Grab a soda, too. It was part of the special last week, but you forgot that when I rang you up the last time. Take one today.”
“Yer a peach, kiddo.”
“I know.” He snagged a can of Pepsi and seated himself at the cafeteria table, perusing a dog-eared copy of People that had to be at least three months old. Britney was on the cover and pregnant. Whether it was with her first child or her second, he would never know, and again, couldn’t give two shits.
He wolfed down his meal and took the second half of his soda with him before he stashed his things in his locker. His hair was slightly crushed from his helmet; he eased a small black comb through it and stashed that, too, before scrubbing down. He peered at his reflection and grunted in resignation. His eyes were still…poochy. That was new. Working with Rem these past few weeks to take in some extra change was kicking his ass, even though he wasn’t even doing much.
It was just …draining. Even though Remy was the one taking his clothes off, he still felt like he was the one under scrutiny. Ever since Mariko left, all he wanted to do was fade into the wallpaper.
Having a job where people constantly needed him didn’t make that effort any easier. But he never regretted it for one minute. He’d had an epiphany that day when he found himself staring into the face of a paramedic leaning over him, so close he could count his pores as he shined a penlight into his eyes and asked him his name. He’d bargained with God that day, promising that if he let him live through this mess, just this once, he’d do something more meaningful with his life. While he was recovering at home, cooped up in his apartment and drawing disability checks, he’d Web-surfed the pages of his local community college and found their radiology technician and vocational nursing programs. After a few short terms, he’d aced them both and earned his piece of paper.
Problem was, no one ever knew what to call him. Every now and again, it was “hey, you,” “Doctor,” or “Orderly!” Or, to his everlasting chagrin, “Housekeeper!” No one ever took the frigging time to just read his badge that actually ”Logan H., LVN/Radiology Technician.” Sure, they were patients, and probably didn’t feel good enough to make out the words. But he’d pay the next person who met him and actually identified him correctly five bucks if they did it the first time out of the chute.
His shift went calmly enough. The E/R was half-empty for a change, and the number of worried parents bouncing howling babies on their laps was at a minimum. Those usually came roaring in after one A.M., everyone still in their jammies. Logan assisted one of the RN’s on duty with stitching up a kid whose septum ring had pulled all the way through the flesh during a fight that broke out at the bowling alley. The boy shot him a dazed look when Logan had him sign off on his condition of treatment form and handed him a copy of the insurance slip to take home to his parents, since he was underage. Long chains dangling from the belt loops of his baggy black pants jingled as he staggered out, supported by two of his surly friends. All of them sported black Goth eyeliners and lip rings. Logan just shook his head. Back in his day, it was a sign of rebellion to wear his hair past his shirt collar. These changing times, he mused.
The night wore on. One of the flight care paramedics ambled in and turned on a radio at low volume at the nurse’s station. Logan hummed along to Brad Paisley as he prepped the suite for a six-year-old who’d managed to hurt his hand wrestling on the living room floor with his older brother, who looked pitiful and guilty. The top of his hand was puffy; Logan figured he’d chipped the bone. A half and hour later, after Scott reviewed the films, he was proven right.
“Sorry I missed yer stag party, Summers.” He wasn’t.
“No harm, no foul, man.” It wasn’t.
“Stay out late?”
“Yup.”
“Full house?”
“Yup.”
“Good. Good.” Logan avoided the temptation of mentioning “It wasn’t like I missed out on hanging out in a roomful of wild women that night, anyway, bub,” since he hated talking about his side job. He knew Summers was getting married. He’d even gotten what he figured was a sympathy invitation to the wedding, since the whole ICU, pedes wing, the paramedics and half the docs on the second floor had gotten one. Logan had overheard Scott talking to Nate one day about how Jean had nagged him to invite “as many of your friends as I am from mine” so they would have an even number of people on each side of the church. Logan had never met his fiancée, since she apparently wasn’t one of the wives that always showed up for the heck of it or to get the employee lunch discount in the cafeteria. He just knew that she sounded high-maintenance.
Logan just didn’t have the energy for high-maintenance anymore.
The setting sun threw an orange haze of light as it streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby. The admitting clerks who had chatted with each other in perky fashion toward the beginning of the shift gradually grew more frantic and aggressive as night fell, hurrying to scan in insurance cards and to verify current addresses of people entering the E/R in progressively worse shape. The NYPD brought in two men in cuffs, hands still bleeding from punching in the window of a car they tried to steal. They’d smirked at Logan’s scrubs and badge announcing what he was as he propped the first man’s hand on the foam cushion to position it correctly for the first set of films. The temptation was always there to bend the knuckles just a little too far for comfort when he was saddled with comedians like these two, but he mastered it. Just like he always did.
It was drawing closer to nine o’clock, when his first shift officially ended and his next one began. Logan restlessly prowled the nurses’ station, looting it of a battered copy of Maxim with Jessica Alba on the cover and a fresh-baked icebox cookie that someone had thoughtfully brought in for the night’s treat. He knew on some level that he should be grateful to be bored. That meant people weren’t out there, getting hurt.
After his break, he made rounds, taking vitals and making notes for the charts before Nate performed exams, filling in when Scott’s shift was over. He gave words of encouragement as he took pulses and offered emesis basins, and narrowly jumped out of the way when one old man who’d overindulged at happy hour missed the basin altogether. Logan cleaned him up and moved on after he made him more comfortable.
Incoming patients gradually filed and stumbled into the waiting room and slumped over the admitting desks. Logan felt his customary quiver in his gut at having more to do. So far, no one else was bleeding. Mentally he did a count, letting his gaze sweep the room: Infant ear infection. Fractured hand. Oven burn. Scalding burn. Allergic reaction…okay, he’d probably make it behind the security doors sooner than the last three that came in before him.
The double sliding doors swished open as a tall, slender man with platinum hair, so blond it looked white, rushed inside, carrying a dark-skinned woman in his arms. She was groggy and faint, and, Logan realized, stunningly familiar.
To his horror, he realized she was bleeding.
“Sir? You need to check in,” the admitting rep advised.
“I don’t care. I’ll check her in. Just, take her, treat her, goddamn it!” Blood from a deep gash trickled and soaked the now-ruined washcloth that was pressed between her forehead and his black wool peacoat. “Find me somewhere for her to lie down!” he snapped.
“It’s okay. We’ll bring her a wheelchair in a moment,” the rep insisted, nodding to Logan to hustle. Logan was already halfway back into the suite, grabbing the first set of wheels that came to hand and pushing it back out. The man regarded him with a mixture of impatience and relief as he set her into it gently, locking the brakes and cradling her head in his hands. “It’s okay, ‘Ro. You’re going to be okay, baby, all right?”
“Hurts,” she moaned. Then she began trembling. “Cold,” she complained. That caused a fresh wave of panic as Logan reached for a digital thermometer and slid a sterile plastic cover onto the tip.
“Open up if you can, miss,” he pleaded soothingly, his voice a low rumble of concern.
Soft, sapphire blue eyes squinted at him, trying to place his face. “M’kay.” He tucked the thermometer carefully under her tongue, and her lips closed over it limply. She winced at the effort it took to sit up in the chair. The thermometer beeped, and Logan recorded her temperature. “I’ll get ya a blanket, miss, okay?” She nodded, even though it was painful. Logan hurried back again with a blanket straight out of the warmer, and informed Scott that they had a head wound that would need a quick film and stitches, coming in quick. Nate greeted the new patient in the lobby as Logan was taking her pulse, which was slightly rapid. He warmed his stethoscope against his palm as he regarded her with a solemn dark gaze.
“How did this happen?”
“She fell in the kitchen while she was making dinner; one moment, she was fine, and the next I heard this huge thump and found her lying on the floor. She hit her head on the counter on the way down. Thank God we have linoleum, not tile,” her boyfriend babbled.
“I was…dizzy. Still am,” she complained on a whimper.
“Was it a quick rush of dizziness? Did you have anything to drink? Taking any prescriptions?”
“No drinks,” she rasped. “Just one…pill. Every day. Di…zox…” Her voice was fading, and her lids were droopier than they had been a minute ago.
“What did she say?” Nate probed.
“Diazoxide,” her boyfriend explained.
“Low blood sugar?”
“She’s been stressed,” he offered. “But she seemed fine today. Had a good workout at the gym.” He stroked her hair, which nearly matched his. It was long, thick, and a pure, blazing white.
“Ate…too late,” she countered.
“Have you eaten anything?” Nate pressed, feeling her glands and peering under her lid.
“Not yet. Waiting…for ‘Tro…get home.”
“Good enough for me. Let’s take her back.” Nate led the way as Logan wheeled her into the suite after punching in the door code. They settled her into exam room two, and Logan rummaged through the small refrigerator behind the nurse’s station, reaching for a 7-Up. He heard Scott’s standard battery of questions suddenly interrupted by her boyfriend’s shout, and he quickened his steps.
“Logan! Get me a glucagon kit!”
“Got a soda…” he offered. His eyes fell on her and he realized that she was in no condition to take it. She’d passed out, and her breathing was stertorous. The tall man who brought her in was slapping her hand lightly, clinging to it.
“Ro? Wake up, Ororo, please! C’mon, wake up now!” he groaned. Logan dropped the soda can onto the counter and rushed back out for the glucagon kit. His brain played out the next few courses of action as he brought it back. Scott was already snapping on a pair of gloves and scrubbing down her upper arm with a gauze pad soaked in alcohol. Logan snapped open the kit and withdrew the medicine and dispensed a syringe from the blue box hanging on the wall. Nate drew up the dose and held it up to the light, tapping out the air bubbles before he apologized to his patient, even though she wasn’t listening.
“Sorry about this, kiddo,” he murmured. “You’ll be up and around and ready to party in a minute, okay?” He plunged the needle into her tender flesh. Logan reached around and tucked the blanket more snugly around her to ward off the chill, since her skin was still slightly clammy and she’d already complained of chills. He tried to ignore how soft she felt.
When Ororo finally came around, she winced at the sting of antibacterial rinse being daubed onto her cut with a long swab. “Quit it,” she crabbed. “Hurts…when you do that.”
“Sorry,” Nate repeated. “This actually isn’t deep enough to need stitches. You’re a lucky young lady.”
“Sure. Tell me that again…when I get my bill. Hi, ‘Tro.” He gazed down at her and stroked her hair.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes were slightly damp, and she sniffled slightly, but suppressed it when he gripped her hand. Logan felt awkward witnessing that moment between them. He didn’t know why he also felt some glimmer of hope inside of him strangely dashed.
Then he figured it out: The knockout from the bachelorette party had a man. A live-in lover, obviously, since she was waiting for him to come home for dinner. Well, there ya go. Logan handed Nate a Band-Aid after he unwrapped it, and Logan grinned when he noticed it was green had Daffy Duck on it.
“There. All pretty,” Nate pronounced as he smoothed it on.
“Let’s get you checked out, now,” Logan urged, reluctant to watch them exchange anymore tender looks, even though his eyes were locked on her, drinking in her supple skin and exotic features. She peeled away the blanket and slowly swung her legs from the exam table.
“Want a ride out to the parking lot?” Logan suggested.
“She’ll be fine,” Pietro assured him arrogantly, wrapping his arm around her waist. “I can handle it from here.” She walked gingerly and limply, leaning against him and bidding the nurses at the desk goodnight in querulous tones.
Logan took her chart to the desk and handed it off to the admin, peering at her demographic information. “Munroe, Ororo N.” From her birthdate, he could tell she was about ten years younger than he was, and a Scorpio. He didn’t ponder it any further, other than to note that she lived on the north side of town in a neighborhood that he knew he couldn’t afford. That was the last glimpse he allowed himself into her life before he handed off her file to be locked up with the Medical Records desk.
Logan figured that tonight was a fluke. There was no way he’d ever see her again, and dismissed the notion as out of hand, in light of her current relationship.
He figured wrong.
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