“Bet I could have stayed on another thirty seconds if you let me go again,” Jean complained.
“If I let you stay long enough to break your leg, you never would have forgiven me. Three rounds was enough. The strobe lights in that place were giving me a headache,” Ororo reasoned. “Harry’s. Before you talk me into karaoke.” Ororo still hadn’t worked up the nerve for the mechanical bull, despite repeated trips to Crazy Horse Saloon. She didn’t know if that made her a wimp or just sensible…
“You love karaoke.”
“No. YOU love karaoke and trying to talk me into joining you for songs like ‘Summer Lovin’ and ‘Burning Down the House.’”
“You’re no fun.”
“Nope. Not falling for it.”
“Hmmph.” Jean was distracted by a mobile hot dog cart. “Ooooh. Scrappy Dogs. Remember those?”
“I don’t miss them.”
“I used to live on them,” Jean sighed.
“Yeah, back when we didn’t have the money to afford anything better. That, ramen, generic mac and cheese out of the box, and Froot Rings.”
“Yeah, Froot Rings! Damn, I miss those.” Jean sighed. “They’re so high in bad carbs, though,” she reminded her. Ororo rolled her eyes. “Well, they are.”
“Big whoop. Carbs, schmarbs.”
“You should be watching yours more carefully now, you know.”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda. I’ve got an excuse. It’s comfort food.”
“Why do you need comfort?” Jean broke the ice, knowing full on that it could knock down the dam and open the flood gates.
“When don’t I need comfort? He doesn’t want to marry me.”
“You’ve talked about it long enough. You’ve peeked at rings,” Jean prodded helpfully. “His dad and stepmom love you. That’s a good sign. Shit, it took Scott a year to even introduce me to his parents!”
“He walked out of the store before I could even try one on. As I recall, he just mumbled, said ‘That’s nice,’ and took off like a shot to browse at the sports shop across the mall. Left me standing there in the wake of his smoke trail, smoothie in my hand.”
“Okay. So that wasn’t so smooth,” Jean admitted guiltily. “But hey, the sex is great, right?” This was greeted by a heavy sigh. “Er…right?”
“Suuuuuuure. Tell me another one.” Ororo met Jean’s bemused gaze. “The sex is good when he’ll let me bust a nut!” Jean nearly choked on the stick of Wrigley’s she had just folded into her mouth. Ororo knew she crossed that line into “TMI” but didn’t care. It felt too good to vent.
“Holy…don’t DO that! I almost needed the Heimlich! You mean he doesn’t-“
“No.” Ororo reflected on it for another moment. “Not lately.” Then, “Not for a while.”
“Like, how long?”
“I don’t know…” Ororo ticked off silent figures on her fingers, making a rumbling sound in her throat. “Two, three…six…hmmm. Wow. Like, ten months.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, shit.”
“Well,” Ororo hedged. “Yeah,” she finished weakly. “About that long.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are you guys getting along other than that?”
“We’re kinda not.”
“Wow. Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. I still love him. But that’s when I don’t want to kill him. It wouldn’t be so hard if he weren’t making me jump through so many hoops.”
“What kind?”
“He blows hot and cold. Like yesterday. We went to his parents, after arguing for almost an hour of whether he really wanted me to go with him or not. He was like that the night that I went to your bachelorette, too. He’s been funky about my job. It’s not my fault that I have one where I can work from home once in a while and he doesn’t, or that he has to travel so often. I didn’t shove him kicking and screaming into working at his brokerage firm.”
“Good money, though.”
“You’re telling me. He gets paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour just to tell people if they get a better tax savings with a Roth IRA or whether they should enroll in term life.”
“So you two could buy a new house if you wanted to.” Jean sounded hopeful.
“Only if he actually wanted to. Shit, he pretty much tells his dad to put a sock in it whenever he mentions lending us the money to buy a few acres to build one brand new. I like my own house well enough.” And Ororo did. Her little condo suited her, just big enough to have some space, but not so huge that she couldn’t clean it herself or mow her own lawn. Especially since Pietro always promised her he’d do it before laying around another hour in front of Ultimate Fighting Challenge or going out with Scott for drinks.
“Then you two should just fix up your place and add on to it. It’d be nice for when you have kids.”
“Tell me another one. He doesn’t even know if he wants any.”
“Seems like he’d better figure it out.”
“I think he has. Jean, I think I’m the one who’s got to figure it out.”
“What?” Jean felt uncomfortable. She was satisfied with her life, and with her friends. She enjoyed the easy, cozy foursome that she, Ororo, Scott and Pietro made when they played Scrabble, went to the movies together, or got together for nights at the farmer’s market or bunko. Ororo’s confessions made her afraid that their little bond was in danger of unraveling at the fringes. She grasped at straws. “Honey, you and Pietro have a good thing going. You love him.”
“I know. I do. God, Jean, I do.” Ororo’s voice was strained as they took their place in the growing line outside of Harry’s, roughly thirty people back from the door. It was just starting to wrap itself around the block the way it always did when they had a live band. “I don’t want to rock the boat…but shit, why can’t I? Why do I have to settle for him setting all these conditions? After we both finished our degrees and got our piece of paper, he said he wanted to finish grad school first. So I waited. Then he wanted to tour Europe. I said, okay, fine. I didn’t even give him any crap when he decided he needed to do that with the guys.”
“You gave him a little crap.”
“Fine, then,” Ororo pouted. “I gave him a ton of crap about it. Can you blame me? I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”
“Now you can see it on your honeymoon. There you go, something to look forward to.”
“Then he wanted to get a job in the city. And of course, I had to get a job there, too, and get one where I was earning at least as much as he was, so he wouldn’t feel like I was along for the free ride.”
“That was back when you guys were renting that crappy little apartment in Queens.”
“Sure. He was on the lease and let me move in. I even sold him the furniture back when I moved out.” Ororo shuddered. It had been the bleakest day of her life.
~*~
Two years into their relationship, after settling into a comfortable, domestic little routine, Pietro grew restless. “I think we need some space. I don’t know where we’re going with this.”
“Wait…you don’t know where we’re going with what? What’s not to know? I thought we were fine.” Cold prickles raced across Ororo’s flesh as they stood facing each other across the dividing counter of the kitchen. Pietro was shuffling a Bicycle deck on the coffee table, dealing out cards for a game of solitaire. She was just drying the last dinner plate before setting it into the rack.
“Ro…we’re not fine. We haven’t been for a while,” he deadpanned, as though he were trying to explain things slowly for her. She knotted the dishtowel so tightly in her hands that her knuckles ached.
“You can’t be serious. I love you. We’ve been together for a long time. What’s the problem?”
“We’re the problem,” he pronounced. “This is getting stale. We don’t have fun anymore.”
“It’s called working for a living. And paying bills. Oh, let’s not forget the car note. And having someone to wake up to the in the morning who doesn’t ask ‘So, can you give me a ride back to my place?’ and do the walk of shame out the door.”
“Walk of shame…shit. That’s cute. Really cute, Ororo. I never treated any woman like that…”
“Really. Goodie for you. You act like you wish you had. Or like you could.” She lifted her eyebrow in wary challenge. “Getting tired of the same old pussy?”
“Don’t make this about that.”
“Why not? What’s it all about, then? We’ve been with each other for a while. I’ve been putting you first.”
“Where else would you put me?” he scoffed.
“Hoo. Listen to you, Mister Man.” The air grew thicker. Ororo fought not to choke on it, but she felt her heart skip a beat or two.
“You used to be spontaneous. You surprised me all the time; I never thought things between us would become so…predictable. I just figured you would keep me guessing and on my toes. But look at us. We’re in a ‘routine.’ It feels a lot like a rut. Ororo…I think I’m done.”
“You think you’re done?”
“Yes.”
The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet.
“I think we should break up.”
BANG. Ororo stared at him as though he were speaking Greek, and her fingers became nerveless. She didn’t notice when she dropped the dishtowel. Suddenly she was gripping the cheap, cracked Formica countertop for support and exhaling hard through her nose.
“Ororo…”
“Uhm-uhm. No. Just…don’t,” she rasped. She shook her head, closing her eyes against the sight of his lean, beautiful face, beseeching her. Wooing her away from the tide of outrage percolating in her stomach.
“Baby, listen to me, I know you don’t-“
“No! No, you don’t know. What do you know, Pietro? Huh? You KNOW,” she sneered, still trying to suck air into her lungs and waving him away as he rose from his recliner, looking as though he would join her in the kitchen. She was shaking like a leaf. The shudders wouldn’t stop coming. “What do you know?” she pressed again. “What’s this about?” she croaked.
“Nothing. It’s not about you. I just need some alone time.”
“You do. Alone time,” she parroted, practically robotic.
“Yeah. Just…time. A little. Just for a while. We took things too fast. Once we got together, it’s just like…everything else just went away. There was no ‘you and me’ anymore, just ‘us.’ I feel like I’m always reporting to you.”
“It’s bad that I think of you? That I want to know what you’re doing? Or how you’re doing? Or what’s on your mind?”
“You’re smothering me.” BANG. Before she could stop her hands, Ororo was shoving him back, full force, slapping him in the chest so hard that her palms stung.
“Don’t, ‘Ro! Jesus, this is what I’m talking about, you take everything like it’s all about what you want, and overreact-“
“You think I’m OVERREACTING?!?!?” She flung her hands up in the air, even as she backed away from him. “You weren’t counting on me ‘overreacting’ when you decided to break up with me?” It grew progressively uglier over the next half hour. Ororo screamed herself hoarse, crying half the time and cursing him the other half. Pietro shouted back everything that was wrong with them staying together. Wrong with her. The name-calling never seemed to end. The night ended with Ororo sinking down against the bedroom wall after slamming herself behind the door. She leafed through the yellow pages, making a list of apartment complexes and storage facilities to call. She took her list with her into work the next day and made furtive calls on each of her breaks, puzzling her coworkers when they eavesdropped over her cubicle wall. She went about the day in a daze, puffy-eyed and miserable, and worst of all, so damned unlovable.
Ororo spent the next two months broker than she had been since her sophomore year of college. She began picking up the occasional piece of furniture at garage sales and thrift shops until she had a dinette table with one chair. A futon. A bedside table with a single drawer. A floor lamp. Just enough furniture for one.
Ororo moved through each day of the next month like a robot, only showing real animation during her kickboxing class. Her sparring partners and trainers grunted loudly beneath the impact of her feet and fists, slightly unsettled by the fierce gleam in her eye.
Her nights were the worst. Since she graduated, Marie, Ali, Betsy and Jean had drifted into the ‘burbs. Lorna worked down the street from Ororo, but kept fierce hours at the ironsmithing foundry, designing “rustic, shabby chic: furniture and objets d’art that cost as much as a mortgage payment. She couldn’t blame any of her friends for having a life.
I’m not “lonely.” I’m “independent.” It became her mantra. Granted, it was a lie…
She fought to keep her feet from straying back into the groove she’d worn in the pavement to her old apartment. The next month found her numb and still stumbling. She dropped ten pounds that she didn’t even need to lose; food tasted dry in her mouth. Her internist lectured her soundly about her diet.
She missed his warmth at her back at night, twining her long, narrow feet with his. She fought to remind herself of his iniquities. Her television set no longer blared shows featuring breasts, bullets and explosions. There was no longer a grungy halo of stubble and shaving foam residue ringing her bathroom sink. She always knew who drank the last bottle of orange-carrot Sobe.
By the end of the third month, Ororo ran into him at the takeout place on the corner of Fifth and Graymalkin Avenue. She guessed it was inevitable, even in a city as big as New York. He still looked gorgeous. Damn him. She averted her eyes and tried to sidestep him as he backed away from the counter, calling back flippant jibes to the man behind the counter. She flinched as he bumped into her, shivering slightly when she caught a whiff of his familiar scent.
“Excuse me, Miss…’Ro. Hey,” he hedged. She cleared her throat and attempted to move out of his way. His firm, insistent grip on her upper arm stalled her. She look up into his eyes and was shocked to see him looking like a boy who’d found a favorite, forgotten toy in the bottom of the chest.
“H-hi,” she stammered. “Just…dinner. You know. Takeout. Eating at home.” She muttered monosyllables, while her heart hammered, inching its way higher into her throat.
“Uh-huh.” His grip twisted the handles of his plastic takeout bag. “How’ve you been, ‘Ro?” She tried to shape the words. She finally let the first ones that sprang to her mind tumble free.
“How do you think?” She tensed beneath his gaze. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Mine’ll take a while. I don’t have what I want yet.”
“I can wait,” he assured her. “And I think you do.” Damn him.
“Suit yourself.” The sensible voice of reason was drowned out by her body’s screaming urge to cling to him. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything.” The barb stung him. She stared him down until he let go of her, his jaw clenched beneath pleading eyes.
“I don’t have anywhere special I need to be right now.”
“Maybe that was our problem,” she offered. “Where we were…with what we had; I don’t know.” She attempted to sound casual and dismissive but missed it by a mile. “I wasn’t your special place to be,” she grated out. She hated the sound of her own voice. They measured each other with their eyes. With their hearts. An uncomfortable moment later, Pietro rushed from the shop as Ororo placed her order for her usual lemon chicken.
Pietro rang her mobile the next day.
He insisted that he didn’t want anything, just to talk. They he mentioned “ casually “ that he was free for lunch, if she wasn’t too swamped. Ororo cursed to herself: Of course she wasn’t. She felt herself tipping over and sliding down that slippery slope. Pietro was waiting to catch her with phone calls. Flowers. Invitations to dinner. He was solicitous. Held open doors. She reminded herself that he was the one who cashed in the warranty on their “happily ever after.”
She had to be crazy to take him back. She had to have lost her damned marbles. Chickens come back to roost… murmured her voice of reason, but she squelched it. His scent, his heat, the feel of his lips, his flesh beneath her seeking, stroking palms overwhelmed her. Enveloped her. She could never tell him no.
Pietro didn’t seem to have that problem. Despite the little, daily “man favors” he did around the house like taking out the trash, loading the dishwasher, or taking her car to the car wash every now and again, he didn’t seem to throw himself at her mercy. Everything she wanted was dangled in front of her nose, like a carrot on a string.
Pietro was a groomsman in Scott and Jean’s wedding. Ororo was Jean’s maid of honor. The gears and wheels of Ororo’s biological clock ticked, thudded and grinded loudly in her ears.
Cu-ckoo. Cu-ckoo…
She was going to be stuck in taffeta, instead of white lace, for the rest of her young life.
~0~
“Line sure is moving slow,” Jean complained, bringing Ororo back to reality.
“Ummmm.”
“Ororo? You there?”
“Uh-huhm.”
“I don’t believe you. What’s up? You look down. We’re out to have a good time!” Jean squealed. “I won’t let you be a downer tonight! This will be fun; we’re out of the house, you don’t have to stay home and pine away over your man, and we get to dance our asses off!” Her voice rose in emphasis on the last two syllables, drawing smirks from passerby as more people attached themselves to the coil of clubhoppers. Jean looped her arm through Ororo’s and gleefully trotted up and down in something resembling a Snoopy dance, jostling Ororo along with her. “Smile, damn it!”
“O-kay. QuitThatSHIT!” Her words were staccato with the impact of Jean’s antics. She grinned back at her. “Excited?”
“God. You don’t even know.”
“Nope. But you seem excited.”
“He’ll come around.”
“Maybe if we don’t kill each other first. I’d hate him, if I didn’t love him so much.”
“Everyone has their days when they don’t get along. Scott and I fight once in a while,” Jean offered.
“Over where to eat. Or who burps the loudest, or who didn’t hang up the last dry washcloth. You two are the Bobsey Twins. It’s not the same. You’ve never broken up with Scott and tried to get back together with him again.”
“Get out of here with that shit. We fight. All couples fight.”
“Not like me and ‘Tro.”
“So we’re having a contest over who fights the most?”
“Pfft.” Ororo dug into her pocket for her gum and popped a piece into her mouth, tucking a stick into Jean’s palm when she beckoned impatient to her to kick down with some. “It’s not like I want to win that contest, but I could, hands down.”
“Scott just treats me like a queen. I’m pretty lucky.” Her tone was matter-of-fact as she reached out to smooth a flyaway curl that drifted loose from Ororo’s cap.
“No. You’re practically God. The man worships you.”
They gradually made their way into the alcove of the bar, fishing for their IDs and checking their teeth for lipstick, using each other as mirrors and style coaches at the last minute. Ororo peeked at the bouncers at the front door, relieved to see that their “friend” Vic wasn’t working the door tonight. A medium height, compactly built blond man whose name tag introduced him as “St. John” was ahead of them, barking at a young couple to show them their ID, his accent sounding faintly like he could be from New Zealand. As they came closer, Ororo smelled a faint whiff of clove cigarette smoke on his clothes. His dark busboy’s apron was slightly damp from running in and out of the kitchen and clearing beer pitchers from the patio, and he nodded at Ororo before shining his flashlight on her proffered card. He made no bones about shining it directly into her face, as though the only way he could verify who she was, was to leave her blind as a bat and blinking away spots for the next ten minutes. His lips curled in a faint smile, appreciating what he saw. He handed her ID card to her and waited for her to grab it, and Ororo cocked her brow at him when he wouldn’t let go. She loosened her grip before he let go of his end, unapologetic. She stared quizzically at him before she bent over to pick it up.
Wolf whistles sounded a few yards away as several people in line took in the sight of her caramel cleavage bulging up from the gauzy top. Shit. She felt her cheeks flush with heat, irritation mingling with embarrassment. He smothered a smirk before staring through her to the next person in line, reaching for their ID before she could take umbrage.
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath as Jean ushered them inside.
“Let’s hit the patio,” Jean urged. “Bad karma might come back to bite him in the butt.”
“If it doesn’t, can I preemptively wish him a swift kick in the balls?”
“Yup.”
“I knew I loved you.”
The patio was already packed with people milling around, unsettling the wood chips, sitting on the edges of planters and teetering on barstools, bellying up to the three outdoor bars and bellowing orders for drinks, setting down crumple dollars on the slick counters where they could get damp and soggy from spilled beer. Drunken sorority girls in nearly identical outfits and highlighted hair crooned along to the Sheryl Crow song blaring from the speakers, and Ororo and Jean nudged each other knowingly. It hadn’t been as long ago as they liked to think. Ororo half-surmised that she and Jean were one out of, perhaps, twenty people in the crowd who didn’t sport body piercings, torn denim, Teva sandals, or hair dyed colors not found in nature. They were nearly blinded again by random flickers of the flash from myriad camera phones taking blackmail photos that would find their way onto MySpace pages by morning. The band was setting up on the tiny stage, and Ororo cringed at the knock of the speakers as they were moved back and forth. Feedback squealed from the amplifiers, evoking groans from the crowd.
The band slowly appeared to test their equipment, surreptitiously idnored by the surrounging patrons. Ororo and Jean each ordered a rum and diet Coke and munched on handfuls of beer nuts, less interested in the buzz than the night’s dancing. Jean drew everyone’s eye in passing; the floodlights and citronella torchieres bathed her hair in glimmering fire. She was blithe and oblivious. Ororo, out of long habit, groomed her casually, fixing stray spaghetti straps when they slipped loose or making her hold still when she had lipstick on her teeth. Unvoiced need found her hovering close, the two of them leaning shoulder to shoulder, backs against the bar. Ororo craved the confort she didn’t know how to ask for. All the swirling bodies and faces blurred together, and Ororo allowed her thoughts to be drowned out by the clamor. Beer mugs and iced tea glasses clanked against counters, emptied, dripping moisture over every surface. The faint flush of heat from the rum sent appreciated warmth into Ororo’s belly, along with a funny quiver.
Something was going to happen tonight…
Her eyes drifted back to the stage. A slender woman, perhaps a few years younger than she was, adjusted the mike stand to a height that suited her. Her lips were glossed in a red so deep it was nearly black, like lush, sweet cherries. Raven hair shone under the lights, razor cut into a messy shag. She threw back her head and laughed with abandon at something her drummer muttered behind her; Ororo envied her that moment.
The argument with Pietro nagged at her. The twanging, random practice chords broke through her reverie. Lean arms roped with wiry muscle balanced the guitar against hips clas in broken-in denim. Dexterous, clean-nailed fingers rolled the pick over and under each digit, back one way, then the other. He ran his fingers over the strings in a nearly silent glisse, stroking them like a lover before he was interrupted by a mountain of a man down front. He nodded to him in greeting before he met the singer’s eyes, acknowledging that it was time. Her lithe body drew strength from the opening licks of the guitar, thrilling to the clicks of the drumsticks striking together.
”I can’t get no…satis-fac-tion…” Her voice was a just-got-out-of-bed rasp, throaty and delicious.
”I can’t get no…chain re-ac-tion!
And I try
And I try
And I try
AND I TRY! I CAN’T GET NO ““
The song was older than two thirds of the audience but didn’t fail to get them swaying and bumping. Lips mouthed the lyrics while Jean and Ororo drained the last of the transparent, diluted amber liquid in their glasses.
*They danced.*
They hung on the fringes of the crowd at first, not drawing too close to offer anyone an unintended welcome. The next three songs drove away the chill in the aid as they began to sweat. Ororo accidentally bumped into the huge man she’snoticed before, mouthing an apology that was accepted with a bashful smile that seemed at home on his face. Kind blue eyes full of quiet sorrow belied it, but measured her a moment before he saluted her with his beer mug.
*They people-watched.*
Jean tugged sharply on her arm. “Look! It’s him.”
“Who?” She squinted in the general direction of where Jean jabbed her finger.
“HIM.” She spun her around, directing her gaze more accurately with her manicured finger. “Officer Hot Abs at twelve o’clock!”
“Wait…oh. OHHHH…” His hands were good at other things than taking off his clothes and divesting women of singles. “Oh, my.”
“What are the odds?” He was sex personified, even in worn jeans and an acid green Sideout tee shirt. He flipped floppy auburn hair from his laughing black eyes. Playing for all he was worth as the band’s songbird backed herself flush with the slouch of his spine, letting her hair stroke him as she belted out the words.
I got my head, but my head is unraveling
Can’t keep control, can’t keep track of where its traveling
I got my heart but my heart is no good
And you’re the only one that’s understood
I come along but I don’t know where you’re taking me
I shouldn’t go but you’re reaching back and shaking me
Turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky
The more I give to you, the more I die
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You make me hard, when I’m all soft inside
I see the truth, when I’m all stupid eyed
The arrow goes straight through my heart
Without you everything just falls apart
Ororo followed the progress of the Big Guy, as she decided to christen him. A buxom woman with creamy skin and hair as dark as his approached him, materializing out of nowhere and laying her hand on his shoulder. He tensed as though to offer a rejection to pending invitations, until he stared down into her face. Ororo watched his body relax by degrees, and a lazy smile drifted across his chiseled mouth. She makes him feel safe, she thought. His manner toward her, his whole stance, seemed slightly protective, maybe even covetous, even though they didn’t continue to touch after her initial greeting.
My blood wants to say hello to you
My feelings want to get inside of you
My soul is so afraid to realize
Every little word is a lack of me
*They wrote dialogue for complete strangers.*
“Hi, my name’s Serendipity, and I like, totally hate that name? People tell me I sound more like a Becky,” Jean honked nasally, nodding toward a girl who looked like she got in with a fake ID.
“That’s cool; so, do you, ya know, have a FRIEND??? Or maybe two or THREE friends…” Ororo supplied for the guy with the pierced tongue who was hanging on her every word. Jean snorted into her ice water.
*They danced some more.*
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
And I want you
Ororo gradually caught the eye of their former dancer for hire. She grinned. He winked. It felt good, and naughty, to have found a friend she shared a silly secret with. Out of a sense of restlessness, she scanned the crowd for more familiar faces.
She wasn’t disappointed.
She backed into something solid and immovable, startled and nearly having a heart attack when her boots’ high heels trod hard upon feet so big she could never miss them.
“Whouuulff!” Muffled, hissed cursing swept over the crest of her ear as beefy hands gripped her. She nearly stumbled, trying to overcorrect her feet. Her hands flailed for purchase while her heart pounded with embarrassment and contrition. She whirled around, breaking free of the warm grip and forming apologies weakly.
“That couldn’t have felt good,” she groped. “Your poor feet,” she moaned. “I am SO sorry!”
“Shoulda watched where I stepped,” he grumbled, rubbing his nape as he tried to recover himself. That effort flew out the window as they made eye contact.
“Er…”
“Oh. Wow. Um…hi?” Recognition set in. Palms began to sweat. Guts twisted and hearts slammed.
Brown eyes met blue, and Ororo’s mouth went dry. It felt surreal as his hand drifted up and touched her forehead, lighter than a caress. She flinched; it was still tender.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Still hurts?”
“Just a little. Didn’t mean to step on you.”
“Happens. Story of my life. I’ll live,” he reassured her. His lips quirked, and she felt she was missing out on the punchline.
“Really? I mean…why? People stepping on you, I mean.”
“My line of work has folks fallin’ all over me, literally. I’m an LVN,” he shrugged. “but ya knew that, eh?”
“I knew you…OH. You were…and I…Daffy Duck!” she grinned. It was his turn to look confused, just as it was dawning on her who ELSE he was.
Mister Grumpy Butt was her knight in olive green scrubs.
“My Band-Aid. You gave me one with Daffy Duck on it.” His lips quirked again, and Ororo could tell he still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t lost her mind.
“First one that came to hand. Wuz either him, Bugs, Tweety or Porky,” he shrugged.
“Daffy works; at least he matched my outfit,” she countered. Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights, and her voice flowed over him like thick, warm caramel. She stood with her feet planted apart, resting her weight on one curvy hip, rubbing her nape in a gesture that mirrored his.
A sound bite from an old Looney Tunes cartoon zipped through her head as she heard Jean’s voice over her shoulder, finding herself enveloped from behind in a protective “ if cock-blocking “ girl hug:
Go! Go! Go! MINE! MINE! MINE!
“Whatcha doin’, ‘Ro?” she purred. She appraised Logan with a blend of amusement and curiosity. She struggled beneath Jean’s embrace, which gradually resembled a headlock. It was common. They often bickered like siblings when they went out. As a final insult, Jean lapped Ororo’s cheek like a dog, leaving a gloss of rum-scented slobber across her flesh.
“EEEEWWWWW! Retard!”
“You love meeeeeeee,” she whined.
“Not that much; don’t give the man ideas,” Ororo giggled. Logan shook his head. The redhead was hot. He’d seen her hair winking in and out of the crowd before he practically tripped over her friend on his way back from the mens’. She’d tempted him, sure, until he heard her girlish voice and saw this little display. She’d cured him before he even saw the unmistakably huge rock on her left ring finger. Slowly it dawned on him: This was the blushing bride from a couple of weeks ago, sans the pink penis veil. Damn, that thing was ugly.
“Jean, you remember…err, what was your name again?”
“Logan,” he announced, extending his hand. Ororo heard Jean grunt lightly as he shook hers, and she fought against wringing feeling back into her fingers from his snug grip. “So when’s the big day, kiddo?”
“Next weekend. Whooooo!” She whirled her fist in a circle like Arsenio Hall, bellowing in Ororo’s ear. “I’m excited, if you couldn’t tell,” she recovered, and this time her smile was genuine. Then the thought occurred to her, “So, is that what you do? Do you have a day job, or do you just, you know, bounce? Bounce? Is that what I’m thinking of? No, wait, you’re a chaperone, right?”
“More or less. Security, chaperone, money counter, and roadie on those rare weekends when Remy plays. My friend up there, on lead guitar,” he motioned, jerking his thumb back toward the stage.
“Really? So, what does he do?”
“Ya’ve pretty much seen what he does, darlin’. Remy’s been tryin’ ta find a gig as a music teacher with the school district. So far, he works at the music shop over on Genosha Street downtown, and gives lessons every now and again for extra change. That, dancing, and playing nickel-and-dime dives like these.”
“Sounds…colorful,” Jean murmured. Ororo elbowed her.
“Don’t be a hater,” she hissed back. She explained needlessly, “Jean works as a membership director at a day spa.”
“THE day spa. Inner Circle Beauty Bar and Oasis.”
“That girly gym and salon, ya mean? The really expensive one?”
“Yup,” Ororo replied. “One and the same.”
“It’s not girly,” Jean argued snippily. “You liked it when you went,” she accused.
“I do. It’s still pretty girly, though; man’s got a point.”
“So where do you work, Logan?”
“Westchester County General, in the ER and Radiology ward.”
“Ohmigod! Shut UP! Are you kidding me?” Jean spun on Ororo, eyes bright. “He works with Scott! Small freaking world!” She turned back to Logan. “Scott Summers. That’s my fiancée!”
“Oh. OH! Holeeee shit!” He’d nearly forgotten about the wedding invitation hidden in the bottom of his bill pile on the kitchen counter. “Yer tyin’ the knot at the big Presbyterian Friends of Humanity chapel on North Street, right?”
“Yes.”
“Guess I’ll see ya there, then. Scott invited me.”
“I don’t remember getting your RSVP,” Jean considered aloud.
“Guess this is it, then, Red.” He hadn’t been sure he even wanted to show up until then. He still didn’t know what strange force was manipulating his mouth to let out such insane words. He had to be out of his frigging mind.
That faint, delectable scent of light perfume, a sheen of well-earned, post-dance sweat, rum and Diet Coke, and the natural aroma of Ororo’s body chemistry seized him. She was spoken for.
He hardly knew her.
He should just walk away.
“So, what time’s church again?”
“I expect to have everyone seated at three, on the dot. It’s formal. Scott’s side is on the left,” Jean supplied crisply. “C’mon,” she ordered Ororo, “let’s dance. Nice meeting you again,” she offered noncommittally.
“Okay, IguessI’mdancingnow,seeyouLogan…” Ororo’s voice trailed off as she skipped behind Jean, being dragged along by the elbow. Logan enjoyed the sight of her backside shrink-wrapped in those snug little black capris, as well as the sight of her sapphire blue eyes peering back at him for one last, apologetic look over her slender shoulder. Jean painstakingly buried them in the crowd, and he had to content himself with fleeting glimpses of that amazing body with endless legs and breasts that made his hands twitch.
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug
You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug…
Take me, with you
Take me, with you
Take me, with you
He tried not to stare after her as he enjoyed another beer nearly half an hour later, watching the two women make their giggling, rib-jabbing escape through the crowd as they left the patio. He gradually caught sight of Piotr, making pleasant chatter with a stacked brunette who gave him a warmer reception than the future Mrs. Doctor Summers.
“Hello, tovarisch. This is Sage Niles, one of my coworkers.”
“Careful, darlin’, this guy’s likely ta make ya look bad,” Logan teased. “Ya keepin’ this lazy bum in line?”
“Someone has to,” she tossed back, shaking his hand warmly, not shying away from his grip. Cobalt blue eyes met his directly. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t yet. Call me Logan. Just don’t call me late fer dinner.”
“Scout’s honor,” she agreed. She was sipping a Zima, gripping it by its neck and tapping her fingers against her thigh to the music. She wore a black mesh sweater over a cropped camisole, revealing a glimpse of toned abdomen above the waistband of the gleaming leather jeans that appeared painted on. She looked as though someone dipped her in polyurethane.
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, its not as much fun to pick up the pieces
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, it’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
“Remy’s in fine form tonight,” Piotr remarked.
“Lila knows how ta wail, too. She’s damned good at it.”
“I’d pay to hear her sing, if she ever decided to record anything,” Sage admitted.
“Got a copy of her demo that she comped me a few weeks ago. I’ll hafta lend it ta Pete, he can let ya listen to it.” The three of them eventually retired inside to the billiard room. Logan scanned the bar in disappointment; Ororo was already long gone from the looks of it. Not a flash of white hair to be found…wait.
Hold on a damned minute.
White hair, but not the lush sheaves of curling waves that rivaled moonbeams shining on fresh snow. Stylishly cropped platinum locks caught his eye on a man roughly as tall as Ororo, and just as familiar as he strode inside the club, with a pretty blonde on his arm. He heard her laughing at something he said, in the same slightly accented, stuffy English that was so distinctive when he huffed that they didn’t need any help out to the car.
She’ll be fine. I can handle it from here. Sure. Betcha can, asshole. Ugly prickles of heat swept up Logan’s back and made the hairs on his nape stand on end. He almost didn’t hear Piotr tell him it was his shot at the pool table. He chalked his cue and scolded himself. It wasn’t any of his damned business.
Without you, without you everything falls apart
Without you, it’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces
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