Chapter Five: Ángeles y Diablos
Sunny days
Everybody loves them
Tell me
Can you stand the rain?
Storms will come
This we know for sure
Can you stand the rain?
~Boyz II Men
They made it to his bed around three in the morning, after interrupting themselves twice on the way. Ororo pulled on Forge’s shirt, doing up what buttons remained from her passionate yank of the delicate material.
Stretching in the early light, Ororo grinned to herself. She felt wonderfully loose and decadently abused. Her body no longer screamed for touch, but asked politely as though it knew someone nearby would gladly comply. She popped several bones in her back, running a hand through sleep and passion-tousled hair. On bare feet, Ororo padded from his bedroom, following the sound of a coffee grinder.
Forge stood in his massive kitchen, bare to the waist where his low-slung jeans remained unbuttoned. His long hair, unbound, grazed his shoulders, making her smile as she paused in the entrance. This, she thought, a girl could get used to.
“Good morning,” she said in that curiously quiet tone most use in the early hours. “Did I hear coffee?”
“Hello, gorgeous,” Forge greeted, leaning down to kiss her lips. “Be ready in a minute. Want some breakfast?”
Nodding, Ororo stole another kiss, letting her hand drop to his bionic arm. Though he usually wore long sleeves to hide his invention, Ororo knew he was comfortable in her presence to leave the pretenses at the door. He’d lost an arm and leg during the Gulf War, but fashioned his own limbs with the help of his mutation.
Forge could, and frequently did, invent anything he could think of. She watched in awe when he created modern marvels like the Danger Room, finding the intellectual Forge almost irresistible. It wasn’t easy, she decided, loving one man while sleeping with another.
No. She wasn’t going to think about Scott now. He had no place in bed with Ororo and Forge. Her heart had separate compartments. He’d never loved her, never known. So why the twinge of guilt?
Ororo forced the thoughts away, taking eggs from the refrigerator and handing them to Forge. They were comfortable in the silence, neither needing to fill the space up with small talk. He whipped up omelets as she poured coffee, slipped thick slices of sourdough bread into the toaster. Bodies bumped companionably, smiles immediate and telling.
When at last their meal was finished, they sat across from one another at the wide, tiled breakfast bar. Forge’s kitchen tended toward masculinity, complete with a sandy palette that ranged from near-white to deep chocolate. Sunlight poured through curtain-less windows, the breeze drifting inside courtesy of the propped up glass.
They ate in the same companionable silence for several minutes, but by the slight crease to Forge’s brow, she knew questions were forthcoming. Ororo did not mind talking with Forge “ even telling him a few of her secrets “ for he always dispensed sound advice and sometimes-brutal truth.
“Forge?” She asked after swallowing a mouthful of egg. “What is it?”
To his credit, her companion was not startled or taken aback. He merely swallowed, giving her a small, understanding smile.
“I got a call from Henry yesterday,” he began easily. “He seemed to think something happened at the school.”
Reminded of Logan and his midnight romp, she scowled slightly. “Wolverine.”
“Ah.” Forge answered as though that explained everything. “What did he do this time?”
Moodily, angry that Logan now plopped into the proverbial bed Forge and Ororo shared, she stabbed at her eggs and viciously bit a chunk of her buttered toast. Dark eyes were laughing at her from across the table, but his human hand stretched across the tile to cover hers.
“He brought a one-night stand home, in front of the children.” She explained, the memory of the ensuing argument still as fresh as the blow to her pride. “We had…words over it.”
“Where did you hide the body?” He smirked into his coffee cup before taking a long sip.
Amused and relieved to find her anger quickly dissipating, Ororo grinned back. “I retrained myself, if only because Charles, for some reason, loved him.”
Perhaps he caught the hitch in her tone, for Forge gently squeezed her captured fingers. Drawing on his strength, Ororo returned the gesture. She was reminded, with a fresh wave of unwelcome pain, that Forge lost his mentor that awful day as well. Hadn’t he lost friends in Scott and Jean as well? How could three people have touched so many lives?
“Charles had a soft spot for the hard cases,” Forge offered quietly. “You and I are proof enough of that.”
Because her heart hurt, she deflected quickly, knowing he wouldn’t be offended. “Logan and I get along fairly well on a daily basis…usually. In fact, we find that mutually ignoring one another works the best for all involved.”
Forge sighed, shaking his head. “You’re both stubborn to a fault.”
Ororo scowled at him. “I know and I understand that the two of us need time…but to sleep with a girl barely older than Kitten? In the mansion?”
He chuckled softly. “So it’s better to stay out all night? To come home wearing the same thing you wore out the night before?”
She gave him a slow smile. “At least I am not parading you around in Logan’s face this morning.”
“Maybe you should.” Dark brows waggled teasingly. “Might do him some good.”
Ororo laughed, shaking her head at him in faux dismay. “You’re awful.”
“Ashamed of me?” Forge pouted. “I’m hurt, my Windrider. Absolutely destroyed.”
“Oh, poor baby.” She stood sinuously, skirting the table as he backed the stool from it. Dropping into his lap, she draped her arms over his shoulders. “Shall I kiss it better?”
His hands “ human and bionic “ grasped at her hips. She wiggled enticingly, as though telling him without words that she very much welcomed a repeat of the previous evening. He leaned up, capturing her lips in a kiss that sent her blood boiling. Ororo melted, shifting on the barstool until her bare feet found purchase on the rungs.
“I want you again,” Forge panted against her lips when they parted for air. “I want to be inside you.”
“Please.” She whimpered as his human hand slipped under the borrowed shirt, cupping a breast familiarly. “Take me.”
Forge grunted, the bulge in his jeans hardening under her bare backside. Ororo shifted, dropping her hands to his lap so she could yank the zipper down. Her lover nuzzled the material of her shirt apart, lips catching one dark nipple. When he sucked, hard, on the distended flesh, Ororo threw her head back to gasp his name.
Knowing his bionic arm could support her weight, she arched her back even as hands tugged on his jeans. They managed to get him undressed to the knees, his aching cock nestled between her thighs. Forge’s hot mouth worked over one breast before moving to the other, leaving a trail of wetness in his wake.
Heat pumped through her deprived system, arousal coating his thighs until he groaned her name. Lifting herself by bracing both hands on his shoulders, Ororo positioned her body above his cock, only to take him inside with one quick shimmy. Twin groans resonated in the quiet kitchen. Ororo rose again, drawing a long moan from her lover’s lips.
He lifted and dropped her, allowing gravity to do some of the work while they made love. Hot and heavy inside her, Forge tossed out all thought, all reason. She knew only lust, only the pleasure of being touched. Flesh struck flesh as they moved together on the barstool, Forge’s fingertips digging into her hips as she rode him.
She swooped down, tugging on his hair until he released her breast so she could capture his mouth with hers. His tongue dueled madly with hers, even over the pleading whimpers of pleasure he brought from her throat. Fire raced all over her skin, originating where they joined.
“Harder. More.” Wanton, wild, she placed the demands against his lips.
In answer, he slowed her frantic motions, disengaging so they could stand. Hands on her hips, he whirled her around so she could brace her hands on the tiled counter. Both hands smoothed over her bare backside before he shifted, plunging back inside. Ororo cried out, thrusting back against him in a desperate plea for more.
Sweat slicked over them both, Forge’s guttural grunts echoing over the distinct slap of skin. He leaned forward, pressing his bare chest into her back until his teeth latched onto her shoulder. Nails scraping the tile, she clenched around his cock deliberately.
“Fuck.” Forge rarely swore, and the thought that she drove him to it made her smile. “God, you’re so damn tight.”
“For you,” she breathily replied. “Goddess. Forge.”
He increased the already bruising pace, his human hand sliding from her hips in search of her swollen clit. She groaned when he found it, circling the tight bud expertly. Climax swept over Ororo in one brilliantly sudden wave. Shivering, weeping with it, she tightened even further around him, drawing him over the edge with her.
As breathing slowed, he slipped out of her. Ororo glanced over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes with a satisfied smile.
“I really need to spend the night more often.”
~**~
“Storm?”
Wolverine ducked his head into the kitchen, searching for the school’s Headmistress. Usually at this time on a Saturday morning, she was discussing the next week’s schedule with Psylocke.
All night, his little epiphany bothered him. He’d been up during the long, dark hours, wondering how he could have possibly missed it. There had always been something between Storm and Cyclops. They were close, to the point that Logan assumed they regarded one another as siblings “ kindred spirits.
Now, he wondered how off base that assessment was. He’d thought back to the night he found Ororo destroying her photographs in her bedroom. Which ones were they? A flash of red hair and an adoring smile seemed the only recollections he had. It wasn’t just grief that sent her into that tirade, it was rage.
Fury at Jean? For what? Dying or killing Scott?
It was then that he put the rest of it together. Logan, having loved and lusted someone he could never have, understood Storm a little more. He hated thinking it, remembering the proud Cyclops always brought back pain. He’d been so damn concerned with Jean that Scott’s death barely registered to him. It wasn’t until weeks later the enormity of that loss hit him. Scooter might have gotten on his nerves, but he did respect that man.
Remembering his tossed off “Where’s Scott?” to the tortured Phoenix still burned. “Where’s Scott?” No emotion, just mild curiosity. What kind of asshole made out with a woman that just killed her fiancé? Sometimes, just rarely, Wolverine made himself sick.
“She’s not here.” A soft, British drawl answered his forgotten question. “Need somethin’?”
Spotting Betsy lounging in her weekend uniform of soft sweats and a plain t-shirt, Logan shrugged. Storm tended to be regular as the tide, so where the hell was she? If she decided to avoid him, he’d just have to track her down. They needed to talk, before his over-active imagination started putting things together best left alone.
He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to know what might have been between Scott and Storm.
“Where’s she at?” Logan demanded, a touch meaner than he’d intended.
His constants were supposed to be just that. Constant. Storm suddenly not adhering to her own set schedule set his teeth on edge.
What did he expect? She’d already bailed on him for an entire weekend and verbally ass-reamed him for not only bringing home some one-night-stand, but breaking Angel’s wing. Huh. Maybe he should avoid her for a while. All they did when face-to-face was argue.
“Hopefully, she’s getting her knickers torn off by that delicious, Spanish-speaking Adonis she left with last night.” Psylocke’s violet eyes danced. “What’s up, Wolf-Man?”
Logan saw red. “She’s done what?”
The telepath tilted her head, her mind touching Logan’s with that now-familiar caress. As though she picked up on his emotions, she arched a brow.
“Had a hot date last night, which I’m hoping ran over til this mornin’.” Psylocke answered, unconcerned. “Needed to get her system shocked, if ya know what I mean.”
“Wait a minute,” Logan held up a hand, taking a step toward the woman. “She went out to get fucked after the yellin’ she gave me?”
“Actually,” came the drawl from behind him. “I went out to dinner with a dear friend and decided to spend the night. Did you need something, Wolverine?”
Oh, to hell with her and that distant, placating tone. Logan whirled on the balls of his feet, facing the decidedly rumpled weather-goddess leaning in the doorway. She wore a wrinkled red dress and heels that made her legs look two miles long. Her hair was damp from a recent shower, makeup scrubbed off. Her scent drifted toward him, unmistakably mingled with a male odor. Logan sneezed.
“We need to talk.”
Ororo merely smiled, tilting her head past him to catch Betsy’s glance. “Good morning.”
“’Ello, luv. Have a nice…dinner?” Logan nearly growled at the amusement in the other mutant’s tone.
“I’ll fill you in later.” Storm said with an airy shake to her head. Her eyes came back to Logan’s, her smile never faltering. “I have a moment to talk, I suppose. But then I must get to the Danger Room for a training session.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Logan growled, hearing Psylocke chuckle behind him, as Storm turned to move down the hall.
She stopped to speak to a few students, saying a lengthy “hello” to the blushing Leech. Logan’s knuckles cracked, the effort of holding his tongue almost too much. Anger swelled in his chest, desperately needing release.
He wanted to strangle that pretty, male-scented woman. When she darted into her office, Logan followed, slamming the door behind him. She was humming, even as she ducked into the private bathroom in the back of her office, where she kept a spare change of clothes.
“You wanna explain yourself?” He demanded on a shout.
“Keep your voice down,” Storm snapped. He heard the rustle of clothing, the tap of her shoes hitting the tile.
A moment later, she emerged from the bathroom, dressed almost identically to Psylocke. Soft sweats topped off with a gray Xavier’s hoodie. She’d zipped it up, stuffed her hands into the pockets. Where moments ago, she looked ravished and womanly, she seemed now so innocent.
That just irritated him more.
“So,” he began, hooking thumbs into his jeans pockets and rocking back on his heels. “You go out, you get laid, everything’s dandy. I go out, I get laid, and St. Helens erupts. Wanna clarify this for me?”
To her credit, Storm didn’t flinch from his gaze, from the raw growl to his tone. She merely stood there, unashamed, defenseless and met his eyes unwaveringly. He’d give her tribute for the way she met any obstacle. Head on, fearless, right in the eye.
“I merely asked that you not bring your girlfriend to the mansion,” she replied smoothly. “My relationship with Forge is no one’s business but my own. I like to keep it that way.”
Something in her coolly aloof tone make Logan’s teeth hurt. He could see it now, the way she covered up the ache. Her eyes weren’t quite as detached as the rest of her face. He vividly noticed the sorrow, the longing, the hurt she carefully hid every, single day. Logan knew about that kind of pain. He lived with it himself.
He didn’t want to get into this, but found himself completely unable to stop. All the thoughts of Chuck, of Cyke, of Jean melded and mingled in his head until they fused with Storm. Angry that she dared open him up to the guilt “ the grief “ all over again Logan did as he was apt to. Setting his jaw, lifting his chin, he spoke without the benefit of thinking first.
“You think it’ll stop the pain?”
She startled at that. Visibly. Logan felt the rush of victory and pushed on.
“Fuckin’ someone else don’t help, not in the long run. Sure, gives the body somethin’ to do, but that don’t ease the hurt.” He paused, scarcely noticing the rage overtaking her, the swirl of dark clouds behind her, visible through the parted curtains of her window. “I figured out your dirty little secret, Storm.”
“Oh?” Her tone was deadly. “What do you think you know?”
Logan paused again, tilting his head slightly to study her. The posture still seemed relaxed, but the gradual tightening of every muscle left her rigid. The thin, hard line of her mouth spoke volumes of tenuous control, frost already threatening to overcome deep, cocoa eyes.
“How long?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How long were you in love with Scott?”
As though someone stopped time, the entire room froze. Storm stared at him, her face reflecting the emotions he rarely got the chance to see. Fear. Realization. Anger. Pain. Loss. He catalogued every muscle twitch, every line, as though deciphering it would bring him the answer to the question he really wanted to ask.
When she moved, it was slowly. She came across the room, clearing the several feet between them without breaking eye contact or making a sound. Logan tensed, wondering if he’d pushed too far, too soon. But her face slid back into the expressionless mask, even as she came to a stop not six inches from body-collision.
“How dare you.”
“Me?” Logan shot back, reminded of his last conversation with Scott so long ago. “You’re the one out fuckin’ someone else when Scott’s barely cold.”
“Oh, you bastard.” There might have been tears in her tone, but the thunder destroyed it. “You’re one to speak. You chased a woman clearly spoken for. I, at least, had the respect for both to keep my goddamn mouth shut.”
“You think that’s respect?” As he had that day in his bedroom, he hauled Storm up by the biceps, backing her into the nearby wall. “You were too chickenshit to go for what you wanted.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she fired back. “Take. Your. Goddamn. Hands. Off. Of. Me.”
Because the pure, undiluted hatred in her eyes, her voice, shocked him, Logan released her immediately. She continued to glare, but kept her body back against the wall. Their breathing turned ragged, as a million hurtful insults trampled through both minds.
The skies were clear again, but Logan could sense that the storm had yet to pass. The mutant in front of him inhaled shakily several times and he thought he could distantly hear her counting under her breath as though fighting for control.
“You will never,” she began quietly. “Ever tell anyone what was said here. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah,” Logan nodded, unsure he would ever desire to. “I got it.”
They stood face-to-face for several more seconds, anger rising between them. Logan suppressed the sudden urge to run for his room, pack, and take off on Scott’s old bike. He wanted to be here, close to the people he’d fought beside, fought for. Storm and her fuming eyes weren’t going to chase him away from what he wanted. The mansion, as they had proved before, could be big enough for the both of them.
Logan finally turned to leave, stopping at the doorway to look over his shoulder as he had that night in her bedroom.
“Hurts, don’t it?” He whispered without thinking.
“What?”
“Lovin’ someone so much you hate them. For leavin’, for takin’ a piece of ya with ‘em.” He exhaled sharply, turning his back on her again. “Never felt anything so bad.”
“I don’t hate him.” Ororo defended.
“No,” he agreed, opening the door. “You just hate her.”
He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him with a bang.
~**~
There is an oddly feminine ritual that surrounds “dressing up”. Whenever a woman whom enjoys the company of other women admits she has a hot date “ or charity function with a best friend “ females rally around her to ensure she knocks up someone’s blood pressure.
Kitty stood in her underwear, blinking dazedly as Marie, Betsy, and Ororo all rushed about her bedroom. She wasn’t quite sure how things progressed this far out of hand, but in her confusion, she allowed the eldest females at Mutant High to do their worst.
“Ok,” Betsy was saying as she produced two long garment bags. “I’ve got sophisticated black or bright and pretty gold.”
“Lets see them,” Storm requested while pawing through Kitty’s makeup bag.
Psylocke immediately opened the first bag, revealing a long, slinky dress in deep ebony. Kitty moved forward, regarding the choice carefully. The bodice was square-cut, leaving the shoulders and arms bare save for two thick straps. It would hug her meager curves and nearly hit the floor due to height difference, but the long slit up one thigh seemed a little too…Betsy for her taste.
“Next.” Marie prompted while looking through the two-dozen shoeboxes all three women dug out of various closets.
The gown looked to be spun of pure gold; a happily rich color that Kitty feared might make her skin look even paler. But the bodice rounded in a scallop shape, thin straps holding everything up so that the gossamer material draped like clouds. It would fall to the floor, but with the cut and style that whispered around curves, it would seem as though it meant to.
“Oh, wow.” Marie said, popping her head up from where she sat surrounded by shoes. “I like it. Try it on, Kitty.”
The girl in question fidgeted. “I don’t know…it’s so bright.”
“Come on.” Storm intervened, setting her wineglass down on the dresser. “Lets see how it looks on.”
“Wait,” Betsy ordered with uncommon severity. “We’ll need a strapless bra. Push up, if we can manage it so the top'll drape just right.”
“On it!” Marie rushed from the room, her steps bouncing.
Kitty worried a lip between her teeth, glancing at the two elder women. It wasn’t like the athletic, tomboy to be found surrounded by feminine things. She tended to migrate toward the billiard games, tackle football and X-Boxes. The very idea of getting dressed up, while fun, scared the bejesus out of her. What if she tripped on that long hem? Could she even walk in heels? When was the last time she worried about strapless bras?
“I can’t do this,” she whined. “I’ll embarrass Warren!”
“No, you won’t,” replied Storm kindly. “You’re selling yourself short, sweetie.”
“Besides,” Betsy chimed in. “Its not every day you get to waltz down a red carpet on the arm of Mr. Hunky Wings.”
Storm snorted out a laugh, glancing to her friend. “What?”
Betsy gave her a blasé shrug. “Well, he is. Hell-bait or not, the kid’s got style. Not to mention he looks like Gabriel just fell from the bloody heavens. Shite. Can I go in your place, little Kitten?”
Slightly relaxed by Betsy’s wit and the slow, easy cadence of her voice, Kitty exhaled. The dress did seem so pretty. Wouldn’t it be fun to look like a million bucks, walk down a red carpet like a movie star? She’d get to hold one of those stupidly tiny girly purses, hike up her height with some ridiculous shoes.
She might, perish the thought, feel like a girl for a few hours.
“Ok!” Marie rushed back into the room, startling Kitty from her thoughts. “Found a strapless bra and, for bonus points, a matchin’ garter belt to keep the stockin's up. You’ve got some sheer hose right?”
Kitty blinked, panic swelling her heart again. “Sheer what?”
Betsy, Ororo, and Marie all sighed in unison, as though their project was just shy of completely hopeless.
“All right, no one panic.” Storm interjected, holding her hands up. “This calls for drastic measures, ladies. Troops, fall in!”
Comically, so Kitty would laugh, Marie and Betsy snapped to attention. Kitty covered her mouth to hide the smile, but appreciated the humor. She wanted to have fun, to be a woman, but…oh, she really didn’t want to cause Warren any more shame.
“Marie, go into my room. Third drawer there are some thigh-highs that I haven’t worn with a gold tint. Bring those. Betsy, my closet…”
Psylocke’s eyes immediately went misty. “The…the Holy Grail of Shoes? Hold me, I may faint.”
“On the right hand side, second shoe shelf, there is a very special box with the name Jimmy Choo on the side. Not the red ones, the gold ones.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Both women rushed from the room, tripping over themselves as they did so.
Storm then turned to the even more frightened Kitty. “All right. Go wash your face, put on the bra and the belt. Come back out here and I’ll put you into that beautiful John Galliano.”
Kitty whimpered again. “You’re putting me, all knees and elbows, into designer shoes and a gown that probably cost more than my parents’ house?”
Her mentor grinned, patting her shoulder gently. “There’s something very fun about dressing up in overpriced shoes and gowns.” She paused, looking far away for several seconds.
“Storm?” Kitty asked, reaching out to touch her arm.
She turned to the younger mutant, smiling slightly. Pain reflected in those dark eyes, making a lump form in Kitty’s throat. She rubbed at her mentor’s arm, enjoying the new facet of their relationship since Alcatraz. Instead of the distance between student and teacher, as Kitty came of age, Storm shifted until she was friend and sister.
“I was thinking about the first time Charles insisted I put on a damn dress,” she chuckled tearfully. “It was a fabulous little Armani number. Jean nearly brow beat me into these mile-high heels…I resisted at every turn, but in the end, that Senate function wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.”
“Ah,” Kitty grinned, feeling her eyes well up as she remembered her teachers. “That’s where the shoe addiction kicked in.”
“My Achilles Heel, dear.” Storm patted her cheek fondly. “I was much like you. I wanted to be outside in the dirt “ well, the sky “ rather than tucked into uncomfortable clothing.”
“What changed that?” The younger woman asked softly.
Storm grinned wickedly. “When I came down the stairs, Charles let his mouth fall open and Scott gulped audibly. After that, I couldn’t get enough of clothes.”
Kitty laughed with her, sharing the oddly intimate moment as they remembered those they lost. Deciding if Storm could do it, she could, she steeled her spine and nodded.
“Ok, lets get this freak show on a roll.”
Storm’s smile lit up her entire face, chasing away the lingering sorrow.
“That’s my girl.”
~**~
While it took a small army and several hours to prepare Kitty for the event, Warren needed only a shower, a shave, and a fresh set of boxers. He pulled on the suit he’d purchased, with his father’s good taste, and ran a hand through his hair.
The rounded collar of his midnight blue dress shirt suited the length of his neck, or so the shop owner insisted. Deep navy linen covered his legs with the trademark Armani break in the hem. The jacket matched, topped off at the wrists with cufflinks that were his mother’s way of saying: “I’m terribly sorry I nearly allowed your father to destroy you, have some diamonds.”
No. He refused to think about that now. He would go to the damn event, shake hands, smile, laugh, and have fun if only because Kitty’s presence ensured it. He couldn’t wait to see her light up at the sights and sounds of a new experience.
If his father hadn’t started the charity for young mutants in need, he might have ignored the entire affair. But Storm quickly instilled a sense of responsibility in all those around her. Warren felt, though he’d been hidden from the world by a father’s fear, that he owed it to mutants around the world to be proud of himself.
Twitching wings were showcased tonight. Such a display was the condition upon which he agreed to attend the benefit. If he were going to support mutants, he’d wear his mutation out in the open for all to see. There would be no more hiding, even if it cost him everything.
That, he mused with a grin into the mirror, might have been Kitty’s influence.
Deciding he looked as ready as he would get, Warren left his room and rolled his shoulders. The miniscule break in his right wing barely ached, for which he was grateful. Logan gave him an apology in the form of a: “You doin’ ok, kid?”
For men, that said it all.
As he jogged quickly down the stairs, checking his Rolex for the time, he heard a distinctly male whistle of appreciation a beat before a camera flash blinded him.
Blinking away the spots before his eyes, Warren shook his head. Peter, Bobby, and Artie stood by the door, the latter with a camera in his hands. They clapped and whooped, so Warren stopped on the stairs, turning so they could get a full view of him. Wings and all.
“You clean up nice, War.” Bobby teased, nudging Colossus. “Looks like a rich pretty boy now, don’t he?”
“Quite,” Peter smirked, dropping Warren a friendly wink. “Should we get your coat, Mr. Worthington?”
“Buttheads,” Warren shot back with a smile, ruining any sophistication with the crass remark. “Kitty down yet?”
“Ya know,” Artie said with his arm companionably resting on Bobby’s shoulder. “For being all dressed up in that fancy suit, he doesn’t know a thing about girls.”
“So true,” Bobby replied sadly. “Come on, Angel, you know a girl likes to make an entrance.”
“Katya may play football and kick our collective back-ends at Halo, but she is still female.” Peter’s grin turned downright knowing.
Wait. What did he know? Was Warren wearing his heart on his sleeve? That couldn’t be good. He had to take a proverbial step back before he hurt his friends.
Tomorrow, he thought quickly, things would go back to normal tomorrow. He needed only to get through this night, affectionate teasing and all.
“We’ll be late,” Warren deflected, glancing at his watch. “Has the limo arrived yet?”
“Yes,” Peter answered, nodding over his shoulder to the door. “The driver is waiting outside. I thought to offer you my car, but…”
Touched and hating himself a little, Angel smiled a thank you. “Dad insists that we use a limo. He wants to be sure that once I’m there, I can’t escape.”
Peter slapped his shoulder companionably. “At least you know a girl that can walk through walls.”
“Uh. Um. Hrm.” Bobby’s dumbfounded expression mirrored Artie’s when Warren turned to look at them. “Can she in that dress?”
“Sweet Jesus,” Artie whispered reverently. “Hellllooo, Kit-Kat.”
Turning slowly, so he would not seem over eager, Warren looked to the staircase. His mind immediately blanked out, lost in folds of gold fabric and that cat-in-the-cream smile. Kitty descended with the grace of an imperial princess, her gown whispering around her legs in a quiet, seductive call.
She’d pulled her long, brown hair into an elegant twist with bangs parted to one side over her narrow forehead. The smooth column of her throat drew a line from her face to the modest neckline of her gown, as though demanding that a man stop and stare.
Earrings, which he’d never before seen her wear, dangled in shimmering gold from her lobes, matching the single bracelet on one wrist. She clutched a tiny gold purse in the opposite hand, using the other to maintain balance on the stairs.
The feminine satisfaction in her smile told Warren she’d gotten the reaction she hoped for.
“Hello, boys.” Kitty drawled playfully. “Something wrong?”
“I think the word we’re all searching for,” Artie replied breathlessly. “Is “gulp”.”
She blushed prettily, the rosy hue only accentuating the creamy color of her flesh.
“Warren?”
“You look great,” he complimented lamely. Deciding his friend deserved more, he reigned in his male appreciation. “You’re going to make every man in New York sit up and beg.”
That made the rosy flush deepen. “Thanks.”
“All right, kids,” Bobby cut in loudly, his glee almost palpable. “Artie, snap one of the happy couple.”
Kitty came to Warren’s side, entwining her fingers with his and curling into his arm familiarly before he could resist. Going with the flow, “happy couple’ ringing through his head, Warren did his best to smile as Artie snapped a photograph. The youngest of the group still looking at Kitty as though she’d morphed into something both alien and devastating.
“Perfect,” the comedian of the group continued. “Now, no drinking, no drugs, no ritual animal slaughter of any kind, and bring her back before midnight.”
“Why midnight?” Warren laughed as he ushered his date out the door.
“Cinderelly turns into a pumpkin, duh.” Bobby winked and slammed the door behind them.
“Our friends,” Kitty whispered as they moved toward the sleek black limousine. “Are totally nuts.”
“Would you want them any other way, Miss Pryde?” He asked, holding the door with one hand while the other took hers to help her inside.
Kitty beamed. “Not a chance, Mr. Worthington.”
