“Hold still. Quit squirming like that.”
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” Ali muttered.
“S’okay.”
“Man, Ororo, that jerkoff messed you up real good.” Ali chucked the swab aside as she replaced the bandage over the long wound on her face. She moved to put away the ointment and vitamin E oil until Ororo stopped her.
“Ali…I’m so sorry. Your party, and calling you in the middle of it all. I was running late. I wanted to stop and pick up an extra bottle of wine.” Ali gnawed her lip and tried to shape calm, soothing words.
She failed miserably.
“What the freakin’ hell were you THINKING, ‘Ro? WINE??? You’re out in a deserted lot in the dark, and you get mugged, no, nearly KILLED over a bottle of wine? I “ I don’t know what to say. Every time I think about it, it upsets me more.”
Ororo settled back into the couch cushions and sighed wearily. “I know I deserve that.”
“You really didn’t want to meet him, did you? The guy I wanted you to meet?”
“Al! Sheesh. That’s a little extreme! I get cold feet about a blind date-“
“Fix-up. It’s not a date if you show up at the same party,” Ali insisted. “Ororo, you know I love you to death. But please, be straight with me. Did you stall showing up here because you didn’t want to meet him?”
“No,” she replied hastily. Ali gave her a mulish look. “I mean it, Al. Can we drop it?”
“Okay. I’m getting you another compress. Don’t budge.”
“No, ma’am,” Ororo agreed, saluting her. Giblet followed close on her heels. Her cat adored Ali, who promised them both a place to crash.
Ororo was stretched out on Alison’s couch, draped in a thick wedding ring quilt and wearing borrowed fuzzy slippers. She’d had a hard night.
~0~
Tears made her eyes smart as Ali hurried into Ororo’s recovery room. Her best friend’s eyeliner was smudged and her cheeks were ruddy from the cold. She smothered her in a protective embrace, mindful of the bandage on her cheek and the ugly bruise darkening her skin. “Remy’s in the lobby,” she murmured. “I was so worried, sweetie!”
“I scared myself,” Ororo admitted in a small voice. She winced as she laid back against the meager pillow. “Ow.”
“Give me your keys…wait. Did he take them?”
“No.” She grunted as she reached for her purse, but Ali beat her grab and handed it to her. “Here.”
“I’ll take care of the car. Might as well make Remy useful.”
“Quit picking on him.”
“He’s worried sick. Expect another lecture. But he’s gonna have to stand in line.” Ali’s face softened as she took Ororo’s hand in hers. Her skin was icy; she hadn’t enough time to grab her gloves before she hastily excused herself from her own party. Her guests made quiet goodbyes as they filed out to unblock Ali’s driveway. Pieto kissed her cheek; she was too harried to enjoy it.
“Give her my regrets. And my best,” he offered smoothly. Remy grunted at her to shake a leg.
Once Ororo was signed out, Ali turned into a drill sergeant. From the moment she bundled her into the passenger sear of her little Volvo, she ran a nonstop string of errands. Ororo’s house for clothes and Giblet’s food. The pharmacy for Ororo’s Vicodin. The supermarket for an emergency supply of cookies and herbal tea.
She was still patching her up. Vicodin, Ororo decided, was goooooooooood.
Ali came back with the compress and a mug of cocoa, old-fashioned and smelling faintly like cinnamon. Ali, too, was a stickler.
“Go to work,” Ororo encouraged.
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ve got Giblet to babysit me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You don’t want to tackle that slush pile and your rejection letters.”
“Brat. You’re a sadist to me, after I take you in, then abandon me to purgatory.”
“Can’t save you from it, Al. I’m all out of miracles.”
“No, you’re not.” Ali leaned down and kissed her temple, nudging aside the compress. “Thank God you’re safe, ‘Roro.” Then a light went on in her aquamarine eyes. “Hold up.”
“What?”
“Here.” Ali crossed the room and grabbed a rolled-up paper. “Reading material.”
“I didn’t see that with the stuff you got at the store.”
“I didn’t. You were passed out til we reached your house. Your paper was on your front step.” Ororo frowned.
“Weird.”
“Why weird?”
“My carrier always leaves it in the mailbox.” Ugly prickles ran down her neck. Ali’s brow furrowed before she reminded her to call if she needed anything.” She scribbled Remy’s cell on a Post-It and stuck it on the refrigerator door. Giblet took up residence on her lap and purred like a motor.
~0~
Three days later:
“Damn it,” Logan muttered, staring at the clock. Glaring red, digital numbers flashed “2:15” at him, mocking him as he rubbed his eyes. Shit.
He bundled himself into his robe, heedless of the cold night. The floorboards of his porch creaked beneath him and bit into his bare feet. He tugged his Cuban from his pocket and lit up, snapping his pearl-handled Zippo shut.
The smoke no longer seized his chest for that single, seductive moment when he drew it into his lungs. He’d exhausted a steady supply of stogies since Carol made her announcement that she was leaving him.
I did that. I nearly ripped out that fucker’s throat. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone, dogging him into sleep. Just as intense was the memory of the woman’s face. Helpless, pleading to him. And strangely, trust. For him. It unnerved him.
He’d been too caught up to study her as much as he’d liked. Her looks intrigued him. He wondered if it was a trick of the light that her eyes were that shade of blue, or that her hair was brilliant white.
Her hand was limp and chilled when he held it, offering what comfort he could.
“I was scared,” she rasped, turning her face toward him even though the effort was painful.
“I know, darlin’, I know. Ya shouldn’t have had ta go that,” he grimaced. “I was across the street. Saw you struggle. Didn’t look good from where I sat.” He didn’t mention that he just finished buying liquor.
Tonight, Logan tripped over his empty J.D. bottles on his way outside. Housekeeping took a back seat to looking for another job, pension be damned. He needed his livelihood.
Shit, he needed something to live for at all. Anything.
“You could have been hurt,” she whispered. “I was scared for you, too.” Anguish twisted her features. His touch was gentle as he stroked her hair. He needed to soothe her; he took as much comfort from the gesture, rejoicing that she was alive.
Her hair looked as though someone spun it from moonlight. It was cool and slid through his fingers like water. “Yer all right now.” The words burned him.
He didn’t leave the scene until the paramedics took her away. Her eyes still looked worried and frightened as they stared back at him as they rolled her stretcher up the ramp.
“It’s okay,” he called out. “Yer gonna be okay, darlin’.” Her hand reached out for him briefly before she dropped it, but her face looked more serene.
The doors closed, and that was the last he saw of her.
He still tasted the mugger’s blood. And it awaked that beast. It reared its head and snarled in defiance every time he closed his eyes.
He was still hungry. The sight of the plastic-wrapped chuck steaks he reached for at the Stop n’ Shop nearly drove him into a frenzy. He could write his check for his groceries fast enough, skipping half the items on his list.
He just remembered ripping the meat from its packaging, dashing it under the sink and tearing it with his teeth. Thin, red juices leaked from his mouth; it was tepid and well marbled with fat, sliding seductively across his tongue. He threw aside disgust and revulsion as he gulped it down, sinking his fingernails and teeth into its flesh…
He sank to the floor, sated once more. He was trembling. He tossed the sloppy pink hunk of gristle and fat onto the floor and stood to dispose of the Styrofoam carton and plastic.
Then he caught sight of his face reflected in the kitchen window, thrown into stark relief by the setting sun.
Blood streaked his face, evidence of his pagan feasting and utter abandon of self-control.
He retched it all back up into the sink.
Once his kitchen was cleaned, he meandered into his living room and tsked when he noticed his housekeys still dangling in the lock. He watched Law and Order reruns until the wee hours with no luck. Sleep still escaped him, and he fixed himself a medicinal “ huge “ glass of whiskey. Followed by another. And another. He finally drifted off, but it struck him that he didn’t have so much as a buzz.
Don’t. DON’T!
How do ya like that, asshole? Don’t feel too fuckin’ good, eh? He didn’t want to let him go. Naked terror shone from the thief’s eyes. Triumph swelled in Logan’s gut. It was heady, powerful, and he wanted more.
The thief was prey.
He cried out as he woke, sitting bolt upright and shaking. His sweat slicked his body and already felt cold. The smell of whiskey leaked out of his pores, gagging him.
Now the crisp air buoyed him, making him feel cleansed and “ almost “ human.
Sensation rocked him. Something called to him, singing in his veins, so loud he couldn’t ignore it.
He stubbed out his cigar on the steps and shucked his robe. Dry leaves crunched beneath his bare soles, welcoming him into the darkness. Almost wantonly, he struggled out of his sleep shirt, flinging it onto the ground, leaving him clad only in his boxers. Being bare was heady and stimulating. The sounds and scents kissed his flesh, beckoning to him.
He strode into the thicket behind his house, nonplussed by the thick branches and indeterminate dirt path. The long strides became a jostling gallop. Then he ran. For the sheer pleasure of it, he ran. The rush of cold air scorched his throat and lungs.
Branches slapped his flesh wickedly, tempting him, feeding the needs of the beast to roam.
To hunt.
Exposed roots and thick shrubs weren’t obstacles to him. He never broke speed, racing against an invisible rival for his rights to the night. Darkness stroked him.
The waxing moon gazed down upon him like an indulgent lover.
Soon.
~0~
She was going through her closet again, taking out that long red dress. She held it up, obscuring his view of her lithe body wrapped in demure flannel pajamas. He saw her smile hesitantly at her reflection in the full-length, antique mirror before she hung it neatly from a hook on the wall.
He’d read the second page of the Arts and Entertainment section in the Chronicle. Not hers, this time. Her signing was tomorrow afternoon. He wondered if her bubbly friend would be there. She made it hard to get close to her.
Whenever she cracked her window, he caught the scent of her cocoa. Even in a messy ponytail and reading glasses, she shone like an angel.
Murderous rage clouded his vision when he first saw the bruise and the ugly red slash across her smooth cheek. He wanted to soothe it. Stroke it. Feel the puckered flesh when the scabs began to heal. It was precious. It was her only flaw. She was, truly, perfect.
That damned cat. She’d flicked her tail at him warily when he gazed inside the window that morning to deliver her paper.
She extinguished the bedroom light. She might as well have turned off the sun.
~0~
Pavement-pounding. That’s what they called it back in his day, Logan mused.
The young people called it “getting yourself out there.” Marketing yourself. Networking. Sheesh.
Fancy labels didn’t keep it from being a pain in his ass. The handle of his attaché case grew slippery within his perspiring grip.
His business clothes seemed to chafe him. His senses went into overdrive. He was aware of every follicle of hair on his body. He felt the most minute bulge and ripple of muscles working beneath his skin. He skipped his trench coat. Cold didn’t seem to bother him anymore.
He craved the night once more. Sunlight irritated him, shining down into his eyes.
He still picked out every detail around him. Everything stood out in stark relief. The pores of the clerk who sold him his morning cup of coffee. The weave of the nubby wool dress the receptionist wore in the last office he entered to speak to the recruiter. From fifteen feet away. Street signs, fifteen miles away.
The cacophony of blaring horns and traffic once again closed in on him, but he was growing accustomed to it, learning to hone in on the ones that mattered to him.
He liked heartbeats best. They soothed him.
He ducked into an indoor street mall through the parking garage ramp, needing to clear his head in the blessed shadows. He tossed his empty cup into the garbage as he emerged into the broad court strewn with colorful banners.
A blind woman’s guide dog rose to its feet as he passed, ears swiveling up and tail thumping in greeting. She gestured to it to make the animal settle down. It did, albeit reluctantly, staring after Logan with mournful eyes.
He indulged himself, peering in through the windows of Radio Shack and Sharper Image. He stopped at a men’s room to finally unknot his tie, groaning in relief. He savagely threw the torture device into his case, glad to be rid of it.
There were people milling about near the bookstore, forming what looked like a line. He made out the title “ the title “ of the books many women clutched in their hands, chattering eagerly: Only Once. He was several stores down the wide corridor and decided, what the heck. Why not?
The entire line seemed to be squirming in anticipation. All over a measly book, he marveled. He couldn’t recall off the top of his head even one title on the bestseller list that interested him enough to pick it up. Logan preferred the classics. Once in a while, he still re-read The Fisherman and the Sea or Hamlet. Carol had taken her entire bookcase full of chick lit with flowers and heaving bosoms on the covers with her, thank God. He saw more of Fabio than he wished on that damned bookcase.
He sifted through the myriad sets of heartbeats, searching for one steady rhythm to distract him from the wait. The line creeped along slowly but steadily. His feet throbbed inside his hard leather Italian shoes.
A light fragrance tickled his nose. Subtle. Fleeting. He sniffed. Sandalwood, mingled faintly with ginger and chamomile. He couldn’t trace its source. While focused himself on it, a woman behind him nudged him to close the five-foot gap between him and the customer in front of him.
He neared the large display poster clipped to an easel by the store’s windows.
Bestselling Author Ororo Munroe’s Newest Triumph, Only Once, on sale NOW!
His heart hammered in his chest. He couldn’t swallow past the excitement choking him.
Her.
He felt euphoric. He no longer felt the floor beneath his feet as he reached for one of the books on the tall stack at the end of the table. He waited for the crowd to part so he could see her.
He was getting closer to that addictive scent.
A slender brown hand reached out to take the hardcover tome and sign the inside of the jacket. He heard husky laughter. He took her limp hand in his strong grip, stroking her fingers with his thumb.
He reached her. She sat graceful and resplendent in the cranberry red, cashmere dress with long sleeves and a scooped neckline. Her white hair was a froth of waves, held back from her face with a tortoiseshell clip. She was just handing off a signed edition to the customer before him, preemptively asking “Who would you like me to make this…” Her words failed her.
Dark eyes bore into hers. Time stood still.
“Holy shit,” he rasped hoarsely.
“Oh, my God,” she agreed breathlessly.
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