“You write.” His voice sounded dumbstruck to his own ears.
“You’re here,” she pointed out, equally shocked. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Logan felt impatient eyes boring into the back of his head as the crowd shifted, waiting their turn for a signature.
“So…who would you like this made out to, er…”
“Logan.”
“Logan.” Her smile started slowly but unfolded gracefully, blossoming until it lit her whole face.
Calling her beautiful was like calling the Taj Mahal a house.
“Uh. That’s it. Make it out ta me. I’m, uh, buyin’ a copy.”
“Okay.” She reluctantly tore her gaze from his face “ rugged, earnest, and thoroughly appealing “ and bowed to the book he handed her, Sharpie fine point in hand. Her signature was small and angular except for the broad curve of the ‘O’ in her first name. From upside down, it was difficult to make out the words as he loomed over her. That surprised him, considering his vision of late. Striking, articulate, and the proud owner of sloppy penmanship. Who knew?
“Here.” She clapped the book shut and handed it to him, holding it a moment too long.
She itched to touch him. He held the hardcover close to himself, absently stroking the glossy jacket with his thumb as he continued to drink his fill of her. Those eyes. Lips. Those soft, luscious curves wrapped lovingly in red cashmere.
That scent. That heartbeat. It was her.
And that rhythm, so steady moments before, quickened. Her scent was tinged with something warm and captivating. Pheromones.
“I’ll, uh, let ya go. Ororo.” He got it right this time. The poster and book cover helped. He’d never forget that face, name be damned.
“Right. Okay. I’ll see…I mean, goodbye, Logan. Good seeing you. And…thank you.” She swallowed roughly. “Thank you so much, Logan.” Her mouth went dry as she indulged in one last, long look. Don’t go. Please. The line behind him wasn’t getting any shorter.
“Yer welcome.” He felt as though he were slogging through half-dried cement as he dragged himself to the cash register set up outside the store. The book was tucked neatly into a green plastic bag; he merely grumbled “Sure” when they asked if he wanted the receipt in it.
Between signatures, she followed his smooth, rolling gait down the corridor.
He was dressed all wrong. The suit was well-cut and fit him like a glove, but it was at odds with the man wearing it. In her mind’s eye, she pictured him in his rough coat and soft flannel shirt. Or perhaps, she reasoned, wearing even less than that.
He’d been striking in the dark. The masculine angles and hollows of his face looming over her in the darkened lot were framed by thick, disheveled waves of hair. His eyes were dark; the light was all wrong to see what color they were before.
They looked like Coke in a glass. Intelligence and warmth shone in their depths, graced with fine laugh lines and bold, thick brows. His lips were wide, and the lower one was slightly fuller, giving him a sensual look. The top one was sharply notched, inviting “ begging “ to be nibbled.
They were darker that night. Something was on his face, staining his mouth; she could have sworn it.
She continued the signing in a daze until the store manager informed her it was time to close down the display.
~0~
Logan drove home in a daze. He fought the urge to stare at the bag laying on his passenger seat the whole way.
His strides were long and impatient as he jogged up the front steps and jammed the key into the lock. He juggled the bag in his hands as he wriggled out of his blazer and flicked on the light to his kitchen.
His stomach growled; he bypassed the stool by his butcher block table in favor of the refrigerator door, finding some leftover spaghetti on the top shelf. He chucked it impatiently into the microwave before he finally relaxed.
Now. The book.
He scanned the cover again. Nothing remarkable. Looked like a crime drama/romance novel at first glance, one of a series, and a successful one, judging by the line winding around the corner.
The pages smelled like fresh wood pulp, that gluey “new book” smell.
To Logan. My shining knight.
I don’t know what I would have done. Thank you. Thank you, always.
Ororo M.
Scribbled almost illegibly was a phone number. Euphoria washed over him just as the microwave beeped at him to take out his food.
“Shit!” His grin nearly cracked his face.
He skimmed it one-handed as he ate, twirling his pasta around an enamel-handled fork. He made a note to himself to get more of them. He couldn’t explain why the silver ones, Carol’s Noritake that she’d left behind, seemed to irritate him. He’d never had an allergy in his life. Stainless steel for him, then.
The book fell open to the back cover when he reached for a napkin. The flap of the book jacket had a black and white cameo of her face. Her eyes seemed to stroke him.
~0~
“You’re never gonna believe this, Al.”
“Lay it on me.” Alison’s words were garbled around a mouthful of chicken. Ororo heard her television lowering in volume when she answered her phone. Ali always seemed to like things loud.
“I saw him.”
“Who?”
“HIM, Al! The guy who chased off the asshole who mugged me!” Ali sputtered; Ororo prayed she hadn’t just made her agent and best friend choke.
“Shit! HIM! Well, why didn’t you say it was HIM??”
“You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. He showed up at my book signing.”
“Weird. Did he know who you were?”
“He remembered my name.”
“No. I mean, did he know you were a writer?”
“I guess not. That was kinda the first thing he said. ‘You write?’ It was actually cute.” Ororo’s expression was dreamy as she stirred her tea.
“You never know. He probably knew. It’s too much of a coincidence that he showed up when and where he did.”
“Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence,” she retorted, sudden irritation creeping into her voice.
“So what did you say to him?”
“Shit…something lame. It was just…I couldn’t make my mouth work. I was just stunned. And there were so many people, Ali! I wish I had the chance to talk to him without such a big crowd around me.”
“It’s probably fine that you were around a lot of people, ‘Ro. Keep up that habit. I worry about you.”
“Al…” Ororo heard the worry in Ali’s voice.
“You might not have made it back home, Ororo. You were all alone out there!” Ororo heard her sniffle and felt pangs of guilt. “I’m sorry. I know I’m going overboard, but still…just be careful. Humor me. Big crowds can be a good thing.”
“Not tonight. I’m putting my feet up.” Giblet purred from her lap, batting at her newspaper before she folded it aside.
“Enjoy it for now. I need you. Expect to be put to work next Thursday.”
“Why?”
“Thanksgiving, goofball! Don’t tell me you forgot?”
“Geez. Right, right…what am I bringing again?”
“Yourself. I just want you to help me set the table and arrange the flowers while I cook.”
“I could bring wine?”
“The hell you could.”
“Oh. Oops…right. Scratch the wine. What time do you want me to bring my butt over there?”
“Three. The turkey will almost be done by then and I can work on all the sides. I’m doing the pies the night before.”
“You’re organized. I’m jealous.”
“For someone who doesn’t like to cook, you still set a prettier table than I do.” Ali discovered this the Christmas before when Ororo came over to decorate the tree and garnished the table with festive mats, centerpieces, and napkins folded to resemble cranes.
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Do me one better. Wear that gorgeous black number.”
“I was saving it for New Year’s.”
“Dust it off for next week. You’ll knock everyone’s eyes out. One guy’s in particular.” Ororo felt her stomach knot, tingles running up her back.
“Aliiiiiiii…” she warned ominously.
“We left unfinished business that night. You never got to meet him. This is as good a time as any.”
“You’re killing me.”
“You love me anyway.” She heard Ali take another slurpy bite of dinner. “Still better than you killing me. It’ll be worth it. He’s the whole package.”
“All that and a bag of chips, huh?”
“A really, really big bag. Trust me.” Ororo sighed, then smiled.
“Fine. But this time, YOU bring the wine. Lots of it.”
“He’s good-looking. Funny, too. You’ll like him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Athletic. Tall like you. Youngish; about our age. And you’ll get a kick out of his hair!”
“Why?” Ororo wasn’t convinced, but she was intrigued.
“I ain’t tellin’. Thursday. Black dress. Don’t bring anything,” Ali warned.
“Aye, aye,” Ororo muttered before she hung up.
She didn’t tell her that she slipped Logan her phone number. She knew she’d catch hell from Ali if she did…
Thursday, Thanksgiving night:
“Al, you’ve outdone yourself. Really. Like, overdone it, if you want me to be honest. This looks spectacular,” Ororo marveled as she took the three bouquets of flowers and carried them to the first of two tables in Ali’s formal dining room. Behind her, Ali was dutifully whipping evaporated milk into a saucepan of sweet potatoes. She wore an apron over her dress for the evening, an old-fashioned June Cleaver number in ruffled calico, printed with red and green apples. It was at odds with her spiky haircut and smoky eye makeup, but she still looked beautiful.
“We’ll have a full house tonight, kiddo. Grab me the wine glasses from that cupboard, will you?” Ororo began handing down the gold-rimmed flutes one at a time.
“Sure isn’t like the Halloween shindig,” Ororo chuckled.
“Thank God,” Ali mused. “Otherwise we’d all be drinking out of paper cups.
The memory warmed her. They’d gotten absotively, posilutely hammered.
Ali’s patented punch, served in a huge bowl shaped like a witch’s cauldron, had been the main culprit, along with tray after tray of Jell-O shots from bat-shaped molds.
Several games of dirty Jenga, Twister, and musical chairs later found everyone too bleary to move. Ororo corrected herself: Adult musical chairs. Remy took the first turn at being the deejay in favor of watching Al make a fool of herself. In typical fashion, everyone lingered as long in front of the chairs as possible, occasionally dragging their hands across each one, bumping into each other, elbowing and tickling each other to keep the impromptu conga line moving.
Then all heck broke loose. The rules are, Ali reminded them, that there ARE no rules. Pandemonium ensued.
People fell on the floor. People ended up on each other’s laps. Butts were inadvertently groped. Body checks. Sputtering laughter. Red faces. Blatant cheating and drunken arguments over whose butt hit wood first.
It was fabulous. Ororo lost to Ali’s male secretary, Guido, who was huge. And fast. Darn it…
Ali was just drawing the pumpkin pie out of the oven to place next to two pecan ones on the sideboard when her doorbell rang.
“It’s go time,” she muttered to Ororo. “Get that, would you? My hands are full.” Mischief danced in her eyes.
“Hah! Likely story,” she replied, but she sailed over to the front door, her heels clicking against the polished floors. She reflexively smoothed her skirt before opening it.
“Hi. You must be Ororo. Ali’s told me so much about you. I’m Pietro. Pietro Maximoff.”
“Whoa…I mean, hi.” The hand that reached out to shake hers was long and slender and full of wiry strength. It was attached to a leanly muscled arm clad in an expensive wool peacoat. The owner’s face was smiling contemplatively at her with perfect teeth. “Uh…come in. Come on in, out of the cold,” she offered, chastising herself as she stepped aside to let him in. He stepped up over the threshold, revealing that he was actually taller than she was by about two inches.
That was a plus.
It occurred to her what Ali said before about his hair. It was a startling white, almost the same color as hers. He shucked his coat smoothly, smiling at her and inquiring “Where would you like me to put this?”
“Huh?”
“My coat?”
Anywhere you want. As long as it’s off. “Huh?” She didn’t know why he looked so amused. He brought a hint of the outdoors inside with him; his hair and skin smelled like fresh air and whatever cologne he had on. Then she peered down and looked at his folded coat. “Good grief. Here I am, just standing here like…never mind. Here, I’ll take that. Make yourself at home, please!” She rushed off to Ali’s den in a rush of black lace and silk. She felt his eyes following her.
“Is Ororo giving you a hard time, ‘Tro?” Ali jibed from the kitchen.
“Not at all,” he assured her, clasping her hands as she leaned up to air-kiss his cheek. “She told me to make myself at home.”
“What’re you waiting for? Siddown!” She bustled back to the kitchen and retrieved a flute. “Wine?”
“Definitely. Something smells fantastic.” He perused the elegantly dressed tables, making a sound of approval. “I love what you did with the table.”
“Ororo did it,” she announced proudly, pressing the wine into his hand. Ororo just rounded the corner and appeared in the dining room as she said it. Pietro smiled at her again. She blushed hotly to the roots of her hair.
“Famous, talented, and stunning,” he marveled, holding her eyes from over the rim of his glass. She cleared her throat.
She had dressed carefully, taking Ali’s advice. Her black dress was softly gathered and reached just below her knees, made from layers of silk chiffon. The halter neckline plunged, leaving her shoulders bare to show the delicate black lace shrug to its best effect. Her sleek chignon revealed a slender neck and emphasized sapphire blue eyes. Sheer, iridescent black stockings caressed shapely legs.
The way he stared at her made her feel naked. It was exciting, yet…unnerving.
“Let me bring the rest of the stuff out, Ali.”
“Sit,” Ali barked.
Ororo sat.
Ali spent the next half hour answering the doorbell and administering more air kisses.
“What do you do?” she finally asked, trying not to stare too long and hard at Pietro.
“Securities. More or less.”
“Are you KIDDING?” Ali shrieked, swooping down on them when she overheard their talk. “He just started at AlphLight. He’s the director of his division. It takes most people years to move up that high! ‘Tro here’s a prodigy,” she gushed. He had the grace to look bashful.
“So what do you do, Ororo? Besides write?”
“Write. More or less,” she quipped. He grinned. She smiled back, trying to muster more small talk.
It was going to be a long night.
Ali wasn’t finished maneuvering. Couples arranged themselves around the table in neat pairs, leaving the two chairs beside Ali empty.
Pietro pulled her chair out for her before she could even blink.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She felt his breath steaming her nape, stirring the tendrils slipping loose from her bun.
“You’re welcome.” His fingers brushed her shoulder before he took his seat. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn that smugness lingered in those slate grey eyes.
It was heady, yet awkward, when she held his hand and her neighbor’s as Ali said grace.
~0~
Thanksgiving had never been his favorite holiday anyway, Logan reasoned. It didn’t lose any of its appeal just because he was alone.
He declined an offer from Mac to have dinner at his place, even though his wife Heather was a decent cook. Mac’s house was boisterous at best; their daughter Sarah was a stinker, inclined to tearing through the house with their two dogs and peppering him with knock-knock jokes before he could even remove his coat.
He didn’t begrudge Mac his family life. He really had no problem with it.
He just craved his own company and his own thoughts.
He’d spent his week jobhunting and meeting with a career counselor. The rest of the time was a blur.
Half the time he couldn’t remember his dreams, falling asleep or why he often felt exhausted as soon as the sun came up. He contemplated it over another chapter of the hardcover book that was slowly showing a hint of wear around the spine. He couldn’t put it down.
You could have said you were coming,” Mick pointed out.
“More convincing, isn’t it, with me standing here,” she replied unapologetically. “Gonna let me in?” She was already closing the gap between them before he realized she meant to come inside. He backed away and stepped aside, but she still brushed against him as though he hadn’t left her enough room.
“What do you want, Zoe?” Her smile was lazy, seeming to stroke him.
“You, Mick.”
He could feel her essence in the prose, in the dialogue. Logan felt foolish at the thought. He’d just met her, fer cryin’ out loud.
He rose and stretched, cracking his back as he went to the kitchen. A meager pile of dirty dishes waited for him in the sink. He tossed the remains of a baked chicken from the supermarket deli into the trash; he’d made due with boxed potatoes and bagged salad and scarfed down half of a Mrs. Smith’s pie. It was good enough. He was alone.
He felt fidgety. Restless. Before he even knew what he was doing, he chucked the sponge into the sink and reached for his coat.
He was behind the wheel of his car, driving with the window open and enjoying the breeze ruffling his hair. The sky was a smoky indigo from the clouds rolling overhead, occasionally clearing just enough for him to see the stars. The wind whipping against his face reminded him of something. Running. Cool night air. Trees…
He shook it off, turning onto the gravel road leading toward his favorite beach.
~0~
“Sure you don’t want to stay overnight?” Ali whispered to her as Ororo bundled herself into her coat. She was bushed. The leftovers were packed in Tupperware, the last of the dishes were done, and Ali was stockingfoot, claiming she was sick of her evening shoes. Ororo’s own feet were throbbing.
Pietro had already gone; she eschewed his offer to walk her to her car, begging off to help Ali. Ali rolled her eyes behind his back but said nothing.
“I’m beat. I need to sleep in my own bed. For the next three days.” She hugged her fiercely. “Everything was perfect, Al.”
“Even Pietro?” she prodded.
“Maybe.”
“Ro!”
“Al,” she carped back. “It’s just too soon. I just don’t know.”
“He said to give this to you.” She handed her a business card on beige stock.
“Fair enough. Just don’t give him my number til I make up my mind.”
“Wimp.”
“Nag.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too. G’night.”
~0~
The rolling tides lured him like a beacon. He watched the foam ease back from the sand as the tide swept back out, leaving a field of glitter in its wake.
The Colonial-style house overlooking the shore was quiet; its occupant had left the porch light on, but it was far enough away that he could still see easily in the dark, illuminated only by the stars.
And the moon…it winked in and out at him from the clouds. Anticipation welled in his gut.
He felt his face tingle, his last coherent thought leaving him as fire shot through his veins.
Pain. It rocked him, making him taste metal, mingled with his own blood as he bit the inside of his cheek.
Excruciating.
Ragged cries were torn from his lips. He felt pressure, stabbing him as his gums erupted and throbbed, releasing rapier-sharp fangs. His skin continued to tingle and buzz, feeling as though ants crawled over and beneath his skin.
The fine hairs on his arms stood on end, then multiplied and spread, weaving themselves into a stiff, thick coat. A strange palsy seized his joints. He doubled over, trying to master guttural sobs to no avail; his muscles knotted and bulged out from his back, swelling and inflamed. Dimly he heard the faint rips of his clothing, unable to tolerate the constrictive fabric anymore and thankful, strangely, to be rid of it.
His hands shook. He grasped his temples, pressing against them to drive away the pain, somehow, to fight against the crippling sensations smothering him and swallowing him up. Nausea gripped him. He felt feverish despite the cold. His hair felt different, even as he fought against tearing it out by the handfuls. Shaggy. A tangled mass of coarse ripples, even though he’d had a haircut within the past two weeks.
“What…the fuck!” he hissed, not recognizing his voice. His vocal cords warped and constricted. His palate felt rigid and thick along the roof of his mouth, growing to accommodate his teeth. He pricked the tip of his tongue against their myriad sharp points.
He prayed for it to be over. A voice inside him growled back, It’s only beginning.
~0~
Ororo pulled into her driveway, silently wondering who’d parked their car roughly a meter from her house. For a moment, it looked familiar, but she couldn’t fathom where or when she’d seen it before.
She trotted up her front walk, dying to get out of her shoes and finery. Once inside, she beckoned, “Giblet! I’ve got goodies! Here, kittykittykitty!” She rattled the plastic bag for good measure, and she heard tiny feet come running. “Hi baby, Mommy’s home.” She pawed her legs until Ororo chided her “No, get down!” to ensure the safety of her skirt from Giblet’s claws.
She dropped her coat and purse on the kitchen table and kicked off her shoes. “Damn it, that feels good,” she moaned.
She paused in the act of collecting her coffee mug when she heard odd noises coming from the shore.
It sounded like someone was hurt. A male voice. He seemed to be…crying?
She peered at her clock. Midnight. She didn’t realize how long she’d been at Ali’s, between dinner, the obligatory party games, and the usual lingering chatter before people finally made insincere regrets and left.
It was dark. It was late. A shiver ran down her back. She should stay put…
The voice became more anguished, tearing at her. A wave of compassion sent her rummaging for her lantern and digging out her cell phone. Her nearest neighbors were about a mile away.
Logan had played the Good Samaritan for her without question. Some part of her nagged that she couldn’t turn a deaf ear, either. She heard Ali’s voice in her head screaming at her to stay put.
“Go into the room, Giblet,” she murmured as she swept outside, leaving the door unlocked.
The sand felt cool and slithered over her stockingfeet; she couldn’t be bothered to find her slippers.
The cries began again. True suffering carried to her ears with those sounds, chilling her. Whoever it was sounded hurt; she fished her cell out of her coat pocket and unfolded it, preparing to dial 911.
She descended the dunes, feeling the beach grass tickling her knees.
The full moon shone down on the water, streaking the waves with fleeting ripples of light.
She could just make out the form of a man kneeling in the sand. He was clutching at the sand, head bowed and still crying…howling? Unease settled over her, making her heart pound and a rapid pulse beat in her temples. She grew slightly dizzy and stopped, roughly a quarter of a mile away.
She mustered her courage and called out, “Are you all right? Sir? Did anything happen to you?” His cries stopped, settling to harsh breathing, like he was fighting for air. His clothing, from where she was standing, appeared tattered. Was he homeless? She lived so far out among the shore and cliffs. She’d never seen transients in her neck of the woods.
She ventured forward a few more steps, holding up her lantern. “Do you need me to call for help? Were you attacked?” Her voice was full of uncertainty.
“Please,” he huffed. His voice rumbled into the darkness. “Please…go. Go.”
“Sir, let me call for help; you’re in pain, I don’t want…oh, my God!” She choked back a wave of terror. Her eyes grew wide as she dropped the lantern from nerveless fingers. “Oh, GOD!” She covered her mouth with her hands and bit back a scream.
He couldn’t be a man.
Almost canine teeth gleamed from his mouth, streaked with blood. Amber eyes, an animal’s eyes, glowed in the darkness, studying her. Sizing her up.
Hungry. They were hungry.
He emitted sounds that she couldn’t describe, but they reminded her of the throaty hnk-hnk noise a lion made after it drove off invaders from its pride.
He snarled at her, rooting her to the spot. She yelped and closed her eyes, backing away. Please, God. Oh, please. She heard him move, shifting the sand beneath him. He advanced one step at a time.
If she ran, he would come after her.
Her scent. The metallic smell of fear tinged it, pricking him. She shivered and edged back from him. He felt waves of self-loathing and disgust, mingled with helplessness.
The waves roared and crashed against the beach. He heard her prayers over the din.
“PleasepleasepleasepleaseohGodpleasedon’thurtme.” Silver tears raced down her cheeks.
His lips peeled back from his teeth. “Roro…” he growled.
That opened her eyes, dilating her pupils. He saw the flare of her nostrils and felt her heart beat faster than it had before.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, edging back further. His fur bristled as he advanced, still looking poised to spring on her.
He made up her mind for her, tipping his head back and emitting a long, throaty howl that rattled through her bones and nearly made her heart stop. Her answering scream was tore loud and shrill from her throat as she darted through the sand. Her lungs and muscles were burning as she scrambled up the dunes. His howl followed her; she couldn’t tell if it was any closer.
“Pleasedon’thurtmepleasedon’thurtme…” She chanted it as she stumbled to her front door, only daring to look behind her as she banged it open with her shoulder.
He, or it, hadn’t followed her. She forced the door shut with a bang and secured the lock with shaking hands. Blood roared in her ears, and she thought she’d throw up everything she’s eaten over the past few hours.
She turned off all the lights and fled to her room, locking it behind her and securing the windows. Once the shades were drawn, she hurled herself into the closet, yanking it shut.
“Meowr.”
“Shhhh!” Her grip on the cat was stifling. “Shhhh! Hush, baby!”
The cat obeyed, hunching its shoulders as if to flee when she inadvertently squeezed her tighter. Her heart refused to slow down, vibrating within her ribcage. Cold sweat broke out over her skin. Even if the creature didn’t kill her, she’d die of a cardiac arrest.
An hour later, patrol cars’ beacons flickered across the sand, illuminating the face of her house as she spoke to the officers inside.
They never found the man on the beach. With the exception of tire tracks in the gravel, they found nothing at all.
~0~
They nearly found me. I only wanted to watch. She’s the only thing in my life that brings me any joy, any hope. She was meant for me.
She’s waiting for me. I can feel it. But I don’t know why she ran.
She looked so beautiful, with her hair blowing in the wind like that. I want to plow my fingers through it.
I want to hear her scream.
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