Chapter Two
The Sign
Ororo looked around the empty storeroom, then down at her sleeve-covered, bruised wrists. They were tender to the touch, but she would carry on tonight as if nothing was wrong because nothing was wrong. She stepped on up the stepladder carefully, reaching for a box on one of the higher shelves. The flowing sleeves of her shirt slid away from her wrists, revealing the purplish bruises.
“Ororo, what happened to your wrists?”
Ororo cursed silently and tried to pull the sleeves back over her wrists, but it was too late. Someone had already noticed, and that someone was a person she considered close to her. She turned her head slowly to look at Jean. Jean was always too perceptive, but then again, they were friends. And if the roles were reversed, she would’ve been the one asking Jean what happened.
“I…” Ororo trailed off. She couldn’t think of a suitable lie. What do you say about two nearly identical bruises on your wrists? They looked like bracelets branded in skin. “It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? Ororo“” Jean started, her eyes darkening, and Ororo cut her off with a wave of her hand.
“Jean, it’s no big deal. Trust me.” Ororo said. She gave Jean a reassuring smile before reaching for a box on top of a shelf. She reached inside the box and pulled out two bottles. Ororo bumped Jean’s shoulder playfully with her own when she walked by her. “Don’t worry about me.”
Jean always worried about her, lately. It was futile to tell Jean not to worry because she would do it regardless. She placed the fresh bottles vodka on the shelves. The crowd was really drinking down the vodka tonight. That was her second time going into the storeroom to get more vodka. She had made everything from A-Bombs to Zipper Heads, been through more vodka than should be allowed, and the night wasn’t even halfway over. She was going to need more soon.
When she turned from the shelf, she found herself staring into a man’s chest. “Oh, hello Victor.” She said to the chest. Then, she looked up to his face. He didn’t look happy. He hardly ever looked happy. He walked around with a perpetual scowl on his face. Victor’s job basically consisted of him shaking people around like a rag doll, so whatever it was that made him scowl was taken out on some clubbers. He said it was a perk of being not only a bouncer but the head of club security.
“Hey Ororo.” He said. Victor was one of those people who seemed to need his own space, but he didn’t totally baffle her. Sometimes, they would talk. He wasn’t the most eloquent man, but he could be good company. He even had sense of crude sense of humor that made Ororo chuckle and roll her eyes at the same time.
She remembered one time a sleazy guy was bothering her, just a couple of weeks after she started working there, and Victor “shook the shit” out of him (those were his words not hers) and told the bastard if he ever came back he would “fuck start his head” (again, his words not hers). After that, a friendship”at least, she thought that’s what it was”was founded.
“How ‘bout you whip me up one of those Cointreau Tonics or one of those Cointreau Clips. I could really use one of those. Thanks, babe.” He patted her cheek as if she were actually going to make him a drink.
She grabbed a glass and filled it with Sprite, and then handed it to him. He looked at the soda, then back at her as if she had gone mad. “You’re not supposed to be drinking on the job, Vic.” Ororo chided.
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” He said. Ororo shook her head. “You could at least give me somethin’ stronger than Sprite. How ‘bout a Z Street Slammer?”
“No.”
“A Long Island Ice Tea.”
“No.”
“A wine cooler?”
“No.”
“Not even a damn wine cooler? That’s fucked up, Ororo.” He joked.
“Catch me after closing. I’ll slip you a bottle of gin. Jean won’t miss it.”
“Why don’t you go do your fuckin’ job, Creed?” Logan said, as he squeezed by them. He didn’t acknowledge her; she tried to act as if she didn’t care. Under his breath, Ororo heard him mutter, “Asshole.” She was sure that was directed at Victor. It was no secret that Logan and Victor didn’t particularly like one another. Ororo wasn’t sure why. When she started working at the club, their hatred for each other had been long established.
“You wanna say that a little louder?” Victor said, turning to follow Logan, but Ororo grabbed his arm. He turned back to her. “One of these days, I’m goin’ to slam him through a wall.”
As big as Victor was, Ororo believed that, but she thought it would take a little more than slamming Logan through a wall to keep him down. “Just don’t do it on my shift, okay?” She said.
“Unless you hang around dark alleys, you ain’t gonna see what I’m gonna do to him. I got to get back to the door, though. Don’t forget me.” Victor said.
He gave her a brotherly pat to the head and wandered off, leaving Ororo alone. Logan walked pass again, and he didn’t even look at her. She felt like grabbing his shoulders, shaking him, and screaming, “Can’t you see me?” She knew she would never do that, though. She would never work up that kind of courage. She didn’t expect declarations of love from him, but she did want to be acknowledged.
Ororo leaned against the bar, propping her elbow on the counter, resting her chin on her hand. She ignored the dull throbbing in her wrist as she watched the dancers move to the beat, gyrating their bodies against one another, working as one hedonistic multitude. She couldn’t resist tapping her foot in time to the pulsating bass and the driven rhythms. Her lips moved silently with the words of the song. She let herself slip into thought as the throbbing music continued to thump.
She’d been working at The Phoenix a little over three months. The Phoenix was Jean’s brainchild. Jean opened the club and bar with help of her husband, Scott. Scott didn’t spend much time at the club despite being the co-owner. He spent most of his time at the law firm he worked at. Ororo didn’t think he would spend much time in the club even if he wasn’t working at the firm. So, the club was Jean’s to control.
Ororo started working at the club after Jean told her that she couldn’t mope around the house forever. She’d still been reeling from her divorce. Jean said she knew Ororo didn’t need the money because she had gotten alimony and the house out of the divorce settlement, but it would give Ororo something to do. Jean was right. If her ex could move on, then why couldn’t she?
So, she started working at The Phoenix, and it was there that she met Logan. She couldn’t help casting a small glance his way. He was further down the bar serving drinks to two women. She turned away when she saw one of the women laugh loudly and put a flirtatious hand on Logan’s arm. She swallowed hard and fought the impending jealousy. Sometimes, she wished they had never gotten involved “ if involved was what you wanted to call it, but a bigger part of her didn’t regret it.
When they got involved, she had been working at the club about a month. She hadn’t really talked to him much at that point. She thought he was good looking; she would stare at him sometime when she thought he wasn’t looking. Like Victor, he seemed like the type of person who wanted his space. Unlike Victor, he did baffle her. They said a handful of words to each other. Nothing much more than your usual “hello” and “goodbye” fare. She was under the assumption that he didn’t like her very much, and she wasn’t really sure why.
Then, they had to open the club together because Jean was out of town. It was before Victor or Mort or anyone else had shown up. They argued over something silly. She believed it had something to do with a bottle of Bacardi Limón and the recipe for a Limón Cosmo. She just remembered being really angry at him, so she went to the storeroom and sat on a crate just to get away from him and compose herself. She was there a couple of minutes before he entered, and she gave him the best glare she could muster.
She stood up slowly, her arms already crossed, ready to give him a piece of her mind. She didn’t remember saying anything as he walked toward her purposely. She opened her mouth to say something, but her words caught in her throat when kissed her unexpectedly. She pushed him away from her, looking into his eyes with question. She didn’t find any answers in them. Instead, a burning lust emanating from them assaulted her.
She shook her head, backing away from him, nearly tripping over a box. He moved with her, and she felt her back pressing against the cool wall. He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders effectively pinning her to the wall. “What are you doing, Logan?” She asked as his mouth explored the soft flesh of her throat. Her body betrayed her, arching toward him, asking for more.
“I’m only doin’ what we both want,” he said into her neck, and she shivered in response. She hadn’t asked for that. She didn’t want that. At least, she didn’t think she wanted it. It was hard to think with his hands under her shirt massaging her breasts and his lips on her collarbone.
He lifted his head and their lips met in a searing kiss as he pulled her closer, as if willing their bodies to merge, her tongue boldly exploring his mouth. Their tongues battled it out, but she eventually won, running playful circles around his tongue. There was nothing chaste about that kiss; it was full of raw sexuality. She nibbled on his bottom lip lightly, eliciting a groan from him. She was dimly aware of her shirt being ripped away from her body. It didn’t matter as long as he kept touching her. Damn emotions were clouding her mind, making it hard to act rational.
No words were spoken as he his hands run up her leg, pushing the skirt up. She felt him tug at her underwear, and they gave way with a harsh tug. She tried to focus, but all she could think about was the delicious feel of hot hands on her thighs, an erotic catalyst. She couldn’t think; things were moving too fast. She couldn’t protest… couldn’t do anything, but lose control.
She helped him pull his shirt over his hand. She kissed his chest, running her hands across clenched abs, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. They dropped to the ground. Intuitively, her legs wrapped around his waist. He entered her with one solid motion, and she bucked against him. His lips covered her own, again. His kisses devouring the moans that threatened to escape. His strokes were long and steady in spite of her constant rearing. The only sounds filling the storeroom were her muffled cries, his quick breathing, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Ororo gripped Logan’s shoulders tightly, her nails sinking into the soft flesh. He pounded into her harder, harder, and harder still. She buried her face in his neck feeling the reckless abandon. Her legs tightened around his waist when her orgasm hit her. She cried out as she rode it out. He came after her, slamming an open palm against the wall. He lowered her to the floor. Her knees trembled, and she feared they would give under her.
She didn’t even know what to say after that, so she didn’t say anything. She collected herself, left the storeroom, and made a beeline for the restrooms. She made a promise to herself that that would never happen again. Too bad she wasn’t good at keeping promises to herself.
She heard someone clear their throat and she snapped out of her thoughts. “Sorry about that. What can I get you?” She mumbled, standing up straight and looking at the man.
“A bottled water, please.” His words lilted and rolled over his words with a prominent accent. The hopeful side wanted to say it was Spanish; the realist in her told her she was being starry-eyed. She nodded her head and gave him a bottled water. She took his money, counted out the appropriate change, and resumed her earlier position of leaning on the bar.
She was aware of the man watching her because she was watching him, discreetly, from the corner of her eye. The first word that came to mind about him was pretty in a sort of androgynous way.
He was tall, rather waif-like. Black hair fell in silken waves to his shoulders. It glowed around his face like a dark halo. It was the kind of hair that screamed to be touched, the kind of hair that would feel like satin beneath the fingers. Long lashes fanned over green eyes so clear you’d swear you were looking at the ocean surrounding an exotic island. He seemed very innocent in manner, angelic even, but something in his manner gave away a hint of devilment.
“You seem a little sad,” the man said, and Ororo turned to face him, unhurriedly, as if seeing him for the first time. He didn’t know how sad she was. She tried to brighten a bit. If he”a complete stranger”noticed that she was sad, did that mean everyone noticed? She hoped not. She liked to pretend that she was doing a good job of holding everything in.
“I just have some things on my mind.” She said. That was the truth. Her mind was a million different places at that moment, and all those thoughts centered on one person.
“Beautiful women should not have to worry about anything.” He answered, taking a sip of his water. He was looking her too intently. It was like he was trying to figure her out.
“What do you think of the club?” Ororo asked, trying to move the conversation away from her.
“This is a nice club. One of the best I’ve visited in this city, but of course, the clubs here are nothing like the ones at home. Then again, there’s no place like home, no?” He said.
“And where is home?”
“España,” he laughed and made extravagant motions with his hands. Ororo held back a gasp. Was this her sign she had begged for the night before? “I mean Spain. Sorry, I tend to slip into my native tongue.”
“No, no, don’t be sorry. I knew what you meant. What part of Spain are you from?” She asked. She tried to pretend that she was only vaguely interested, but her heart was thumping wildly in anticipation of his answer.
“Barcelona.” He said, casually.
Her heart seemed to do a back flip. This, he, was her sign. She knew it. “Is it beautiful?” She asked a little more abruptly than she intended, her voice nearly a whisper.
He leaned close to her, his lips virtually touching her ear, and said, “It is the most beautiful place in the world.” He pulled away from her and gave her a wink.
“So, you’re visiting?” She realized that she sounded a little nosy, and maybe, she was being just a little nosy.
“I’m living here temporarily. I’m a painter, and I dabble a little in photography. You should come by my studio sometime. I could immortalize your beauty in a photograph or better yet a painting.”
Her face warmed. “You’re just being nice.”
“No, you truly are beautiful. I can already imagine the setup in my mind. You looked rather sad earlier, almost as if you were pining for a lost lover. You could be wrapped demurely, yet provocatively, in a white sheet, looking out the window with that same pained look. What do you think?”
He seemed so excited about the idea that she found herself overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know you. I’m not saying I don’t trust you or anything, but better safe than sorry.” She was afraid that might sound offensive.
He only laughed in that careless way he had about him. Obviously, he wasn’t offended, and if he was, he was good as masking it. “How would you like to stop by one of my classes? I teach life drawing at night at a local college.” He rattled off an address and a time, and she committed it to memory.
“I don’t know…”
“It’ll be fun. Wear something old,” he said. “We’re working with charcoal.” Before she could answer, he stood quickly and walked away from the bar. He turned briefly to wave at her and disappeared into the crowd. She didn’t even know his name.
“Looks like you have an admirer.” She heard Jean say behind her.
Ororo turned to face Jean who was trying to hide an amused smile. “Some admirer. He didn’t even leave a name,” she shot back.
“His name is Joaquín Allende.” Jean said with a shrug.
“How do you know that?” Ororo said, suspiciously. She hoped he wasn’t some guy that Jean was trying to set her up with. Jean had tried, unsuccessfully, to set her up with men in the past.
“Remember that gallery showing I went to with Scott a couple of weeks back?” Jean asked. Ororo nodded; she remembered. Jean had said something about Scott being invited by one of his bigwig friends to attend a prestigious gallery showing. Jean called Ororo that same night and told her how boring most of the night was. “He was one of the artists at the showing.”
“Oh yeah?” Ororo tried to feign disinterest.
“Yeah, he was one of the more colorful personalities there. Those other artists were all stuffy and bigheaded, talking about all the money they made and why their art was so meaningful.” Jean was mimicking an aristocratic accent. “But Joaquín was really nice. He didn’t talk about how great his work is. He talked about how he volunteered at the college at night. How he enjoyed working with children. That sort of stuff. And his stuff is really good. Are you going to let him photograph you, paint your picture, whatever it is he wants to do?” Jean asked.
Jean must have been standing behind her an awful long time to hear all that. “Jean, how long had you been eavesdropping?” Ororo asked, narrowing her eyes a little.
“Long enough. So, are you?” Jean smirked.
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.” Ororo answered.
“I think you should.” Jean said.
Mortimer ambled up to the bar. “Hey boss. There’s some guy outside. Says he’s with the some safety something or other. He said something about the club being filled to capacity and being a fire hazard. I don’t know. The bloody bastard was just rambling at me.”
Jean’s faced pale. “Excuse me, Ororo. I have to go handle this.” She followed Mortimer to the entrance of the club.
Ororo debated to herself whether she should go to Joaquín’s class. He probably was only being nice, and she would feel foolish if she went and he didn’t even remember her. She looked out toward the dance floor. She actually spotted Joaquín dancing in the thick of the crowd. He was dancing with an attractive blonde, but yet he still looked so detached from the crowd. As if he could feel her eyes, he looked her way. Ororo looked away quickly and over to Logan’s side of the bar. He was looking at her. She couldn’t really read his expression. She didn’t care to. It was the first time that night he’d caught her eye.
She broke the gaze first. She’d broken it because he made her beg. The embarrassment of remembering that he demand that she beg for him to make love to her”no, to fuck her”the night before made her break eye contact. She had been restrained, unable to fight his probing hands, unable to shield herself from him, and he enjoyed every minute of it. And when he had teased her until she was lost in a sea of lust, he made her beg for it. How she hated him at that moment, but she begged.
When she was finally sedated, she wanted to stop breathing. He didn’t take the handcuffs off immediately, and she wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything. She looked at that small slice or moonlight that slipped through the curtains, and she cried softly. Eventually, she fell asleep in that awkward position, her face still wet with tears. When she woke to sound of her alarm, she was alone, and she was no longer chained to her bed. Now, she couldn’t even hold his gaze. She’d been waiting for that moment all night, and she couldn’t even hold his damn gaze.
Something wasn’t right about the whole sordid affair. It was sick and sadistic. It made her hate herself, yet somewhere deep inside she wanted it. He humiliated her, made her feel less than a woman at times, and she still wanted it. Something had to change. She looked over at him again for good measure, and she didn’t like what she thought she saw flicker in his eyes.
