“What are you doing here?” Ororo’s head jerked around sharply at the sound of the familiar, girlish voice, and Kitty Pryde grinned down at her like the Cheshire cat.
“Hi. Janet picked me to wear a few of her outfits for this spread.”
“Lucky.” Kitty made a sour face and rolled her eyes, but then she directed the conversation to herself without missing a beat. “Omigod. I got to work with Piotr yesterday!”
“Where?”
“Turn this way, please.” Ororo’s makeup artist, Greer, looked impatient as she brandished her small blush brush. Ororo dutifully leaned closer to allow her to blend the powdered foundation over her skin.
“I’m redoing my head shots.”
“I didn’t know he did head shots.”
“He didn’t shoot them,” Kitty clarified, her tone mocking. “Piotr dressed me.”
More like you coerced him. Ororo knew Piotr wasn’t particularly fond of Kitty, claiming that she was spoiled, moody, and difficult to work with even on the best of days. Or, to quote him, “I’d rather work with a pack of untrained Chihuahuas.”
“Piotr’s a genius. Bet you looked great.”
“Pfft. Are you kidding? Look at these.” Kitty reached into her enormous Coach hobo bag and extracted a manila envelope. She thrust it into Ororo’s lap, and she obliged her by opening it and examining the stack of photos. “I did a few full-length ones, too. The gown makes me look taller, right?”
“Sure.” Ororo wanted to credit the ridiculously high heels for doing that, but she didn’t want to crush her spirit. Sure enough, though, she could see Piotr’s hand in the outfits she wore, and Ali’s in her careful hairstyling. Her curly hair had been flat-ironed and hung softly in layers around her face. Once again, her makeup made her seem older to Ororo’s jaundiced eye, but she figured it was a necessary evil.
“Ooh. I’ve gotta jet. I’m almost late. Here, give me those back, just put them back in.” Ororo shuffled the photos back into the envelope quickly. “Looks like my shoot’s after yours.”
“Really?” Ororo’s white brows rose in interest. “Janet doesn’t have a junior’s line of clothes, does she?”
“No. Sportswear. Especially her dance gear. She gives me freebies. I dance, too. I didn’t tell you that?” she asked smugly.
“No. Just now.”
“I’m good. You should come see me.”
“If I get around to it.”
“Kitty,” a voice called from the doorway, and Kitty closed her mouth before she could fill Ororo’s ear any further.
“Right. Later!”
“Bye.” Ororo waved and smiled weakly, then sighed heavily as she disappeared through the doorway.
“Brat,” Greer muttered.
“Sheesh…”
“Kid’s homeschooled,” Greer shared. “The kids were bullying her at her old high school. Thought she was hot shit, and the other kids thought she was full of herself. She got into a lot of fights. Her mom just went through an ugly divorce, and Kitty’s her only child. Might be why she’s so spoiled.”
“I was an only child. I wasn’t that spoiled,” Ororo argued. She didn’t add that she was also an orphan and a foster child. She still felt that her mother raised her right.
“Her mother’s a classic stage mom. She has the kid enrolled in everything. Gymnastics. Tae kwon do. Dancing. Computer classes at the community college. Piano. You name it. To her credit, the kid’s precocious. She’s traveled everywhere just from shoots she’s been on, and her father takes her to Japan every summer.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a hard knock life.”
“And she’s how old?”
“Just had her fifteenth birthday. She’s been in the business since she was in diapers.”
“I know.” Ororo remembered her backstage rant about being a Gerber baby and shook her head. “Modesty wouldn’t hurt.”
“There’s no room in this business for modesty. The sooner you learn that, sweetie, the better.” She came at her with the liquid eyeliner. “Look up.”
“I still wonder what the hell I’m doing here, sometimes.”
“You don’t have to do this. But if you do, you have to want it.”
“I do want it.”
“Prove it. Put on your big girl panties. No whining. No one said this shit was easy.”
“I’m not whining.”
“You were right on the verge of whining.”
“The only time I whine is around Raven.” Ororo shuddered at the memory of the bell workout her trainer subjected her to. Her arms felt like limp noodles.
“She’s a scary bitch.”
“Yeah, she is.” Greer and Ororo’s chatter died down to a lull as she finished Ororo’s look. When Ororo glanced in the mirror for a better look, she didn’t recognize herself.
“Whoa.”
“Hello, Mama.” The makeup was extreme, nothing like the “naked” look Ali showed her how to do at home.
“Help,” Ororo muttered.
*
The studio was oppressively warm; Ororo could easily blame the umbrella lights and other photography lighting fixtures, as well as the heat piped in through the floor vents that felt like she was walking over a subway grate.
“Is it always this hot in here?”
“We keep it warm for shoots.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t seen your outfits for this one, have you?”
“Not yet.”
“Prepare to get a draft.” Greer led her toward the clothing rack beside the backdrop, and she handed her a garment bag. “Go ahead and change into that. Janet called and said she’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Take a water bottle, if you want, but watch your lipstick.”
“Okay.” Ororo took the garment bag gingerly, almost afraid of its contents. She trusted Janet’s taste, especially after trying on her clothes at her fashion house, but Greer’s warning made her stomach churn. Ororo drew in a long, slow breath and steeled herself. She could do this.
The magazine would show up on newsstands everywhere. With her pictures in it. This was it.
*
Ten minutes later, Ororo leaned against the backdrop, mentally coaching herself, hearing Remy’s voice in her ear.
Ya don’t hafta try dat hard, petit. Don’t smile like yer shootin’ a Colgate ad. It ain’t about actin’ in front of the camera. T’ink about sometin’ or someone dat broke yer heart when the one holdin’ de camera tells ya ta look sad. Remember how it felt de last time someone made yer toes curl when ya hafta look sexy. Dis ain’ hard. Yer workin’ wit’ what ya already have. Ororo shivered at how his voice sounded the last time she sat for him, coaxing and with a hint of mischief.
There was an intimacy in his touch, albeit brief, when he rearranged locks of her hair or gently tilted her face at an angle he liked. He held his light meter by her face and readjusted the settings on his camera. He continued to pick odd locations, like behind buildings, piers, or subway decks. This time, it was a back alley, right behind a café they frequented. Ororo felt self-conscious, as though they were sneaking around, but Remy shrugged it off, reassuring her that they weren’t breaking the law.
His breath tickled her cheek as he “sculpted” her pose. His hands felt warm, and she could smell his now familiar cologne through that contact. Ororo never had male friends, and her track record with what few men she allowed to slip past her defenses yielded crushing failures. Remy was her friend. He was her savior. Coach. Mentor. Cheering section. Biggest critic. Creator. He had too many titles to list, even though he was only one man.
That odd hitch in her chest didn’t mean anything, just because it happened every time he touched her. It didn’t matter that her pulse quickened or that he seemed to swallow up all the space in the room as soon as he entered it, that he always seemed to be right by her elbow every time she turned around. Ororo could blame his tiny kitchen, certainly, for the amount of times she backed away from the counter and found herself leaning back against his hard chest. There was such a thing as friendly neck rubs, meaningless and noncommittal, wasn’t there?
Except his hands knew her flesh. Her body’s defenses completely dissolved as soon has he touched her skin, kneading knotted muscles into complete submission. Ororo did submit to him, and it frightened her. It terrified her how much she came to depend on Remy, that she could trust him so much without holding back.
Eddie’s voice brought her back down to the ground, like a rough slap. “Wanna focus here, honey? I know I’m paid by the hour, but I’ve got other girls to shoot.” Ororo’s cheeks burned as she met his eyes, which were a hard, flinty gray. His expression was amused at her expense as his face disappeared behind the camera. “Look right. I don’t wanna see too much of the whites of your eyes.”
“Fine.”
“That’s it.” Click. Flash. Click. “Relax your shoulders. I don’t like those hands, your fingers are spread too far apart. Don’t make ‘em look like spiders. That’s the problem with you big girls, you’ve got these big meat hooks for hands…”
“Sheesh,” Greer muttered off to the side. Ororo almost snickered. The glare from the umbrella lights was giving her a headache, and Ororo wished she were doing an outdoor shoot, instead. But could she afford to be picky? She corrected her pose and posture, not making her movements too broad. She gave Eddie the opportunity to catch those small, brief nuances of expression and angle so that decent, potentially usable frames didn’t get lost.
Eddie Brock wasn’t Remy. His way of communicating was more negative, more critical, but he challenged her to work harder. Ororo knew she was doing it right if he wasn’t snapping at her.
“That’s as good as it’s gonna get. Go.” He waved Ororo away. “Change into the next one. I want looser hair.”
“Got it,” Greer assured him. Ororo hurried off the set.
“Be back in five. Or less,” Eddie called after her impatiently as he chugged an energy drink. His hard eyes followed her out of the room, admiring the long line of her back and fluid walk. Eddie liked making girls work in front of the camera and being in creative control. It made him feel powerful.
If Ororo had seen him on the street and hadn’t known what he did for a living, she would have assumed he was a bouncer or a prize fighter. He was a mook, easily over six feet tall and had at least a forty-inch chest. His wheat blond crew cut did nothing to soften his sharp features; his nose looked like it had been broken at least twice. He had fine lines under his eyes, the by-product of squinting in true “are ya shittin’ me?” fashion. He was dressed for work in dark jeans and short boots. His black North Face jacket hung over a director’s chair in the corner instead of on the coat rack. He made no bones about letting agencies, models and publishers know that his time was valuable, and that when a shoot was over, he was out the door.
Ororo toed off the unforgiving heels and carried them by their straps as she trotted to the dressing room. Greer was already there, pulling the next outfit off the hanger. “Go. Off.” She nodded to what Ororo had on. “Quick. I’ll unzip this, but hurry it up.”
“I know,” Ororo grumbled under her breath. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
“It’s never fast enough with a photographer like Brock. He’s an asshole. Don’t let him get back to Janet that you made him wait, kiddo.” Ororo fumed silently as she unzipped the first outfit and let it drop to her ankles as Greer whisked the other one over her head. Ororo was thankful again that the bodice opened widely enough not to mess up her hair, but the next few seconds were a blur of being nudged, jerked and pulled into the proper position for Greer to fasten, zip and snap everything shut.
When she was finished, Ororo couldn’t breathe.
“It’s… tight,” she hissed.
“It’s stunning,” Greer corrected her.
“I’m never eating carbs again.”
“Raven would dance a jig if she heard you say that.”
“Thanks. Scary image.”
“I know. You’re welcome.” She handed Ororo the shoes. “Quick. These. Don’t fall off of them.” The warning wasn’t undeserved. The six-inch heels were a chiropractor’s nightmare, practically pitching Ororo out of them when she stood up straight. “I wish I had your legs.” Greer’s voice was a disgusted growl.
“Thanks.” Ororo’s glow was cut short.
“Now, GO!”
“Sheesh…” Ororo hobble-trotted back to the studio, knowing Jean-Paul would shake his head in defeat at her lack of strut. Eddie didn’t seem to care for the moment. He barely glanced up at her as he fiddled with his Nikons. He jerked his head toward the window.
“Hurry up. We’re losing sunlight.” Ororo instinctively sat on the low ledge and leaned back into the frame. “Shit. That’s it. Hold it. That’s what I want.” Ororo relaxed, satisfied to hear something else come out of his mouth than “No! Not like THAT!” Her lucky streak only lasted about six shots before she managed to piss him off again. “This isn’t Seventeen. You’re not at the prom. Show me some real emotion, for fuck’s sake.” Ororo’s smile faded as he came up and gave her shoulders a little shake. “You’re too stiff.” Adrenaline spiked in her veins for a brief moment as he drew close enough for her to smell his aftershave, and worse, the Marlboros on his breath. His grip was rough, that of a bear cub that didn’t know its own strength, and his expression reminded her too much of Vic.
“Don’t handle me like that,” she hissed. Ororo’s eyes hardened into chips. Her voice had an edge to it that made Greer pause in tidying up her makeup kit.
“Like what? C’mon! Sorry. Fine. Get pissed off with me. It actually works.” Ororo fumed as he backed away. “Do that thing again. Bet ya’ve made grown men piss their pants with that look.”
“Hope you’re wearing Depends,” she challenged him dryly.
“Cute,” he huffed. “Real cute.” But there was a gleam in his hard gray eyes, and the corners crinkled at her expense.
Ororo spent the next fifteen minutes prowling and profiling, focusing on his instruction while she fought a war with her id. She shouldn’t be fantasizing about decking him with the umbrella light stand, she mused. Yet whatever emotion she was channeling seemed to work. He snapped quickly, occasionally murmuring under his breath.
“Nice. I can work with that. Don’t overdo it. This isn’t rocket science.”
“Okay,” she shrugged.
“That’s it. Right there.” Ororo chuckled mirthlessly and breathed a sigh of relief when he finally lowered his camera and fiddled with the lens.
“We’re done. That wasn’t too painful, was it?”
“Sure,” she agreed, but she was paying more attention to her empty stomach. Adrenaline fueled her more than food that morning, but it was time to feed herself.
“Make sure you sign the model release,” he reminded her. “That has to go back to the agency. Should’ve actually done that before.”
“Okay.”
“Ooh,” Greer piped up. “I forgot. Did you ever fill out the other paperwork with Janet?”
“What other paperwork?”
“The background check.” Ororo’s blood ran cold.
“Background check? Why?”
“Just to stay on the up and up. Having your picture taken is still a job,” Greer reminded her.
“I’ll give Janet a call,” Ororo said blankly.
“Hurry up and do it. You don’t want her to skip over you for other work.” Greer smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Great work today.” Ororo smiled back, but the corners of her mouth dropped as soon as Greer turned her back.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit… Her mind raced with the possibility that her future was over before she’d even taken her first baby steps.
“Go ahead and change out of that. Put it back in the garment bag.” Ororo toed off the shoes quickly and schooled herself to walk calmly back to the dressing room. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her chest began to ache. Cold sweat broke out over her skin as the enormity of it all hit her.
They wouldn’t want her. No one would want to hire her if the truth came out.
Ororo stripped out of the clothes quickly, desperate to rid herself of their confines. Paranoia crept into her chest; she wished she could dispose of the outfits, somehow, and erase her presence at the shoot, leaving nothing of herself behind. Greer caught up to her as she was shrugging into her thin angora sweater.
“Catch your breath,” she chuckled. “Excited to get home?”
“Definitely.”
“Got anyone at home to tell about your shoot?”
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“Kind of, huh?”
“More than anything, I want to put my feet up.” Ororo didn’t feel like going into the details or complexities of her odd arrangement with Remy LeBeau.
“Go to the gym,” Greer countered. “Don’t rest on your laurels. Always be ready for your next job. You never know when one might pop up.”
“I have another show with Piotr next month.” Ororo didn’t add I just hope I don’t have another wardrobe malfunction. Ororo knew Greer was right, too, but the idea of the treadmill and endless reps didn’t appeal to her at all. “Hey, Greer?”
“What’s up?”
“Do you have anything to take this off?” Ororo motioned to her face. The flamboyant makeup made her self-conscious if she wasn’t going to be in front of a camera.
“Are you kidding? Leave it on. Go out and show off.” Greer’s green eyes had a mischievous gleam. She made a shooing gesture, and Ororo sighed.
“Sure.” Ororo snagged her jacket and looped her purse strap over her shoulder. “See you later, Greer. Thanks for everything today.”
“It was a pleasure.” Greer watched her hurry out, amused at her rangy, lanky gait. Ororo Munroe wasn’t the kind of girl who wanted to be the model twenty-four hours a day, and that might work against her. But at least she was easy to work with, and she seemed willing to adapt and be flexible. Greer sensed that she still had a thin skin; she hoped it wouldn’t work against her.
“Greer. C’mere.” Eddie waved her over impatiently to look at his digital camera. “Check her out.” She squinted at the tiny frame and made a sound of wonder.
“Nice. She’s got it.”
“Or she could. She still needs a lot of work, but look what she has to work with.” Eddie chuckled. “That’s some ass.” Greer elbowed him roughly and tsked. “What?”
“Don’t be a pig.”
“Ain’t my fault if it’s there, I ain’t supposed to notice? It’s nice. She might not have an easy time getting jobs with all those other sticks out there. I hate the waify look, myself, but it works on camera.”
“Speaking of which, aren’t you shooting Cal this week?” His face cracked into a serpentine grin and he nodded. Eddie put away his camera and continued packing up his equipment.
“That’s gonna be a barrel of laughs. Can’t fucking wait. She’s such a barracuda. I love that bitch.”
“I know you do.”
“I remember Cal when she was like this little Munroe girl here. She was fresh, and she wanted it real bad. I just wish she wasn’t such a pain in the ass now, but she knows how to do her job.”
“I know. I know why she is the way that she is, I guess, but… still. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth when I have to style Cal.”
“It’s beginning to bite her in the ass. Cal’s been taking catalog work lately.”
“Why?”
“Cassandra’s getting sick of her. Her agent’s getting sick of her. She’s pissed a lot of people off. She even blew off that Rasputin kid, from what I heard.”
“Piotr? She blew him off? He’s such a teddy bear. And his clothes are gorgeous.”
“Better buy ‘em now, before you can’t afford ‘em.”
“I know. His last show did well.”
“It was memorable. I was there. So was Legs back there.”
“Wait, that’s right! She was! She mentioned it offhand.”
“Pfft… she didn’t mention everything, I know that much. Poor girl had a nipple slip.”
“Oh, no!” Greer chuckled. “She didn’t?”
“Yeah, she did,” Eddie mused. “I was in the second row. Made my night.”
“Pig.”
*
Ororo heard the door slam just as she pulled the tilapia out of the oven and turned off the broiler. “Hey,” she called out to Remy out of habit. “You’re early! Everything’s almost finished, I tried something different with the fish…” She heard footsteps walk past the kitchen while her back was still turned. “Rem? How was your day?” She was puzzled by his silence. “Remy?” Ororo tossed aside the oven mitt and headed toward the sound of his steps, then paused. Now that she was out of the kitchen and its aromas, she smelled overwhelmingly flowery perfume. “Hello?” she called out in annoyance. Ororo headed toward Remy’s room, seeing that the door was now ajar.
Belladonna stood at Remy’s dresser. She rooted through a small box and plucked out a pair of dangling earrings. “What are you doing here?” Bella’s delicate profile didn’t flinch as she continued her search through Remy’s things.
“Don’t mind me. And I have a key.”
“So that makes knocking out of the question?”
“I used to pay rent here.” Ororo wanted to cry foul, but she’d only started paying rent herself in recent weeks. She was still incensed at the violation of her privacy. “Wasn’t expectin’ t’see you here, little girl.”
“I wasn’t expecting to be here this long, either.”
“Looks like it agrees with ya.” Belladonna’s blue eyes flicked over Ororo, taking in her casual jeans and sweater that still looked expensive. Ororo tied her hair back in a scrunchie while she cooked, and she had removed the makeup as soon as she came through the door. But her face had less of that haunted, hungry look that Bella remembered from their initial meeting.
“I try not to take up too much space.”
“I can see that.”
“I left some clothes here.”
“They might be in my room,” Ororo told her curtly. “I’ll get them.”
“In yer room,” Bella snorted under her breath. “So this one ain’t yers?”
“No,” Ororo said coldly, not sparing Belladonna a backward glance as she stalked down the hall. She wanted to feel embarrassed that her room was slightly cluttered, but at least the bed was made. Ororo went to the closet and scraped back the row of hangers, isolating the two garment bags that hung in the back. She held them out to Bella expectantly, away from herself as though they burned her. Belladonna huffed and took them, shaking her head.
“You his little pet project?”
“I’m nobody’s pet. Bite your tongue.”
“Remy the one doing the biting? He was with me, did he tell you that?”
“I kinda guessed that when you came over before. I figured you weren’t his accountant or spiritual advisor. I’m not that thick, hello?”
“Bet ya ain’t. Good. Then ya might manage just fine.”
“I am. I always have, one way or another.”
“Yeah?” Belladonna’s eyes held something akin to pity.
“Are you finished? Is there anything else you need me to send with you?”
“Tired of me?” Belladonna looked like she was accustomed to it.
“Dinner’s almost ready.” Ororo’s shrug was nonchalant and she gave her a smile that she didn’t mean.
“Don’t burn yer biscuits.” Belladonna turned on her heel and preceded Ororo out of the room. Ororo was tired of her perfume and her smug drawl. “Have fun playin’ house. I already went that route with Remy. It’s fun for a little while,” she shared.
“He helped me when I needed it. I’m not in it for the ‘fun.’ I don’t play games. If you and Remy still have a thing, I won’t get in the way.”
“That ship’s sailed,” Belladonna assured her. “Don’t try an’ do me any favors. What was yer name again?”
“Ororo.”
“Damn. Wouldn’t think I’d forget a name like that.” Ororo looked ready to make her regret she’d ever heard it, and Belladonna knew she struck a nerve.
“I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“I was hoping to catch him.”
“You have his cell number. It’s rush hour. It might take him a while to get back.” Ororo decided she was tired of looking at the icy blonde’s hard eyes. She went back to their meal and drizzled olive oil into the skillet. She threw in the asparagus she’d sliced into short spears and some chopped garlic.
“Guess yer right,” Belladonna murmured after a moment. She sighed heavily. “I dunno. Whatever. You know what yer gettin’ into, or ya wouldn’t have stayed this long.”
“What I’m getting into? Hmmm. Roof over my head, food, clothing, social networking, and a job, all without asking me for so much as a thank-you. He’s been nothing but a gentleman since I got here. I owe him everything.”
“I felt like that, once.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” Ororo prodded and stirred the vegetables, keeping her back turned on Belladonna. Her face would give too much away, and that would make Ororo feel weak. “Whatever it is, whatever way that you think you’re helping me, warning me, or whatever. I hate drama. I really do. I don’t know what I walked into the middle of the night Remy took me in, when you met me before, but I could tell there something that wasn’t settled between you two. And I didn’t question it. Not once, because it was none of my business. But I don’t need you telling me what’s good for me. I don’t want you telling me anything about Remy. That’s between you.”
“Pretty soon, it might be about you, little girl.”
“You know my name. That isn’t cute anymore.”
“Y’know, yer right. I have his cell. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”
“That’s fine.”
“Tell him I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll let him know as soon as he sets foot in that door.”
“I’ll let myself out.” Her tone was deadpan.
“Uh-huh. Yup.” Ororo heard Belladonna’s exasperate tsk. The door didn’t slam, to her credit. Ororo was relieved that she was gone.
“And she still has the key,” Ororo muttered. “Shit.” Her day just kept getting better and better.
When the apartment door opened again, Ororo was glad to hear Remy’s familiar baritone humming in the front hall and the thud of his heavy boots under the coat rack. “Somet’in’ smells good,” he remarked. “Hey,” he called out to her where she lounged on the couch in her stocking feet.
“Hey. How was your day?” It felt odd to ask him that again, even if the first time didn’t count.
“Can’t complain. How wuz yours, petit?”
“Rough. Just… rough.”
“Your shoot went okay, didn’t it?” Remy took the remote out of her hand and huddled beside her, forcing her feet off the other end of the couch. But he made up for invading her space by lifting them up onto his lap. Ororo smirked. A foot rub was a small consolation, wasn’t it?
“I had to work with Brock. He’s not like you.”
“Damn right he ain’t. He’s good, but watch yerself wit’ ‘im.” Remy changed Ororo’s Big Bang Theory episode to CNN without permission and began to massage her toes. “He’s high-maintenance.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“What’d ya make?”
“The fish. Asparagus. Fruit salad. And Bella mad.” Remy paused mid-rub and scowled.
“What wuz de last one?”
“She stopped by.” Ororo feigned nonchalance.
“She never called.”
“That didn’t matter. She still has her key.”
“That’s… merde. Sorry, petit. I forgot. She does. Damn it.”
“Go check that box in your room. The one on the dresser. She took a pair of earrings out of it.”
“That was all?” Remy’s voice was hard.
“That was the only thing she took out of your room. Go check it out. I also gave her back her clothes that were hanging up in my room.”
“Did she give ya a hard time?”
“No,” she lied. “No biggie.”
“That ain’t convincin’, baby.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything. She stopped by. She said she’d be in touch.” Ororo shied away and removed her feet from his lap. “Go look in your box.”
“No big rush. Bring dose back here.” He pulled her feet back and was amused at the slight struggle she put up. “Chere. C’mon. Kick back. Don’t be mad. Quit starin’ daggers at me and let me finish rubbin’ yer feet.” Remy gave her a sly look. “C’mon.”
“Eat dinner. It’s getting cold.”
“Only if yer plannin’ to eat wit’ me.” Ororo was hungry, but her stomach was churning, roiling with frustration since Belladonna left. She sighed and looked away. Remy tugged her middle toe, then tickled her sole. “C’mon.”
“Rem… I’m just…” She growled in exasperation. “It felt weird the first time I met her, and this was weird, too.”
“Bella’s weird that way,” he shrugged. Ororo reached over and swatted him with a cushion.
“There was just this… this thing hanging between us. I feel like… I’m intruding.”
“Hell, naw, ya ain’t. Bella wuz de one who walked in wit’ a key.”
“That’s not what I meant. Well, it is, but that’s not all I meant.”
“G’wan, den. Tell me what ya meant.”
“Rem… is there still something up with you two?”
“Non. Uh-uh. Ship’s sailed. Bella’s outta my system. Has been fo’ a while.”
“She still has stuff in your apartment.”
“She took care of that today,” Remy shrugged. “Happens. I might still have stuff in hers.”
“She said she used to live here.”
“Ya figured that much before anyway, didn’t ya, petit?”
“I guess I just never took the time to ponder it.”
“Sure, ya didn’t,” he mocked. Remy smirked and tickled her foot, holding her ankle captive in his strong grip when she tried to wriggle away. Ororo squirmed, trying not to laugh as she brandished the cushion again.
“That leaves the next question.”
“G’wan ahead. Shoot.” His dark eyes were amused, clearly at her expense. His warm, large hands toyed with the ball of her foot, kneading away the tension from wearing excruciating stilettos all day. Every muscle in her body began to unknit and relax.
“Am I in the way?”
“In de way of what?”
“Of you and… whatever.”
“What’s dis ‘whatever’ shit? What?”
“You know what. C’mon, Remy.”
“Non. You c’mon. Y’tink yer makin’ it hard fo’ Remy t’play de field?”
“Sheesh…” Ororo rolled her eyes and facepalmed.
“Is dat it? Are you pussy blockin’?”
“Okay. No. That’s just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m blocking no such thing. I just wanted to know if you thought I was.”
“Y’ain’t tryin’ t’block de pussy jus’ a teeny, tiny bit?” Remy held up his finger and thumb, and there was a paper-thin space in between. Ororo brandished the cushion again, glaring at his attempt to duck.
“Never mind this… Where’s my shoe?” It was a much more effective method of smacking him.
“Naw. Petit, lemme tell ya sumt’in’. You ain’t in my way. Not even a lil’ teeny smidge.”
“I’m not cramping your style just a little?” She held up her finger and thumb and squinted at him. “Just a tad?”
“Not unless you were plannin’ t’get yer own digs all of the sudden. Ya got a big spread I don’t know ‘bout yet, chere?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“Okay. Not yet. That’s what I wanna hear from you, chere.”
“Go ahead and eat.”
“We’re gonna eat. Don’t run off yet. Quit tryin’ t’escape. ‘Roro, did Belle put dis lil’ buzz in de back of yo mind about bein’ in de way?”
“Not with what she said. Just that… I was here, minding my own business and making dinner. When she walked in without even knocking, just unlocking it like she still lived here, I was the one who felt like a stranger in her house.”
“That right?”
“I felt like I was creeping.”
“Creepin’? Damn, baby.” Remy tried to watch his news, but then he squinted back at her. “Creepin’?”
“Yup. I can’t help it. That’s just how I felt.”
“Is dat how you feel now?”
“I shouldn’t,” she emphasized. “It was just… weird.”
Neither of them wanted to point out the elephant in the room.
“I’ll go get the plates. What do you want to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
“I have iced tea already made.”
“Not sweet tea?”
“Nope.” Ororo would have preferred it that way, but she stuck to Raven’s meal plan to the letter while she was going to her assignments, no matter how much it killed her. She finally tugged her foot free with a little yank and rolled gracefully up from the couch. Ororo padded into the kitchen and took two clean plates from the dishwasher. They were basic black ceramic, bachelor-style dinner ware that matched everything else in Remy’s apartment.
Remy’s apartment. That was it.
That was part of the problem.
Even after several weeks, Ororo still felt like a houseguest. She was afraid to spread out or invade his personal space. Once Ororo moved into the spare room, she claimed the hall bathroom while Remy retreated to the master bath adjoining his room. The room - her room “ was nondescript. The furnishings were “safe” and neutral. Some thought went into the dresser, a beautiful five-drawer cedar bureau with cast iron handles. The curtain rod was iron, too, but the drapes were plain linen. The bedding was decent, but again, it was devoid of real color. The spread was camel with an ecru underside and the sheets were plain white Egyptian cotton. The ginger jar lamp was the same camel brown as the spread. A couple of bland, coffee shop-style art prints were hung in white mattes and black frames on the walls. When Ororo first came to stay with Remy, it seemed like the Ritz.
It wasn’t truly hers.
Even when Ororo lived with her grandmother during her father’s final days, she had a space to call her own. She still had her Mickey Mouse bed sheets and her magazine posters hung on the walls with thumb tacks while framed pictures of Ororo with her friends sat staring back at her from her desk and vanity. Her teenaged style was quirky, disorganized and mismatched. It wasn’t overwhelmingly girly, but there was color. There was pizzazz. Ororo’s current digs screamed out for color. A plant or two might have been nice, or an abstract print, even if it was a cheesy Warhol knockoff, or some Keith Haring. Dogs playing poker. Anything.
Remy hummed under his breath while he joined her in finding place settings. Paper towels were unrolled and torn off, folded casually like napkins. Ororo poured the iced tea, and she snuck a packet of Splenda into her own. They occasionally bumped into each other in his kitchen, making Ororo feel underfoot. His body was lean and firm each time she inadvertently backed into his chest, and they did that annoying, three-second “I’ll go this way, you go that way” waltz of two people bucking for the same space, a silent, polite game of chicken. Her cheeks felt overheated, and the awkward flush seemed to wash over her skin, making Ororo squirm in her angora sweater.
“Why ya all squirmy?” Remy muttered as she toyed with her fish. The mood of the table reminded her of her grandmother’s lectures and interrogation sessions of what she did at school that day.
“I’m not squirmy.”
“Ya look squirmy. Ya keep fidgeting.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ya still weirded out about Belle?”
“No.”
“Sure, chere?”
“M’fine.”
“Eat.”
“I am.” Ororo took a perfunctory bite of fish. Remy copied her, then sprinkled his generously with salt and pepper.
“I seasoned it,” Ororo told him, sighing as she laid down her fork.
“I seasoned it a lil’ bit more, chere. Ain’ a big deal.”
“Next time, we order in.”
“Non. Next time, we can eat out, if ya want, petit.”
“I just wanted you to be able to sit right down and eat as soon as we were both home,” Ororo mentioned. “I could have ordered something.”
“Nut’in’ dat eit’er one of us needs t’be eating, petit. Pizza? Chinese? Ya don’ want dat crap.”
“Sometimes, I do,” Ororo admitted savagely. Visions of a greasy bacon burger swam in her head. She continued to toy with the fish.
“Next time, I’ll take ya out. We’ll dress up.”
“No heels?” Ororo asked hopefully. Remy smirked.
“Tired of ‘em already, huh?”
“Yup. My bunions have bunions. I’m practically six feet tall, anyway. After a while, it’s just overkill.”
“Dat’s fine.”
“How much do I have to dress up?”
“Somet’in’ nicer den a potato sack,” he suggested. “Ain’ takin’ ya out in yer jammies an’ curlers, eit’er.” Remy helped himself to more asparagus and tucked into it with more enthusiasm than he had for the main course.
“Aw,” she pouted. Remy swatted her. They went back to their food, but Remy stole looks at her until she scowled. “What?”
“Dey didn’t have you in makeup for dis shoot?”
“I took it off. I hate how it feels on my face when I don’t need it.”
“Ya don’t need it,” Remy murmured thoughtfully. Ororo’s eyes flitted to his face. He was already giving his fish his attention.
“What was that?”
“Nut’in’.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Ororo handles her first working shoot like a pro, but not without some grief.
Chapter End Notes:
I don't know when the next update will be. But thanks for reading.
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