[Reviews - 56]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 14548 times

- Text Size +




Logan hated Sunday mornings.

Sure, the fares were pretty good that day of the week, that time of day. On a good day, he got old timers going out to breakfast at IHOP for the early bird special or women coming home from church with their kids. Logan enjoyed seeing the clean-scrubbed kids looking excited when he pulled up to the curb, even though he would never admit it out loud. He merely growled at them to remember their seat belts and made faces at them through his rearview.

The flip side of these more agreeable fares was the Walk of Shamers. He knew the look of a passenger who could potentially throw up in his cab, hung over from a night of excess.

They always tried to make conversation with him. Sometimes, they told him tales that curled his hair of broken-up parties, lover’s spats, bar fights, trysts, alibis…you name it, Logan had heard it all. It was better, or worse, than Taxicab Confessions on HBO, back in the day.

Bachelor party survivors were a kick in the pants, or bridal shower escapees. He couldn’t count how many women showed up in his cab wearing condom veils or other such silly shit. All of them wanted “one last shebang.” In the back of his mind, Logan wondered Then why bother to get married at all? If they thought the fun was over once they tied the knot, they were better off not bothering at all. Logan’s views were cut and dried that way. They were walking down the aisle four to six hours later, after coming home smelling like oil, whipped cream and tequila shots?

His was an easy enough job, though. The lease on his cab was low and his tips were generous, living in the city. That didn’t mean he didn’t miss the open spaces and easygoing feel of his hometown, though. Logan missed hunting season and Memorial Day parades. The bustle of the city palled in comparison to living in a town small enough that everyone knew his name. He never felt that way until he left.

Logan stopped at a bakery and grabbed a coffee regular and old-fashioned donut. Despite eating junk food on the run and driving a car all day, he managed to stay in good shape with regular trips to a local boxing gym. Thanks to his short, compact stature, his buddies called him “Runt.” They could fuck off, as far as he was concerned, but they were decent guys, good for Pay-per-View fights at their favorite bar on Saturday night.

Barring nights where his girl wanted him to stay in, Logan did his own thing.

He enjoyed his snack and joe in his car, having fed the meter to ensure no interruptions. Logan listened to the Sixers game on the radio, tuning out the static as much as the old thing would allow.

The street was remarkably quiet. Logan people-watched, part of his job description.

He paused mid-sip when he spied a familiar couple.

They walked companionably. He guided her forward with his hand at the small of her back. He noticed in the light of day that she was nearly as tall as him and very slender. This time, she had her hair tucked up under a men’s winter hat, forcing him to really look at her face.

Were her eyes blue?

She glanced Logan’s way briefly, looking curious, as though he was familiar to her. He nodded briefly, saluting her with his cup. She didn’t pause, ignoring him as they hurried away. Okay, he snorted to himself, so he was chopped liver. She was the one having a lover’s spat before, or whatever it was.

*


Minutes later, they returned to Remy’s empty apartment. He divested himself of his coat and dumped his cold coffee. He tossed Ororo the remote.

“Wanna turn on de news?”

“Is that what you want?”

“If ya don’ mind, petit.”

“Remy? What…why do you talk like that?” He quirked a brow as he looked up over the edge of the refrigerator door.

“Like what, chere?”

“Where are you from?”

“New Awlins’,” he said as he piled several items on the counter. He moved around the kitchen swiftly, retrieving bowls and pans. Ororo turned up the volume on the news once she figured out how his fancy remote worked, one of those numbers with a hundred buttons that operated every appliance in his living room.

“Is that French you speak sometimes?”

“Oui, chere,” he said. She listened to the clatter of a whisk hitting a metal mixing bowl and the crack of several eggs.

Soon mouthwatering smells drifted from the kitchen. Ororo’s stomach growled.

“You’re killing me,” she told him.

“Wanna make de juice?” He thunked a can of orange concentrate on the counter. She obliged him, mixing a pitcher and setting the table. His plates were a simple white Noritake with a black rim, bachelor-style. Much of his home was black and white. He didn’t have many art prints, but he had one that she liked. It looked like a painting, spattered in strings and daubs in shades of charcoal gray, yellow, scarlet, black and white. Ororo could make out shapes within the paint, almost a collage of playing cards.

“Come an’ get it,” he said. She brought both their plates to the stove, and he ladled both of them generously with vegetable frittata, turkey sausage and fried red potatoes.

“This looks amazing.”

“Ya haven’t tasted yet.”

“I know it’s fantastic already.”

They ate companionably and listened to the news. For someone who clearly loved food, Remy was in good shape.

“My trainer’s gonna kill me if he finds out Remy ate starch fried in fat.”

“That’s the only way to eat starch.”

“Blasphemy. Ya haven’t tried Remy’s rice yet.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Add it to my to-do list,” she joked, even though the question hung in the air.

“What else have ya got planned?”

“You know. Take in the opera, shopping on Fifth Avenue.”

“How ‘bout goin’ wit’ me to de park, chere?”

“To do…what?”

“Me. You. My camera.” Ororo rolled her eyes.

“Sounds like a waste of time.”

“Non. It’s Remy’s job t’take pictures of beautiful women. Puts food on de table.”

“Guess people pay you a lot.”

“People do,” he huffed. “Now, anyway.”

“What’d you do before that?”

“Farted around in school. Graphics at Carnegie Mellon. Minored in photography. I liked that more.”

“Sounds expensive. Must’ve been nice.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“I never got to go to school.”

“No money?”

“No place to even live.” Sympathy washed over him.

“Sorry,” he told her.

“It’s okay.” She got up and began clearing the table. He watched her move around the kitchen easily, like she’d always been at home there. Ororo put the leftovers in plastic containers and scraped their plates into the disposal.

“Can ya do anything else with yer hair?”

“Not much to do with it.”

“I liked it down.”

“It’ll be a mess.”

“It’ll take a nice picture.”

“I still don’t see why you want to bother.”

“Because I t’ink ya have somethin’ special.”

“Guess you’ll have to enlighten me.”

“Yer not used ta someone givin’ ya a compliment?”

“I’m used to people taking from me.”

“Maybe that ain’t what I had in mine.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “I’m no model. I don’t have any training. I don’t act. I don’t know how to walk or pose or anything. What if the pictures suck?”

“You saw ‘em. What’d ya think?”

“They were all right.” Remy snorted.

“Gee, thanks.” He left the room abruptly. Ororo worried she’d wounded his ego, when she wanted to say I looked awful. You could do so much better than to take shots of me.

He came back with a handful of magazines under his arm. “C’mere.” He slapped them down on the table.

He pulled up a chair for her to sit down and flipped quickly to the middle of an issue of Vogue.

“Remy took dat one.” He flipped several more pages. “And dat spread.” He handed it to her before picking up another one. “And dis cover.”

“Wow,” she breathed, taking in the glossy pages with awe.

The girl on the cover was young and fresh; it was a copy of Seventeen, and the mood of the shot was playful. Her brown eyes had a certain twinkle and her pose was bold and confident.

“Kid’s only thirteen,” Remy said, tapping it. “Shoot was hard, cuz de kid was shy.”

“She doesn’t look like it.”

“Dat’s de point.”

“So could you make me look like that?” Ororo murmured, pointing to his spread. The photos were filmed at what looked like a club. The clothes were edgy and urban, and the models wore bold makeup and chunky gold jewelry. Physically they were flawless. When Ororo looked in the mirror, she still saw circles under her eyes and uncontrolled hair.

“Ain’t impossible. Got good raw material to work with.” Ororo froze at the sensation of fingers smoothing back a lock of her hair that came loose from her ponytail. “Ya’ve got perfect skin. How tall are ya, ‘bout five-nine, five-ten?”

“About a half an inch shy of six feet.” Her mouth went dry as he studied her bit by bit.

His fingertip traveled down her cheek.

“That’ll work ta yer advantage.” But he was caught up in her eyes, full of questions and more than a little wary.

He was standing so close, hovering over her. She could smell his cologne. Ororo’s pulse sped up and she grew warm beneath his gaze. His hand went back to her hair, collecting her thick locks and tugging them over her shoulder. He took the liberty of running his fingers through it. Before she could protest, he unsnapped the beads of her elastic, releasing all of it.

“Don’t!”

“Looks better that way, chere.”

“I like it up.” She scooted back in her seat, edging away from him and getting up. She shook off the feel of his hands, but his touch lingered. For Remy, too, the spell was broken. He became brisk.

“Get’cher jacket.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“All ya’ve got is time. My time ta waste.” He gathered his camera and coat. “Leave yer hair down. Put on de hat if ya want.”

She didn’t admit that having her hair down and tucked beneath her jacket kept her neck warm. Remy felt anticipation coursing through him.

It was a perfect day.

He spent the next three hours cajoling her, baiting and nagging her, shot after shot. Some of the poses felt ridiculous. Remy liked a handful of shots he took of her throwing food to a flock of pigeons and flirting with a man’s dog, rumpling its ears. They went to a restaurant briefly. He teased her from behind her menu as she tried to hide from him.

“Ororo,” he sang.

“Get that out of my face,” she threatened, but she was enjoying herself. He snapped away, ignoring other patrons’ looks.

By the time they’d returned home, he had pictures of her on the steps of brownstones, in front of stores and churches, on benches and in front of the pier where they’d first met, if they could call it that. The sun was going down and Ororo was exhausted. Remy only stopped because the charge on his camera battery was dying.

She spent that night on his couch again. Remy took his misgivings to bed with him.

It was the calm before the storm.





You must login () to review.