“What did you say her name was again?”
“Ororo.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen.”
“Old to start.”
“Dey ain’t all gotta be twelve-year-olds dat look 21.”
“Twelve-year-olds have more staying power,” she reminded him. “Five, maybe ten good years in front of a camera, Remy, before the blush fades from the rose. You know that.”
“Tell dat ta Lauren Hutton or Brooke Shields,” he pointed out with a shrug.
“They went into acting,” she sniffed. Cassandra had little patience for actors. Models were more malleable talent, in her opinion.
“She’s got a lotta potential.”
“Don’t they all.”
“She’s about six feet tall in her bare feet.” Cassandra made a noise of approval and sipped her tea.
“That helps. How’s her walk? Is she runway-ready?”
“She could be.”
“Could be. No. That’s not what I asked. Is she or isn’t she? I don’t want someone I have to coddle for weeks before I can place her anywhere, LeBeau.” She paused a moment and tugged a gorgeous black and white eight by ten from the stack onto her desk blotter. “Nice,” she murmured. “Her eyes are blue?”
“Those ain’t contacts. Wait’ll ya see ‘em up close.”
“She reminds me of a young Naomi or Tyra. Or a Beverly,” she said, leafing through each shot and laying them side by side for comparison. “Is she an eater?”
“Been workin’ on dat already. Booked her an appointment wit’ Remy’s trainer.”
“Good. Keep her away from carbs. Sugar is the tool of the Devil.” Remy fought back a pang of guilt for the mocha latte he treated her to that morning, topped with a froth of whipped cream. “It kills some of these young girls to have a little discipline, honestly.”
“So after seein’ dese…what’s yer take?”
“What’s my take, he asks me. What’s my take, indeed.” Cassandra sat back and sipped her tea, enjoying his restlessness. “She’s interesting. Definitely interesting. I’ll even say ‘memorable,’ to be honest.” Remy beamed. “But,” she said, holding up one finger for emphasis, “interesting girls walk through here every day.”
“She could be de next Tyra. Betta yet, Tyra will wish she could be de next Ororo.” Cassandra snorted.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Dat’s what I’m tryin’ ta tell ya. She has dat sumthin’. People turn dere heads ta look at her when she walks into de room and follow after her when she leaves. She has presence. T’ink about seein’ her on de runway, struttin’. She wears clothes well.”
“I can see that. Shit, she could make a garbage bag look good. Or clothes from Walmart,” Cassandra mused. “Great breasts. Hers?”
“Huh?”
“Has she had any work done?”
“Non. Remy knows she ain’t been under de knife.”
“How do you know that?” She eyed him shrewdly.
“Never mind.”
“You seem awfully attached to this girl.”
“Remy t’inks ya should meet her at least once.”
“Do you know how long a model has to wait before taking a meeting with me, LeBeau?”
“Cass…” He sighed in defeat, but she continued on.
“This is a portfolio. Test shots,” Cassandra sniffed, tapping the eight by ten with a manicured talon. “I want meat. She’s not established yet.”
“Ain’t dat where you come in?”
“I’ll want her when I see who else wants her first.”
“Yer makin’ a huge mistake.”
“If you’re a smart man, you’ll never utter those words again, boy.” Cassandra rose from her seat and slowly circled her desk. She sat back against the edge of it and folded her emaciated arms beneath her breasts. Her lips smiled; her eyes didn’t. “I said she has potential. But so does everyone who walks through that door. Most girls her age have an entire body of work behind them, not just some pretty test shots. And they are pretty,” she emphasized. “You’re still a genius behind the lens, LeBeau.”
“Bella walked in through yer door with a handful of pretty test shots, too. Ya never doubted Remy and the work he did with her, then. So why doubt him now?”
“Remy, I don’t want a girl coming in here green. I want a model that can get it right in the first frame. I want her to eat, drink, sleep, breathe, talk and strut modeling. It’s got to be her life. I don’t want a girl who’s going to come in here half-assed and want to play dress-up.”
“That ain’t Ororo.”
“Bring her back in six months,” Cassandra ordered. Remy’s scowl was thunderous.
“That’s it? Six months. That’s all ya’ve got. These mean nothin’ ta you.”
“I only put girls on my books and on my wall once they’re signed.” Remy shook his head, smothering a harsh laugh. He gathered up every shot and placed them carefully, lovingly back into his folio.
“Yer makin’ a mistake.”
“Sure. That’s what they tell me. But who’s the one sitting behind this desk?”
“The one who’s gonna see this girl on magazine covers and wanna kick her own ass fer not gettin’ while the gettin’s good.”
“Nice seeing you again, Remy,” she said sweetly to his retreating back. No air kisses, no promises to do lunch. Remy felt angry and slightly sick. He didn’t slam the door, to his credit, but she listened to his feet thump down the hall behind it, growing farther away. He called out a goodbye to her receptionist. She drank more tea, musing.
The nerve of him. Really…
Not every girl was a Belladonna. Shit, once upon a time, Cassandra herself had been a Belladonna.
An enormous black and white portrait of a waif-thin girl with huge blue eyes stared back at her from above her desk. Her boyish haircut was an anomaly amid the hip-length hair the girls ironed at home, or the careless shags and flips.
She’d been the toast of Paris, muse to a stable of designers here in New York. Cassandra wasn’t just another pretty face, due in part to the fact that she wasn’t to just everyone’s taste. But she was memorable. Her face sold expensive watches, fine wine, women’s couture, perfume, cars. Everyone could recall where they had seen her or heard her interviewed on Ed Sullivan, Johnny Carson or Merv Griffin.
As her light dimmed, she moved into the fashion houses, and then into print. She didn’t publish women’s magazines with pretty flowers and pastries on the cover. Style addicts prowled the newsstands every month looking for each issue of Swag almost as soon as the ink dried. It took a pretty face to sell ads, but it took one smart bitch to run an empire.
“Ororo,” she murmured to herself. She had to admit, it had “first name only” potential if she had to package her as a “brand” as well as a face.
Cassandra pushed Remy’s protégée to the back of her mind and finished her tea. Her day was bursting at the seams with appointments and a draft of the spring double issue to review and tear apart. She was a busy woman, for Christ’s sake…
*
Ororo stirred the pot of rice and turned down the heat just shy of letting it boil over. Brown rice wasn’t her favorite, but Remy’s trainer said white starches were a strict no-no. That eliminated half of Ororo’s diet, yet she wasn’t sorry. Gone were the days of living on Slim Jims and cupcakes or soggy 7-11 hot dogs.
She reached over to tune the static from Remy’s small kitchen radio and found a song that she loved. “Oh, yeah,” she grinned, and out of habit, her hips began to move. A serving spoon became a microphone and she began to boogie from counter to fridge and back again, glad she didn’t have an audience.
Her mother had danced around with her in the kitchen, once upon a time. It was a custom she missed.
The apartment was pleasantly warm from the heat of the kitchen and from Remy thoughtfully setting the thermostat at seventy before he left. Ororo turned it down slightly once she’d dressed for the day, but it was cozy. Her day involved errands and disappointments. She hoped Remy’s was better.
She hardly noticed the click of the front door. Ororo expected him to head straight to the living room to read his mail.
She stopped mid-warble and dropped the spoon in surprise. “GAH!” He’d ambushed her, grinning wolfishly at her from the doorway.
He clapped slowly, dramatically. “Encore, chere.”
“Shut. Up.” Her cheeks went up in flames. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Wasn’t supposed ta hear it either, petit.” He drilled a pinky in his ear for emphasis. “Good t’ing we ain’t tryin’ ta sell ya as a singer.” Ororo made a face.
“You’re mean.”
“Jus’ bein’ honest, chere. Get used to it.” He was still smiling but he wouldn’t meet her gaze as he opened the refrigerator. Ororo turned off the rice and reached for the tub of margarine. Remy caught her hand, startling her.
“Non. Don’ even t’ink about it. Wanna add a lil’ salt, be Remy’s guest.”
“Hmmph…”
“Get used ta dat, too, sugah,” he added with a shrug. “Gotta suffer t’be beautiful.”
“Sure,” she sighed dismissively as she scooped the rice into a small serving bowl.
“Smells good,” he remarked.
“I think I burned it.” Ororo jumped back at the rush of steam from the oven as she opened the door. She stuffed her hands into Remy’s green oven mitts and reached inside, extracting a dish of chicken breasts.
“Ain’t too bad,” Remy lied. “Got a vegetable?”
“Broccoli?”
“Dat’s a vegetable,” he confirmed. He peered into a second saucepan, making a slight face at its dull green color. She’d overboiled it a bit, but a starving man couldn’t quibble.
Remy watched her set the table while he hung up his trench coat and unfolded his paper. Ororo watched him occasionally, worried by the set of his shoulders and how quiet he was. She brought a pitcher of apple juice to the table and ladled food onto two plates. “It’s ready, if you want it.”
“T’anks, chere.”
“Sure.” She didn’t sit down until he did.
“Might wanna drink more water durin’ de day, chere. S’good for ya.”
“Right. Got it.” Okay, she wondered, what was with Mr. Food Police, all of the sudden? “My day was fine, Remy, thanks for asking.” He huffed, suddenly feeling guilty.
“Wish Remy could say de same.”
“How did it go?”
“How do ya think Remy’s day went?”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Oui, ya do wanna know. We’re gonna make a lil’ change ta de game plan.” Remy toyed with his rice. “Met with Cassandra Nova today.”
“So?”
“’So,’ petit says.” Remy’s chuckle was indulgent. “She heads a modeling agency and she’s the publisher of Swag.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Met wit’ her today. Showed her a few shots.” Ororo felt hard, cold knot form in her stomach.
“What did she say?”
“That ya had potential. But in de meantime, no go. Back ta the drawin’ board, chere.”
“Wow.” Ororo’s voice sounded despondent. “Um…Rem? Are you sure this is a good idea, after all?”
“Cassandra ain’t de only fish in de sea.”
“I just…I don’t know if I can do this.” Remy’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he tossed his fork into his plate. Ororo jerked back at the loud clink.
“Den maybe ya wanna make dat clear now, chere.”
“I’m just saying-“
“Ya don’t quit after one rejection. Learn dat right now. Ya keep struttin’ an keep knockin’ on one door after anotha’ til someone lets ya in.”
“I just think maybe this might be a little premature.”
“Den ya need ta fix dat way of t’inkin’. Remy’ll back ya up one hundred an’ fifty percent if ya have de right attitude, if yer willin’ ta throw yerself into dis wit’ everyt’ing ya have, chere. But ya can’t do this half-assed.” He couldn’t stop himself before he used the same word Cassandra threw at him.
“I looked for a job today,” she confessed.
Remy was silent. He shook his head. She continued speaking.
“I knocked on a few doors,” she admitted. “Filled out a few applications. It’s nice to have an address and phone number.”
“What kinda jobs?”
“Store clerk. That kind of thing.”
“Did ya finish high school?”
“I didn’t walk, but yeah. I finished.” Ororo swallowed around a lump in her throat.
“Why didn’t ya walk?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Fine den, petit. We won’t talk about dat.” He sighed, leaning forward on his elbows. His voice grew soft. “Chere…ya gotta t’ink bigger den dat.”
“I haven’t had a lot of practice, Remy.” She lost her appetite and got up from the table. Ororo took her plate back into the kitchen and put her chicken into a Tupperware contained; ruthlessly she scraped the rest of her dinner into the trash bin. She heard his footsteps growing closer, and she let the words tumble out of her mouth, her previous good mood gone. “Thinking big involved having a roof over my head and a place to shower every day a few weeks ago. I never went to college. I always hear about people saying that they can ‘write their own ticket.’ I’m not one of those people.”
“Ya could be.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Remy had ta learn dat the hard way himself, once upon a time, chere.”
“Sure you did.”
“I did,” he insisted. She continued moving about the kitchen.
“Let me know if you want me to save any of this.”
“Don’ matter ta me.”
“I hate to waste food.”
“Remy knows dat, chere.” She turned to put the plastic container of chicken into the refrigerator and ran up against something warm and solid.
She hadn’t been looking him in the eye, hardly sparing him a glance during their talk. She still wouldn’t; she focused on the weave of his wool sweater and his collarbones instead. When he exhaled, his warm breath tickled her cheeks. His grip on her elbows was gentle and not completely unwelcome, but she hated his scrutiny.
It made her feel too naked, too exposed.
He pried the container out her hands and set it on the counter. “She said ya have potential. She liked yer look. But she t’inks ya need ta develop yer image a little first before she books ya. What that means is dat we need ta get yer face out dere.”
“I don’t know how,” she muttered.
“We jus’ need t’take a different tack,” he said. “And it ain’t gonna happen workin’ at an AM/PM or Kmart, petit. If ya take a job, yer gonna hafta interact with people more den dat. Show ‘em de charm ya know ya have.” She tried to turn away, but he held onto her hands. “So we take it a step further, petit. Gonna introduce ya to a few more people.” He lifted her chin up with his index knuckle, urging her to look at him. His fathomless black eyes stared into her face, taking in the rebellion and self-doubt.
“What if they don’t like me either?”
“Don’ matter. Bein’ liked ain’t as important as bein’ remembered.” His thumb stroked her cheek before he even realized what he was doing. Ororo shivered. He released her quickly and went back to the table. He tucked into his rice with little enthusiasm, but Ororo felt slightly better watching him make the attempt. She went back to putting away the food.
“Hope ya don’t have any plans tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Got an early day.”
*
Remy wasn’t exaggerating.
The next day found her in borrowed gray sweat pants and a pair of Remy’s spare sneakers; he laughed over the fact that her feet were nearly as long as his.
The gym was more crowded than Ororo thought it would be first thing in the morning.
“Morning commuters,” Remy explained before she could ask as she stared at row after row of treadmills and stationary bikes. “Gotta get in a workout before dey head t’dere nine-to-fives.”
They resembled gladiators, garbed in slick, dark canvas warm-up suits and yoga pants. Long wires dangled from their ear buds as they watched the cardio theater screens or sweated to their own music.
“Geez,” she murmured.
“Ya ready, petit?”
“Oh, yeah. Ready, Freddie.”
“You’re late,” a nasal voice informed them. Ororo turned and managed a smile for the razor-thin brunette in an immaculate white track suit. Her black tee was snug and the white skull logo stretched across her meager breasts. “No Fear” was emblazoned beneath it in blood-red letters. She gave Ororo a cool look and held out her hand. When she shook it, they were ice-cold.
“Sorry,” Ororo apologized.
“Don’t be. It’s his fault,” she informed her, looking Remy up and down. “He needs to get his own lazy bones in here today. Missed you on Friday,” she accused.
“Had an appointment.”
“You told them you can’t cancel your trainer’s bookings without at least forty-eight hours notice, right?”
“Had an appointment,” he offered again.
“I don’t care if you had a kidney transplant. See this?” She held up her hand in a gesture that there was no mistaking for anything else. “These are your balls. They’re mine once you walk through that door, LeBeau.” Ororo’s eyebrows flew up. Remy merely rolled his eyes.
“Beggin’ ya a t’ousand pardons, chere.”
“A thousand pardons, my ass.” She turned to Ororo. “You. Take that off.” She nodded to the roomy sweatshirt. Ororo dutifully took it off.
“It’s drafty in here.”
“Pfft. Drafty, she says. Honey, you won’t have to worry about that.”
Two grueling hours later, her words came to pass. Ororo was gasping up a lung, muscles burning and skin pouring buckets of sweat. Her ponytail was plastered to her nape and damp triangles spread beneath her breasts, darkening the cotton of her tee shirt.
“C’mon. Keep it up. Pump those arms.” Raven watched her scathingly and without pity. “Be consistent if you want to see results.”
“I just…wanna see…my…next…birthday,” Ororo wheezed. Raven snorted.
“Man up. In a month, you’ll thank me.” Ororo shot her a look that screamed volumes. Raven barked a psychotic laugh.
Nautilus weights. Stretches. Exercise ball. Crunches. Elliptical. Stationary bike. And Raven’s instrument of torture, the treadmill.
Remy was a few yards away, jogging and watching ESPN, occasionally peering her way. He shot her looks of pity mingled with laughter. Raven had already put him through his paces in the free weights and saved her time to focus on Ororo’s virgin visit to her gym.
“Please…can I…stop?” Raven appraised her, then shook her head.
“Okay. It’s your first day. I’ll cut you some slack. Come tomorrow ready to work, young lady.” She fiddled with the display, punching the speed button down arrow a few times. “Cool down.”
“Can I…just…die now?”
“Not until I tell you to.”
Her consultation was brief and unrelenting. Ororo listened to Raven from flat on her back on an exercise mat.
“We’ve got to unlearn a few bad habits with you. I can tell that already. But I can tell you have good muscle memory. Not too many weights, or you’ll look burly. We just want you to look hard.” Raven made notes on her clipboard. “I’m putting together a workout plan that I want you to follow even on days where you don’t see me. But I want to see you in here regularly. Like your life depended on it.”
“Because it does,” Remy added. He reached down and offered Ororo his hand. She looked ready to collapse. Her skin was flushed and gleaming with sweat, her ponytail had loosened and her posture was lax and limp. Even sitting up, she was all sprawling, long limbs. Her full breasts heaved with long, labored breaths. Remy tried not to stare, but it was futile.
“That was brutal.”
“Welcome to my gym,” Raven chirped. She gave her a hard clap on the back and sauntered off.
“What’s her deal?”
“She’s a fitness model. Been doin’ dat fer ten years. Can’t tell she’s a day over twenty-one, can ya?”
“How old is she?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Shit…”
“Trust an’ believe she’ll whip ya into shape.”
They headed into the brisk air. Ororo was too happy to see daylight. She glugged down half a bottle of Fiji water and still felt depleted.
“Where we headed now?”
“Home ta change.”
“Yay.”
“Got another appointment wit’ Jean-Paul.”
“Wait. What?” She stared at him as they headed into the subway tunnel. Ororo was just grateful she could no longer smell her own sweat over the stench of the long corridor as they went through the turnstiles.
“Yer gonna love ‘im.”
“But…I’m ready to drop.”
“Non. Gonna be ready ta drop after he’s taken a crack at ya.” He ushered her into the southbound car and dragged her into a seat close to the door. Ororo looked shell-shocked. He collected her hand into his and gripped it snugly, almost as if trying to keep her immobile. She looked indignant, perhaps even ready to run screaming from the train. “Trust me, chere. Gonna love ‘im.”
*
She despised him.
“You know I love a challenge, sugar plum, but I’m no miracle worker,” he drawled once the introductions were made. He looked Ororo up and down and flicked a hand through her hair. Ororo narrowed her blue eyes at him and shrank back. He smirked. “At least she’s sassy.”
“Jean-Paul’s a runway and image coach,” Remy explained. They’d walked up three flights of stairs of an imposing brownstone and entered a small studio at the end of the hall. Jean-Paul’s business name was spelled out in gold letters on the door’s glass pane, which was reflective enough for Ororo to see how tired she looked.
“I’m the best,” he corrected Remy. He appraised Ororo. “How tall are you?”
“Tall,” she shrugged. Remy cocked one brow. Jean-Paul threw back his head and laughed. It was a rich, bawdy sound.
“Oh, that’s cute. She’s cute,” he told Remy. “You’re built on nice lines. Not bony.” He circled her slowly. “Nice caboose. Generous, but nice. We can work with that.” Ororo made a sound of disgust. She’d just sweated half of it off! “But we’re not about booty strut here. I’m gonna teach you to stomp that runway, Miss Thing. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
He crossed his studio and carried Ororo and Remy’s coats with him, hanging them on an iron rack. “Take a seat, LeBeau. You, come over here.” As Ororo followed him, she noticed wall-to-floor mirrors along one wall. She felt more self-conscious than ever. “Head up. That’s the first thing. We need to work on your posture.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You’re doing that ‘thing’ that tall women do. Don’t try to make yourself look smaller. No one’s gonna believe it, and you’ll end up looking like Quasimodo in heels.” His long, slim hands arranged her, practically molding her like clay. Ororo took silent exception to being manhandled but tolerated it. Remy watched, fascinated and amused. He winked at her when Jean-Paul’s back was turned. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Throw out that chest! Be proud of it! Pull in her your abdomen. That’s a good girl. Now take a little walk,” he bade her.
“Sure.” She walked with her usual stride, not in a hurry. She heard him tsk and watched him screw up his face behind her in the mirror.
“Stop, stop, stop. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”
Shit.
“I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He caught Ororo’s face and poked her. “Takes more muscles to frown, kiddo. Causes wrinkles.” He turned to Remy. “She always this quiet?”
“Can’t get her ta shut up,” Remy lied, grinning. Ororo narrowed her eyes again.
“She cleans up nice,” Jean-Paul allowed. “Looks like Ali’s handiwork with the hair. She color it, too? She did mine.” He ran his fingers through the wave of white hair over his forehead, tousling it. It stood out starkly against the rest of it, which was midnight black.
“No,” Ororo said flatly.
“Hm.” His voice was thoughtful. Then he ignored her and went to his calendar on his desk.
“Once a week,” he told Remy. “Bring heels with you. Practice in them when you don’t see me. Real shoes with some real lift. You can’t be fierce in flats.”
Jean-Paul was pretty “fierce,” she supposed. He dressed in couture and smelled expensive. He wore a few silver rings on his fingers and the crest of his ear was pierced with a small hoop. Jean-Paul and Ororo were roughly the same height, and he had a lean swimmer’s build with an enviably flat abdomen. Intelligence shone in his blue eyes and he had an impish smile that was also too capable of scorn. He looked like he could have been a model himself.
“Toodles,” he said, then circled his desk. He leaned in and pecked Remy on the cheek. Ororo sighed as he patted her on hers. “Know you’ll miss me.”
*
Later, happy hour:
Harry’s was hopping, packed to the rafters. Patrons drank in the rough, dirty blues the local band played along with their Heineken.
The interior already felt sultry despite the cold night outside. There was a line wrapped around the corner of people smoking one last cigarette and stomping warmth back into their feet.
Logan was in his element.
Except here, they called him Jimmy, and they came to hear him jam on the harmonica and make it wail.
Women’s eyes glued themselves to him even as he sat toward the back of the stage, plainly dressed in old denim and his signature cowboy hat. Broad, strong hands with thick knuckles and whose backs were dusted with fine dark hair stroked the silver harmonica. The instrument followed the dictates of his firm mouth, singing a song of zero apologies and little regret.
The siren on the mic was tall and willowy, garbed in simple black leather pants and a matching bustier. Her mop of thick hair was unrepentantly red, cascading down her back. Her voice was seasoned and gritty and her strut was predatory as she flirted onstage with each member of the small ensemble.
This was Logan’s world. His refuge.
He didn’t step and fetch and play hurry up and wait, hoping for fares and swearing at no-shows here. He wasn’t at anyone’s beck and call. He wasn’t reading a meter or punching a clock.
One song tumbled after another, blasting out onto the street and unbroken by the sounds of crashing billiard balls and pitchers thumped down on the bar.
“Last call!” It didn’t matter. Hardly a soul budged except to make one last trip to the john in the back. The younger crowd scowled down at the glow-in-the-dark stamps on the backs of their hands, annoyed that they could no longer “come and go.”
An hour later, Logan sat at the bar, nursing a mug of Molson and polishing the harmonica with a small rag. Despite the bar’s no smoking policy, Harry allowed him to light up after hours. Logan watched the busboys and cleaning crew mopping up tables and floors as he tucked a generous tip into the jar by the register. Lorna smiled at him from behind the counter as she dried the first of several clean pitchers.
“You guys were hot!” she told him.
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“Want another one?”
“I’m good.”
“Sure?”
“Yup.” He didn’t have his heart set on a buzz or a bender tonight.
He looked up at the sound of high-heeled boots thudding across the dance floor’s hard wood. Green-grey eyes ringed in the remnants of eyeliner that had been sweated most of the way off appraised him.
“Ready?”
“Fine by me.” Logan shrugged into his thick jacket and tucked the harmonica into his shirt pocket. He rose from the barstool and joined the striking redhead, keeping his hand at her lower back. She was smiling, but he felt her stiffen.
“G’night, Harry.”
“Bye!” Lorna waved happily. “You guys rocked.”
“Our pleasure, darlin’.”
As they made their way toward the exit, Logan picked up “Speak for yourself” muttered under her breath. He frowned.
“Gotta have the last word,” he said aloud as they emerged from the stagnant air of the pub.
“I’m ready to go home. I’m not making any promises of when I’m coming back, either.”
“Who asked ya ta promise anything?” he shrugged, but Logan was tired, and her manner was annoying him. He was ready for a decent smoke, some ESPN and to crash for at least ten hours. He was damn well worn out.
“I’m sick of Harry’s. This is getting old.”
“That the only thing that’s gettin’ old, Mare?”
“No. Do you care?”
“Probably not. Ya don’t think I do, anyway.”
“That’s because you don’t,” she snapped.
“Fine, then. I don’t.” Her voice held a warning note, even though she hadn’t raised it. But her stride lengthened, quickened, as though to leave him in the dust. Logan sighed.
She was right. It was getting old.
The walk home was chilly and frustratingly quiet. Mary attempted to walk ahead of him on their way into Logan’s apartment building, but he caught up to her easily and held open the door. She brushed in front of him coolly, not looking at him. Logan made a low sound of disgust in his throat and fished in his pocket for his keys.
He ignored the flash of messages on his voice mail machine and did up the dead bolts. Mary removed her jacket and went to the thermostat.
“Don’t turn it up too high.”
“It’s cold in here.”
“Put on somethin’ warm, then.”
“Fine. Let’s freeze, then.” She headed back to his room. Even her boots sounded pissed off.
“Turn it on, if ya want. Just don’t blast the friggin’ heat! That’s all I’m askin’ ya, Mare!”
“Easy for you. You never get cold.” She was shucking her leather pants and digging in his bureau for a shirt.
“You wanna pay a shitload of money to the power company, be my guest. Huh?” He turned on the bedside lamp, then the overhead light. “Here. Yer cold?” Logan savagely punched the button on the digital thermostat several times. “Here. Nice an’ toasty, darlin’. Wanna use some more?” He left the room and began turning on every light in the two-bedroom unit. Mary scowled as she heard the sudden blare of the radio in the kitchen, followed by the hum of the television and click of the remote in the living room.
“Are you kidding?” she muttered.
“Naw. Ya think I’m made of money, darlin’. Obviously.” She stood before him in his long, roomy grey thermal and a pair of pink pajama pants. Mary sighed.
“Here we go again…” She threw up her hands in surrender.
“There you go,” he corrected her. “I’m watchin’ TV. Go ta bed. Stay nice an’ warm.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she hissed.
“Sure. I’m an ass.” He helped himself to a glass of juice and took down a half-rolled up bag of Lays from the top of the fridge.
“Stay out here, then.”
“Yer lettin’ me stay out here,” he sneered. “Yeah, just go back there. Sleep tight, darlin’.”
He hated how hard his voice sounded even more than the sight of her retreating back. The chips lost their taste and suddenly he didn’t feel like sitting down.
She glared at him as he stood in the doorway, arms folded across his brawny chest.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you lately?”
“Why does something have to be wrong with me. Huh? It’s all on me?”
“Looks that way from here. I don’t know what’s wrong with you!”
“That’s nice,” she snapped. “Why did you even come back here?”
“Why can’t I?”
“Watch your sports.” She put scornful emphasis on the word sports. “Or your usual crap with tits in it.”
“That’s all I care about?”
“Yup. That’s all.” She turned off the bedside lamp and climbed into bed. “Turn that off,” she said, pointing to the overhead light.
“Maybe I want it on.”
“I’m going to bed.” That was his cue to be dismissed.
He wasn’t in the mood to back down or walk away, even though he recognized it as one of Mary’s “timeouts” that she tended to take when things got heated.
She started it, nagged a mean little voice in his head. He was emotionally programmed to want to finish it and have the last word.
“So whaddya want? Huh?”
“To go to bed.” Her answer was too curt. Logan felt anger creeping up his nape.
“Maybe ya don’t hafta sleep here tonight.” He strode over to the bed and grabbed the covers, yanking them off onto the floor. Leaving her exposed. Her eyes bit into him.
“That’s nice. You psycho bastard.”
“I’m a fuckin’ psycho,” he huffed. “Listen. I ain’t gonna play these games with ya. All night, all ya did was snap at me, ignore me, mutter under yer fuckin’ breath, and be a bitch toward everyone we knew. Ya made yer little high an’ mighty face and sneered at everyone. Ya think Harry and everyone else didn’t notice?”
“They didn’t notice shit! They don’t have any problem with me! You do.”
“Believe that if ya want.”
“Fuck you.”
“No. Uh-uh.” He pointed his finger, which was shaking, nearly jabbing her in the teeth. “Fuck you. Get out. If ya wanna fuck around with me and play this little game, then get the fuck outta my bed, get outta here and don’t come back.” She skirted around him, lunging off the bed. She grabbed her discarded stage clothes and bunched them under her arm.
“Fucker,” she hissed.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s enough!” she shot back.
She fled into the bathroom and shucked the pajamas, jumping back into her pants.
“So that’s it?” he repeated, lowering his voice. It lost none of its irritation.
“You don’t care how I feel. You’re just…you. This has always been you. You don’t feel. I don’t want to waste my time trying to explain this to you-“
“Waste yer time? Hn. ‘Kay. Wouldn’t want ya ta do that.”
“You’re hard, insensitive and you don’t listen to me or care what I think. This doesn’t need to go any further. We’re stagnating.”
“There’s a big word.” His smile held little humor.
“Fuck you,” she muttered. Her eyes were dry, but her voice was watery. “I’m done.”
He followed her. He didn’t feel like stopping her, or even stopping himself, even though it would have been prudent. Sensible.
They were never sensible people.
Logan’s sigh was gusty as he went into the kitchen, still watching her as she gathered up her jacket and purse. She stuffed her pajama bottoms into an old Victoria’s Secret shopping bag and continued to glare at him and mutter under her breath. Logan punched the button on the answering machine.
“Ya ever even listen ta these?”
“It’s your machine, genius.”
“No one ever calls ya here,” he shot back. The first was a hang-up. Delete. The second was an automated offer for lower rates on his credit card. Delete. The third was a hang-up. Delete.
Beep. “Hey.” The voice was garbled by static and traffic sounds in the background. “Tried to get a hold of you tonight. Went out, huh?”
Mary went silent, standing stock still.
“Gimme a call. Okay? Gonna be lonely…”
Delete.
“Hm.” Logan shook his head and paced the kitchen. When he looked up, his dark eyes were dilated and hard. “That guy care what ya think?”
She was silent, and eventually dropped her gaze.
“He sensitive? Doesn’t waste yer time?”
She folded her arms, cradling herself.
“Yes.”
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