Can’t be late, can’t be late…shitshitshit.
Ororo’s legs burned slightly as her feet pounded the pavement in a near-run. She was two minutes ahead of the cross-town transit that picked up on Tenth Street, and her appointment reminder card burned a hole in her pocket. Remy gave her strict orders not to be late, and she was already batting a thousand; everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong as she prepared herself for her go-see. Ororo left the plastic wrapper from a packet of makeup sponges too close to her flat iron and melted it onto the paddle, nearly ruining it. It took her ten minutes to find her missing pump, stumbling over it when she ran back into the bedroom and jarring her ankle in the process. Ororo ended up dumping orange juice all over the kitchen floor when she misjudged how close the pitcher was to the counter as she took out items for breakfast, then ended up skipping it anyway when she burnt her English muffin.
She silently rolled her eyes as the transit pulled up, assaulting her nostrils with the odor of exhaust. Raven and Jean-Paul would say eating’s overrated, anyway. Ororo waited impatiently behind a mother of two who wrestled futilely with a full-sized, canopied stroller that refused to fold, and two teenage boys each saying with great conviction how much the other sucked. Absently she reached for her purse, then rummaged through it for her bus card. When she reached the top step, still searching, the female driver gave her a long-suffering look.
“Would’ve saved everyone some time if you’d dug your card out while you were still waiting for the bus,” she pointed out.
Your momma! “Sorry. I know. I’m sorry.” She finally found it and ran it through the reader, relieved that it still had some fare credit left.
“Take a seat, please.”
“Thank you.” Ororo kept her saccharine smile all the way to the back, where she ended up sandwiched between two old ladies who smelled like peppermints and new perms. After the brisk cold of outside, the bus’ warmth was almost stuffy and oppressive, and Ororo smothered a sneeze.
“I hope you’re not sick, honey,” one of her neighbors mentioned warily. “I wouldn’t wanna catch your germs, ya know what I’m saying?” She looked at Ororo as though she was a walking Petri dish.
“I’m not sick, it’s just…allergies,” Ororo demurred carefully.
“This isn’t allergy season, it’s cold season,” the woman corrected her.
“I’m sure it isn’t a cold.”
“They’re very contagious. You could be contagious.”
“I doubt it. I won’t be on here long,” Ororo said encouragingly, even as her cheeks burned with frustration. She tried to stare into the aisle, pretending that the rubber nonslip texture was fascinating, even mesmerizing. She knew her lie wasn’t very convincing as she mentally ticked off each stop on the route map above the windows.
Shit. Seven more to go, then a transfer. Why couldn’t Remy have just given her cab fare?
She squelched that thought as quickly as it bloomed. Because he’s given you everything else. Quit being ungrateful. Ororo spent the next few minutes listening to the women bicker on about whether or not Walmart or CVS had the better deal on Aspercreme in the weekly circulars.
She was stirred from the monotony by a sudden poke from the one with the mole. “Hey honey, what’s this ya’ve done ta your hair?”
“Oh…er…my hair? You mean…well, I just flat-ironed it this morning.”
“Nah. Not that, kiddo. I mean the color. Why did you color it white like that? You’re a young thing, you don’t want hair that color.”
“I can’t really do anything about it. It’s my own color.”
“So’s this,” the woman claimed, pointing to her brassy red locks. “I paid ten dollars for it, so it’s my own color!” she cackled. Ororo choked back a laugh until the woman beckoned to her to lower the scarf she had loosely wrapped around her hair so as not to get hat hair or cold ears. Ororo obliged her, bending down slightly. She felt her lightly probe her scalp and heard her grunt under her breath.
“Shit. That’s real, all right.” Ororo righted herself and replaced her scarf carefully, hoping her hair wasn’t jacked up now. The woman wasn’t through assessing her, though, and she was feeling chatty.
“Look, M’rinn, at those eyes. Eh? Blue.”
“Get outta here,” her companion mumbled, leaning precariously into Ororo’s personal space. “Get outta the house,” she repeated incredulously, and Ororo found it difficult not to stare at the hair follicles on her upper lip. “They are. Look at that. Aren’t you a looker!” Ororo blushed.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“You are, kiddo. I won’t lie. You could sell perfume or fur coats or other fancy stuff with a face like that.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ororo admitted, since really, she still didn’t.
Remy and Allison had confidence in her; Jean-Paul’s constant claims that she had “rough edges” wore on her last nerve, to the point where her last nerve itself had “rough edges.” The rejection from Remy’s publisher, Cassandra Nova, was humbling, but Ororo reserved a small flicker of hope. She hadn’t been accepted, but she had been noticed. It was a start.
Ororo listened with half an ear as the women threw bits of their conversation at her or over her as they rode past each stop; her other ear was reserved for the dings of the signal pulls. Her stomach growled despite the knots of tension she woke up with and hadn’t shaken off. She struggled with a polite and attentive smile, brief nods and “mm-hmm’s” and “yups” at the correct intervals. Finally her stop loomed three blocks up.
“Ooh,” she yelped hurriedly, twisting her body around as carefully as she could without accidentally elbowing either of her neighbors as she reached for the window cord, “that’s it, that’s me.” She jerked it three times before she realized it didn’t work. Ororo jerked herself to her feet, awkward since she wore a pair of pumps, and she lurched slightly as she made her way across the aisle to the opposite window. “Excuse me, I just…sorry,” she stammered as she nudged her way around the man by the window trying to read his book. He glared at her over the edge of the Sue Grafton cover but then peered appreciatively down her cleavage, making her long to smack him.
She managed to jerk the cord one block shy of her stop, subjecting her to another disgusted look from the driver. Ororo held tight to the edge of the seat rail as the bus skidded to a stop. “Bye,” Ororo offered her two seat mates.
“Good luck, hon,” M’rinn called out.
“Knock ‘em dead,” said Irene, giving her a little wave. Ororo darted off the bus and crossed the street in the thick of a large crowd at the corner. At a newsstand on the other side, she hastily purchased a pack of spearmint TicTacs and popped two into her mouth. It did nothing for her hunger, but it was comforting to have something to suck on. Fate finally smiled on Ororo, bringing the connecting bus three minutes later. She was already holding her fare card in her gloved hand and managed a seat third row from the front. The remainder of her trip was relatively smooth; Ororo managed to get off right before a huge group of tourists filled it to capacity at her stop.
The cold, fresh air did nothing to soothe her nerves as she approached the tiny building that resembled a factory. Its brownstone face was intact but not decorative; the sign out front was even slightly nondescript, a plain black, slanted signature on a white ground.
Piotr Rasputin Designs
“Not very creative,” Ororo mused aloud as she approached the door. She found it locked, but noticed a small buzzer. She leaned on the button and stamped her cold feet to help their circulation. Her stomach was full of butterflies as she waited for an answer. Her heartbeat sped up as heavy, thudding footsteps echoed off of what sounded like a hardwood floor inside. The bolts were drawn back and the door jerked open to reveal the flushed face of a strikingly tall young man. Ororo actually found herself staring up, craning her neck slightly to meet his eyes, which was rare.
They were kind, sapphire blue and graced with fine laugh lines and enviably thick black lashes. He gave her a flustered look. “Ororo?”
“Yes. That’s me,” she stammered, tentatively grasping the door handle but jumping back as he yanked it open.
“C’mon. I’m sorry, but I’m running late. It would have helped if you’d shown up a little early for the fitting…”
“Fitting?” She frowned. “I didn’t know I was having one today.”
“You weren’t told?” Piotr sounded slightly exasperated. He escorted her down a long hallway decorated in framed, old movie posters. She didn’t have time to appreciate the old titles or the architecture of the building, which was definitely a factory, judging by some of the exposed pipes and duct work. Myriad scents tickled her nose, including ink, a strange polyurethane odor and various fabrics.
“How tall are you?” he asked her brusquely.
“Almost six feet,” she explained. He looked impatient.
“What’s your exact height?”
“Five eleven and a half.” He made a thoughtful sound in his throat, then looked her up and down.
“You wear clothes well.”
“Thanks, I-“
“EMMA!” he barked as they reached a large room with wall-to-floor windows. Rows of tables were laddered up and down the room, stacked with patterns and rolls of fabrics. Ororo gawked at how many different bolts there were in so many different colors and finishes. She almost reached out to stroke a roll of thick, soft-looking fabric that resembled suede. “Don’t touch anything,” her host piped up. She dropped her hand and backed off. “Emma? Get over here, please.”
“What’s your malfunction? What do you need, what do you need?” insisted an imperious blonde in a white sweater and snug knit pants. To Ororo’s mind, she actually looked like a woman who was used to being on the other end of the groveling.
“Why didn’t you call her and let her know this was a fitting?”
“I was told this was a go-see,” Ororo said absently. Emma fixed cool, slate blue eyes on her and hmph’ed under her breath.
“Because we had a change of plan,” she reminded him with more than a hint of I-told-you-so satisfaction in her voice. “Cal’s out of town. Just took off for Morocco without so much as a so long.”
“Shit…” Piotr, or the man Ororo presumed was Piotr, raked his long, thick fingers through his black waves and kneaded his neck, closing his eyes. “Let me think…”
“I’d never get in the way of genius,” Emma quipped.
“Okay. I can do this. You,” he pointed to Ororo, “that way. Emma, show her the changing room.”
“I didn’t see a changing room on the way back here,” Ororo argued.
“We’re low-rent here, darling,” Emma informed her with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We use it for storage.” She turned back to Piotr. “Which outfit?”
“The black,” he told her impatiently. “No. Fuck that. The white.”
“Good choice,” Emma agreed, nodding to Ororo. “Grab that hanger. Come along.” Ororo reached for the one white outfit on a disorganized rack of clothes and followed Emma, who hadn’t slowed down, from the room. Ororo wondered if she’d fallen down the rabbit hole, and where the Mad Hatter was with his pot of tea. Emma hustled her off, back the way she came, giving Ororo another spare moment to enjoy the movie posters. Her favorite was the one of Marilyn, Jack and Tony from Some Like it Hot.
“Here,” Emma nodded, shoving her inside the room in question. Ororo noticed it was draftier due to a slightly cracked window pain. Someone haphazardly hung a battered curtain over it for privacy, and a full-length mirror was propped in the corner of the room, not in much better condition. Ororo inwardly shivered. She wasn’t holding out much hope of this go-see yielding promising results.
“Buck up, ducks,” Emma told her. “But hurry up.” She slammed the door shut after Ororo, leaving her staring after her speechlessly. Almost.
“What…the…fuck.” Ororo shook herself, then noticed there was nowhere to set her own clothing, let alone the pristine white outfit. Awkwardly, she hooked the hanger over the questionable curtain rod, hoping the whole thing didn’t collapse onto the floor with its weight. The room was freezing, raising goosebumps across her skin, and Ororo shivered, almost dancing from one foot to the other in a bid to shake off the chill. Piotr’s creation was tricky and stubborn, with several hooks and ties that made it difficult to fasten. The outfit pulled in places were Ororo thought it should drape, and her reflection didn’t give her any clues as to how to fix it. Her stomach roiled with her previous hunger and a fresh bout of butterflies.
She was unsure of the outfit. She was unsure of herself. Everything about her looked wrong to her self-appraising eyes, even the things that pleased her when she ran out the door that morning, but Ororo was resigned.
“To heck with it,” she muttered. “Get on with it, Ororo.” It was go time. Ororo steeled herself, took a deep breath and opened the door, stalking back down the hall. She heard Piotr deep in a discussion, but Ororo quailed at the sound of two new voices that weren’t there when she’d arrived.
“…she’s totally green. I don’t know we keep ending up with the new girls.”
“So get another agent, sweetie.” The accent was slightly foreign, the voice nasal and female.
“Where’s Cal?”
“Morocco. Lucky bitch.”
“You snooze, you lose. She needed this shoot. The PR would have helped her.”
“Guess she figures enough people have taken her picture.” That came from Piotr, who sounded resigned. Ororo shivered, hesitating before she returned to the main floor.
What if they hated her? What if they laughed at her? What if they sent her out the door with her tail between her legs? But then she reminded herself, This isn’t just a go-see. This is a fitting. They might actually use me. She crossed her fingers, took another deep breath, then entered the room slowly, giving them the chance to hear the clicks of her high heels and pause their conversation.
It came to an abrupt end when they laid eyes on her attempts to don the designer dress and jacket.
Emma covered her mouth with her fingertips, smothering a snort that made Ororo sick. The striking, curvy woman beside her had waist-length black hair and wore that color like a tattoo, covered in it from head to toe. Thanks to Remy’s tutelage, Ororo could tell her sweater was cashmere, a nice contrast in texture to her mercilessly snug leather slacks. Brittle dark eyes flicked over Ororo and a hint of a smirk twisted the corner of her mouth. Piotr looked…baffled.
“Ermmm…hm. Okay.” He approached Ororo slowly. “What’s wrong here? This looked fine on the fit model.” Ororo felt icy fear wrap around her chest and squeeze as he walked around her in a slow, appraising circle. “Hold on…oh. Okay.”
“Okay?” she murmured unsurely. “Maybe…this dress might not…quite…work on me.”
“It’s meant to work on everybody,” the dark woman told her haughtily. “Piotr’s designs are very flexible and conscious of every body. Not that we want girls who aren’t fabulous wearing them on the runway.”
“She has potential; be nice, Gallio.”
“What? I’m not entitled to an opinion?” Emma shushed her with an impatient gesture while Piotr retrieved a small pin cushion and piece of chalk.
“It’s no good, is it?” Ororo whispered. She tried to maintain some semblance of a smile, but she was devastated. All of her poise that she’d practiced, her smile, expressions, walk, voice…all of it was a waste of time.
“I didn’t say that,” Piotr muttered. He was tweaking the dress here and there. “Can’t figure out…hmmm… He was patently ignoring her in favor of working on the dress. “You’re not a big girl.”
“Thanks,” she husked. Her eyes burned and she retreated into that quiet, lonely little place inside herself for shelter.
“Buck up. You showed up on time. That’s a plus.” He stood back from her a moment, then moved in again, smoothing the fabric of her sleeve. His touch was almost a caress and his palm felt sturdy and hot; it was almost comforting. “Well, shit.”
“What?”
“Take that off. Just…take it off.” His voice mixed annoyance and amusement.
“Why? Here?”
“The jacket, for one. It’s fastened wrong. I couldn’t figure it out until I took a look at the hooks. It hooks first, then wraps, then you tie the sash.” It dawned on Ororo that all wasn’t lost.
“So I was having a wardrobe malfunction?”
“The malfunction wasn’t with my outfit, but yes.” His eyes met hers, and he gave her a tiny punch in the arm. “Smile. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“Again, I don’t care. You were on time. You couldn’t know the difference between pop art and Pop Tarts and I wouldn’t give a damn as long as you have the right attitude and I can work with you.”
“I don’t get Warhol,” she blurted out.
“Blasphemy.” But he offered her a smile that calmed the sting in the back of her eyes. He unfastened the jacket without her permission, peeling it from her, but his baffled expression returned.
“What?”
He sighed heavily. “Right. Emma?”
“Hmmm?” Emma looked up from a stimulating conversation she and her guests were having over some color swatches when she slapped her knee, bursting into a laugh that could only be called a cackle.
“What did I do now?” Ororo whispered, feeling ashamed and mortified.
“Emma…darling. What sayyyyy… we start sewing tags into the samples? Like, in the back?”
The damned dress was on backwards. Ororo wanted to die.
*
The rest of her go-see was longer than Ororo expected. Remy told her initially that she’d likely only be a half an hour in the small design shop. Come in, smile, hand over her portfolio, change into whatever outfit they wanted to see, walk for them, and thank them for their time. She wasn’t expecting several outfit changes, or for Emma and her colleague, Selene Gallio, to give out critiques that were thirty-one flavors of unkind. But Ororo steeled herself and smiled until her face felt like it would crack.
While the women tore her apart, Ororo focused on Piotr’s responses to each outfit as she walked out, practicing what Jean-Paul taught her. Some of the clothes were truly beautiful, making her wish she could wear them home. Once in a while she would end up in something that could only be called “couture” for couture’s sake, sublime, strange, and the kind of outfit that just occupied ad space in thick, glossy magazines until you flipped to the table of contents. Piotr occasionally sidled up to her and adjusted her stance or beckoned for her to turn this way, then that.
“I like your hair. The color works with all of the clothes. Gives your face a nice backdrop. You really pay attention to ‘you’,” he pointed out, gently flicking a lock of it back from her neck. “It’s striking, but not distracting.”
“I’ve never been told that before,” Ororo mused.
“Be honest with me?”
“Of course.”
“Were you scared when you came in here?”
“Terrified.”
“Don’t be.” He nodded back to Emma and Selene. “Be more worried once we give you the job.” Ororo’s stomach flipped and her heart sped up.
“I got the job?”
“I’ve had ten appointments this week that were all crap. Some of them we’ll use, but not one of them grabbed me like you did. Even if you did wear one of my designs backwards, but you know what?” Ororo’s face burned with embarrassment.
“I don’t know if I want to know.” He patted her shoulder, and his hand lingered, briefly.
“If we get you out there often enough, if you get exposed enough, you might set a trend doing just that.”
*
The rest of her day didn’t matter. Ororo was elated, not giving a damn that a car cut her off at an intersection when she was crossing at the walk light. She casually flipped him the bird as he sped off, enjoying the spring in her step once she hit the crosswalk.
I got the job. I got the JOB! She knew Raven would frown upon it, but she stopped at Starbucks and treated herself to a white nonfat mocha and got it with syrup AND whip. It felt good to celebrate.
Ororo decided on the scenic route home, deciding to head toward the harbor front. The day was still cold, but the frost had dissipated and she could no longer see her own breath. She perused the newsstands and people-watched, indulging in Remy’s habit and almost regretting that she didn’t have a camera, or even a sketch pad. It had been so long since she felt…ebullient. Glowingly happy. The day was bright and full of promise, ending in the best possible outcome despite all of her troubles, and she wanted to record it in some way.
Ororo decided she needed one last, naughty indulgence while she was on a roll. Visions of extra miles on the treadmill made her shudder, but one whiff of the falafel at a nearby stand made up her mind. Moments later she was licking a dab of hummus from the corner of her mouth and eating the overstuffed, whole wheat pita in unladylike, huge bites. It had been too long…
Her mother had been a falafel addict and persistent vegetarian. Ororo shared her father’s taste for meat but still enjoyed some of the foods her mother introduced her to before they ended moving in with her grandmother. From then on, choices were limited, and her mother was exhausted. Their lives were filled with tense silences and arguments between N’Dare and Gran-Gran where they often sent Ororo from the room. She couldn’t unburden herself to David when he was so sick. Sometimes she still retreated to his room and sat by him, even when he slept, just to hear his uneven breathing.
Her grandmother instilled her with the habit of cooking vegetables down to nothing, claiming that leaving them too firm gave her gas. Ororo kept to herself most of the time, listening to her music in the basement to avoid disturbing anyone else with it. She despised the smell of beans and pork boiling on the stove or hearing her mother describing her father’s condition in whispered tones in the kitchen.
Dinners were never any better. Ororo grew used to short, quick meals on foot, usually a Pop Tart on the way to school or a pizza slice on her way home. When she was out on the streets, that hadn’t changed. Ororo kept her taste in foods simple out of habit anyway, but her way of living made it a necessity. She wrinkled her nose at still too-recent memories of Slim Jims for breakfast or Hostess cakes for dinner.
Ororo saved the last few bits of her pita pocket for the birds, throwing crumbs out to the ducks and pigeons that already looked pretty well fed.
“Hey, Blue Eyes!” Ororo started, heart pounding as she dropped the last ragged bits of bread on the ground. Out of habit she shrank back from the deep, gravelly voice that she thought she’d escaped months ago. She turned slowly to confront Vic’s broad, jagged grin.
“Hi,” she murmured numbly, stiffening and standing to her full height.
“Damn, darlin’, look atcha. Man. Someone got the hook-up,” he nodded to himself, appraising her. His roving eyes made her feel scummy. The past few weeks suddenly fell away like dominoes, closing the gap between Ororo and one of the uglier reminders of her past.
Yet Victor was physically striking, to his credit. His blue eyes were narrow and shrewd, staring out from the hard angles and planes of his face. His heavy, dark blond brows drew together at her lack of greeting. “Whatsamatter, darlin’? Cat got yer tongue?”
“No. No big deal, Vic.”
“No big deal. Listen ta you. A guy loses track of a girl, and she gives the cold shoulder! Whaddya know good, baby?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“No shit. Where’ve ya been?”
“Here and there.” Ororo felt slightly sick. Her heartbeat sped up as she looked for an easy out to the conversation. He grunted at that, but then he continued his interrogation nonplussed.
“Ya’ve been keepin’ yerself scarce. Any time I’ve asked around, no one’s seen ya, darlin’.” That made Ororo’s blood run cold. “Ain’t got a hug fer ol’ Vic?”
“Vic,” she stammered, looking around furtively. “C’mon…” She tried to smile and play it off like he was joking.
“C’mon, kiddo, give Daddy some sugar…c’mon. C’monnnnnn…” He was still smiling, but there was an edge of irritation to his voice. Her skin crawled the closer he came, and she wanted to tear her hand away as he grasped it. Her whole body went stiff in response and her brain screamed alarms to her body to run as he enveloped her. Victor felt harder, more massive than he had the last time she’d seen him several months ago. The scent of his cologne and his cigar smoke made her fight not to gag.
“Got some meat on yer bones, darlin’,” he whispered into her hair. “Feels nice.”
“O-okay, Vic, that’s…okay. You’re glad to see me. Let a girl up for air, huh?” Ororo prized herself from his grip and continued her bluff. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
“Funny! Funny girl! Love that shit,” Victor barked, but he held onto her wrist. Ororo hoped he couldn’t feel her racing pulse through his battered suede gloves. “So where ya stayin’?”
“Nowhere special. Listen…how have you been? What’ve you been up to?” He didn’t miss her attempt at diverting him. His eyes held that gleam that always appeared whenever he got the jump on someone, literally or physically.
“No good, darlin’. No good. You know me.”
Yes. She knew Victor. Too well. That didn’t make her fear him any less.
“Everyone misses ya. I miss ya. Ain’t anyone else I know who can move it like you can.”
“It’s…been a while, Vic.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“Ya got some other gig lined up?” he scoffed. “That’s why yer all fancied up?”
She swallowed roughly. “I’m out.”
“Ya think so, eh?”
“I am. I’m out.” He eyed her thoughtfully.
He shook his head. “That’s nice. Ya’ve moved on. Nice.” His smile never left his face, but she felt ready to throw up. Ororo felt herself break out into a clammy sweat. “How ya gettin’ home, Blue Eyes?”
That threw her into a fresh spate of panic. She couldn’t walk. He’d follow her, or have someone on her tail, maybe for days. The bus wouldn’t be along for another half an hour.
“Um…I was just going to hail a cab.”
“I can have North pick us up in a flash,” Victor interjected, whipping out his mobile phone.
“NO! No…don’t go to the trouble.”
“Ain’t no trouble. No trouble at all, Blue. He’s just a few blocks away. Why bother with a stinkin’ cab that’ll charge ya up the ass per mile?” He punched in the number of his right-hand man with one thick thumb; it alarmed Ororo that he still hadn’t let go of her wrist. Ororo’s eyes darted around and she craned her neck around to stare back at the street. There was no one around who looked like they could help her get away, or who would think twice about Vic. To them, he was just big, handsome and a good ol’ boy out for a walk around the harbor and a hot dog. With his best girl. What could be shady about that? That was what made Victor Creed dangerous, the things that you assumed about him, the harmless impressions he wanted you to have.
She spied a familiar cab on the corner as it pulled up and parked. She saw its burly driver get out and buy himself a paper from a lockbox beside the stoplight. Ororo cupped her hand around her mouth.
“TAXI! TAXI!” It was a risk. It worked. Vic was startled by the volume of her voice, and he released her hand in response, as if he didn’t want to be caught holding onto her so tightly, after all.
“What the fuck!” he hissed. “Don’t blow out my fuckin’ ear drums! Where ya goin’?”
“He’s already here,” she reasoned as she backed away from him. “Look, Vic…good seeing you. Gotta jet.”
“North’s gettin’ us drinks! He’s already got the heat turned on…c’mon, Blue! BLUE!” he bellowed after her, and this time his voice sounded annoyed.
“Bye!” she cried as she retreated.
“BLUE! ORORO!” She took off at a loping trot and to her horror, heard his heavy footsteps coming after her.
“Shit,” she hissed under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit…”
Her lungs burned with the cold air and her feet smarted from the pinching shoes. “TAXI!” she cried. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. God must have heard her, because he made the grizzled driver peer over the roof of his cab just as he was about to let himself in. He pinned her with inquisitive dark eyes. He saw her running for his car like a bat out of hell and automatically hurried around to the passenger side of the cab.
“Where’m I takin’ ya, darlin’?”
“The usual,” she stammered. He no sooner opened her door than she dove inside, nearly flattening herself against the opposite door. He slammed it behind her with no further ceremony and grunted.
“Okay. That tells me a lot, sweetheart.”
“Just drive,” she rasped hoarsely. When she chanced a look back at the harborfront, Vic was staring after her quizzically, but she didn’t linger on her side of the exchange. She watched Victor throw his hands up, then make “call me” motions with his hand.
It took seven blocks for Ororo to catch her breath and for her savior to get her attention. His eyes peered back at her from the rearview mirror. It took a while for her to process that it really was him.
“I know there’s a story behind why ya ran like ya were comin’ from a house on fire, darlin’. That an ex of yers or somethin’?”
“No,” she grated out bitterly. “That was no ex. Trust me.”
“I’ll take yer word for it.”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” she warned him.
“My bad.” Ororo was almost disappointed that he didn’t pry, but she was also relieved that the car was moving, putting more distance between her and Vic. The blocks whizzed by one after the other, and she noticed that they were nearing the garment district. “Plannin’ ta go shoppin’?”
“No,” she muttered, frowning.
“Because if ya are, I can drop ya off at any of these, curbside. Macy’s? That little Indian fabric shop?”
“No. The ‘usual’ means home,” she pointed out.
“On Twentieth?” he inquired.
“Yeah. And you’re going the wrong way,” she accused. “I’m not paying you the extra fare because you took the long way.”
“This ain’t the long way, and don’t get yer panties in a bunch,” he shot back. His voice was amused, even though his expression was flat.
“Don’t make assumptions about my panties,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the back of his head. Thankfully his cab was warm, and she relaxed back into the seat at least, feeling some of her tension uncoil itself.
“Ya look pretty fancy.”
“I had a go-see.”
“A what?”
“Go-see. An appointment about a job. They wanted to get a look at me in their clothes.”
“What, ya gonna be a dancer, darlin’?” he smirked. Irritation and distaste twisted her mouth.
“Please. You wish.”
“Can’t blame a guy fer tryin’, sweetheart,” he shrugged, nonplussed, and he had the nerve to raise one shaggy brow in her direction in the rearview.
“That’s not how I roll,” she informed him haughtily. “I met a new designer. He’s doing a show in two weeks.”
“What’s his name?” She was surprised he gave a damn. In his battered fleece-lined denim jacket and jeans, he didn’t look like someone who cared about fashion.
“Piotr Rasputin.”
“Pfft! PETEY? Yer workin’ with Big Pete?”
“You know him?”
“He works out at my gym,” he shrugged. “Nice kid. Benches three hundred like it was nothin’. He’s a stress case, though. Gonna give himself an ulcer frettin’ about gettin’ buyers for his stuff. His agents don’t help.”
“I don’t even have an agent yet. Remy set me up with this go-see today.”
“Remy?”
“My friend. I live with him.”
“Ah. Pretty Boy.”
“Don’t call him that,” she ordered indignantly. “He’s done a lot for me.”
He eyed her levelly in the mirror. “I bet he has.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Whatever you’re insinuating, buddy, don’t.”
He shrugged again. “Who’s insinuatin’ anything?”
“Good.”
“Fine.” He averted his eyes from the mirror, but not before she saw him smirk to himself again. Bastard.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip, until they were three blocks shy of Remy’s apartment. “So what kinda name is that, anyway?”
“What kind of name is what?”
“’Roro, or whatever that guy called ya.”
“Ororo,” she corrected him, enunciating it sharply.
“Whoa. Lah-di-dah,” he muttered, pulling a face of mock contrition.
“It’s African. My mother gave it to me.”
“Just ta be fashionable like some of those parents who come up with those fancy names?”
“No. I don’t know anything about ‘those parents.’ I’m half African, not just Black. Not that it should matter to you.”
“Nifty,” he said easily, ignoring her irritation. “Sounds neat, anyway.”
“Thanks,” she muttered, sighing. She wanted nothing more than to get upstairs and kick off her uncomfortable high heels, which were starting to pinch the ball of her foot.
He surprised her as he turned and parked alongside her curb. “When I said ‘those parents,’ darlin’, I meant like some of the hippie chicks that come out to the park with their kids named weird shit like Cornflower or Happy or Seven or Mars.” Ororo snorted, genuinely amused.
“Cornflower?”
“Guess I’ve heard worse, but yeah.”
“Maybe they were from SoHo,” she murmured thoughtfully.
“Woodstock, most likely. He craned his neck around as she began to count out her cash. “Does it mean anything?”
“What, my name?”
“Yeah.”
“Gram-Gram said it means ‘beautiful,’ I think. I don’t know. Guess Mom had high hopes. Wish she’d named me something that meant ‘One of these days I’ll be rich and famous.’”
“Yer mom knew what she was hopin’ for,” he chided her. “Don’t knock it. Maybe she got what she was askin’ for when she named ya that, darlin’.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ororo argued.
“Kay, ‘Roro.” She impatiently tucked the money into his palm and hurried to get out. “Take it easy,” he told her. “Hold on a sec.” She sat back, puzzled and frustrated, until he unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. In an instant, he was up on the curb, opening her door. She wasn’t expecting the chivalry, but his eyes held mischief as they roved over her when she climbed out and stood to her full height. “Damn, yer tall.”
“So I’ve been told. Just don’t ask me ‘How’s the weather up here.’ It’s fine.”
“Sun’s always shinin’ lookin’ at you, darlin’,” he shrugged, but his drawl was so…cocky…that all she could do was sigh and shake her head.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“I’ll give ya a ride any time ya want.” His words chased her up the steps as she trotted into the brownstone building, relieved to leave him behind.
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