“Honey, I’m home!” Ororo sang as she kicked the front door shut, juggling the plastic shopping bags and a foil gift bag looped around her fingers by gold cord. “Rem?” she called out. She heard his low music playing, but he was nowhere in sight. Then she heard the low hum of the bathroom fan drifting out into the hall. “Smells good,” she added as she locked the deadbolts behind her and heading into the kitchen. She set down the bags and pulled off her glove with her teeth. Ororo hit Play on the answering machine and reviewed the messages and caller ID display.
Beep. “Ororo? I’m leaving this message for Ororo Munroe? This is Sandy, from Van Dyne Design. I received a copy of your resume, and I was wondering if you were willing to come on down tomorrow to meet with us. We have a show coming up, and your look might be just the thing we’re going for, if you could try some of our clothes in-house. Give me a call when you have a minute, area code five-five-five, five-five-five, five-six-seven-eight, ask for Sandy…”
“Yes!” Ororo whispered, feeling a grin twist her mouth. She clapped silently and hit the button again.
Beep. “Remy, this is Emma. Just checking in with you about the show we just wrapped. We’re missing one of the scarves Ororo wore at the show, and we were wondering if it got swept up and taken out of the studio when you departed. We’d really like to have it back. Give me a call.”
“Bitch,” Ororo muttered. “I’m no thief…”
“You an’ me know betta den dat,” Remy countered as he ambled into the kitchen. He leaned against the door frame and smirked. “Already heard dat one.”
“I know which scarf she’s talking about. I hate that one.” Ororo bristled defensively as she took off her coat. She was about to hang it over the back of a chair before Remy tutted and pointed toward the hall.
“Hang it up, petit.”
“Okay, okay. Sheesh. I just got home.”
“Den treat it like a home, not a dump. Don’ leave stuff lyin’ ‘round. Do dat often enough, an’ a house stops lookin’ like a home.” Remy was a meticulous neat freak. While Ororo wasn’t a slob, she wasn’t used to having a home to take care of herself.
While Ororo went to the closet, Remy rummaged through the shopping bags. “What’d you get?”
“A few things to make a recipe Piotr gave me.”
“For what?”
“Potato pancakes.”
“Pancakes? Dat ain’ on Raven’s meal plan.”
“Lighten up! We deserve a treat,” she insisted as she sidled up to him, elbowing him companionably.
“Already got dinner in de oven,” Remy pointed out. “Put de potatoes away.” Ororo pouted and stomped her foot.
“Please, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeease… I’m so sick of low-carb!”
“It ain’ sick of you. Lookin’ sharp, petit.” His eyes flicked over her before he continued putting away her groceries. “What’s dat?” He nodded to the shiny foil gift bag.
“It’s a surprise. It was a gift.”
Remy paused in emptying the Safeway sacks to reach into the gift bag. He pulled out a bottle of champagne by the neck and grunted in surprise.
“Where’d you get dis?”
“Nice, huh? It’s Cristal, Remy!”
“I can read what it is, petit.” He set the bottle down on the counter and continued unpacking the bags, moving briskly around the kitchen. His body language was closed and stiff, and his lips were a tight, thin line.
“What’s wrong? Don’t like champagne?”
“Yer too young t’be drinkin’, an’ it’s a bad habit ta start at dis point in yer life, ‘Roro.”
“It’s one little bottle,” Ororo shrugged. “Monet gave it to me. It was part of the swag from her agent.”
“Den give it back. Or give it away.”
“You don’t want some with dinner?”
“Non. Get it outta here.”
“Remy…?” She was puzzled that he was avoiding her eyes.
“Get rid of it. Now.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a child!” Ororo snapped, eyes sparking. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and shifted her weight to one hip. “It’s no big deal. It’s a little champagne. If you don’t want any, then don’t drink it. I didn’t spend your money on it!” she insisted.
“Dat ain’t de point,” he growled. He slapped a bag of broccoli crowns on the counter and whipped around to glare at her, and Ororo wondered when and where she’d gone too far. “It’s my house! Ya ain’t gonna bring liquor up in here! All right? Ya understand, chere? I. Don’t. Drink. I can’t drink.” His intent sank in, and Ororo averted her eyes from his stony gaze. “Ya get it?”
“I get it,” she muttered. “Sorry.”
“Ya need ta understand,” he told her, “cuz I ain’ gonna let ya be mad at me ‘cuz I didn’ make myself clear, ‘Roro.”
“Fine. You don’t have to give me the details.” She looked chastened and slumped out of the kitchen. “You can throw it out,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Chere! Chere, come back here!” He trotted after her, but she closed her bedroom after herself.
She fumed to herself. She should have guessed. Somewhere along the way, it should have registered in her mind. She’d never seen him drink anything but bottled water or club soda, even when they went out to eat or hung out backstage at any of her shows.
But what bothered her more than her own lack of insight was hearing those damning words: It’s my house! Of course it was his house. That bothered her more than anything. Ororo was still living with him out of his hospitality, and it hung over her head. She’d begun contributing to their living arrangement in little ways, like bringing home groceries, and she paid him for her calls on his Verizon bill, but he kept assuring her it wasn’t a big deal. Remy said he was “comfortable” and her staying with him wasn’t putting him out, but Ororo had pride. She hated taking advantage.
And she didn’t want to owe anyone anything. Never again.
Ororo kicked off her pumps and shrugged out of her cardigan, laying it neatly over the bed. Remy knocked gently from the corridor. She heard an odd jingling noise. “What do you need, Remy?”
“Need t’talk t’you, petit.”
“We don’t have to,” Ororo offered. “I get it. I won’t do anything like that again, Rem. I promise.” She continued stripping out of her go-see clothes, glad to slip into her soft flannel pajama bottoms and a gray, ribbed wifebeater tank that she’d stolen from his clean laundry. She’d borrowed it from him after her first forty-eight hours under his roof, before he’d outfitted her properly, and it never made its way back into his drawer since.
He knocked again. “Please come out, petit. I hate talkin’ to ya through a door. C’mon, chere.” He sounded frustrated, but not angry. Ororo’s eyes burned.
She sighed and opened the door to him. His face pleaded with her. “Truce?”
“Sure.” He edged inside and sat on the guest chair in the corner. He nodded for her to take a seat on the bed. “Make yerself comfy, chere. Wanna talk to ya. I don’t want ya ta rush me, cuz dis is important.” He leaned forward with his elbows propped over his knees, letting his wrists dangle in front of him, and she noticed his key chain, realizing that was what she heard jingling before.
“Are we going somewhere after this?”
“Non. Stayin’ in. Dinner’s ready, but I wanna have a talk.” He tossed her his keys, and she caught them deftly. “Look at de tags.” She turned the ring over in her hands, fingering the little metal tags. Each was a different color, and they had different dates inscribed on them. Six months, one year, five years, Ororo read to herself, mouthing the words. “Been sober six years now,” he informed her. “Ain’t been de easiest t’ing, chere.”
“I guess not,” Ororo agreed. “I didn’t know.”
“Ain’t like I t’ought dis discussion would ever come up, ‘Roro. Never crossed my mind dat I’d have ta bring dis up. I ain’t ashamed ta talk about it.”
“And you shouldn’t be.”
“I know. But I gotta be honest wit’ you. Yer used t’seein’ Remy a certain way, in a certain light. Long as you’ve known me, I’m jus’ a man earnin’ a livin’ wit’ my camera an’ my eye for style. I pay my bills. I live in a nice building, have good neighbors, and run around in a highbrow crowd. Ya remember how much of a rise ya got outta me when ya took my camera?” Ororo made a sound of disgust and stared down into her lap. Her cheeks flushed with shame.
“I still can’t believe I did that. You didn’t have to trust me or offer me a place to stay, but you did anyway.”
“I like t’live life on de edge,” he chuckled, and she threw a pillow at him, but there was still hurt in her eyes.
“It’s your house. You can live how you want.”
“Hn. Oui. Guess it is.” It dawned on him what she was getting at, and he felt a pang of guilt. “M’sorry.”
“You were making a point. Which brings me to mine.” She stood and crossed the room, handing him back his keys. “Maybe I should move out.”
“Ain’t no hurry. Why?”
“Because it is your house. You’re right.”
He took the keys but caught her hand, gripping it tight. She tried to jerk away from him, and her face was confused and slightly annoyed. “Did dat upset you, chere?”
“It’s not that. I’ve had it on my mind for a while.”
“When you’re settled and more comfortable, den ya can t’ink ‘bout findin’ yer own place, petit. We’re getting you out dere. But dis ain’t a livin’ for you yet.”
“I’m getting there! Don’t baby me, Remy! And don’t doubt me! What’s the point, if you’re going to tell me it’s not my living yet? I’m getting more shows!”
“Gotta think bigger, petit. A lot bigger.”
“Just don’t doubt me.”
“I doubt you, den I’m doubtin’ how much I’ve put into helpin’ ya get dere, chere. I’ve never backed a loser in my life. I have faith in you. If ya get yer own place, dat’s one thing, but den it’s a struggle.” Then he sobered. “C’mere.” He tugged on her hand again. His fingers felt warm, and his thumb stroked her pulse.
“I’m fine where I am. Talk.”
“Fine, den.” He released her, and she backed away, huddling back on her bed. Her wrist still felt warm from his touch, and her heartbeat sped up. She stared at him as he resumed his comfortable slump. Like her, Remy had slipped into sloppy togs, opting for a soft charcoal gray Starter tank and black Lycra sweats. His hair was still damp from his shower, and his jaw was clean-shaven. The lingering scent of his aftershave lotion tickled her nose. Remy sighed.
“I hit rock bottom one night when I woke up in an alley. My wallet was gone. I was all banged up. I couldn’t remember much about how I got dere. Wuz so hung over I couldn’t t’ink straight. No cab wanted t’pick me up, cuz I looked like hell. But it’d been dat way for a while. I had de cab take me to a clinic. Dey said I wuz anemic, an’ I wuz emaciated. Ya t’ink of drunks as havin’ a beer belly, but it had gotten bad, chere. I wuz hardly eatin’. All I t’ought about wuz gettin’ high. Wonderin’ where my next drink or my next hit wuz comin’ from. Had de shakes. DT’s. Two busted ribs. Contusion on de back of my head. Someone kicked it when dey had me on de ground.”
“Oh, my God,” Ororo whispered. “Oh, Remy.” Her voice was full of sympathy and shock. She reached for the other pillow on her bed and hugged it to her belly.
“Dat’s how bad it’d gotten. Guess ya might’ve guessed by now, me an’ Bella had a fling. Back when I wuz livin’ dat life. She never fell dat far. Dat wuz one of de t’ings that tore us apart, even dough she stayed wit’ me when I wuz dryin’ out. She waited for me. But t’ings were already a mess ‘tween us. De damage wuz done.”
“Did I mess things up?”
“Non. Wuzn’t you. You had not’in’ t’do wit’ us goin’ sour.” Belladonna still called, and occasionally, Remy didn’t come home at night. Ororo didn’t ask why, since it wasn’t her business. But it still chafed her. Sometimes she nibbled on almonds and fixed herself a cup of tea and stayed up watching old movies, waiting for him to come home, but she often fell asleep and woke up to the sound of him humming in the shower the next morning.
“Didn’t really realize how bad I let t’ings get. Ev’ry’tin’ got away from me. My rent, my car payment. Utilities were shut off when I got back from rehab, and everything was in collections. I had t’start from de beginning. Call back agents and models who fired me by phone. Apologize to my pere and my brother. Had ta stop hangin’ out wit’ a whole crowd of people I t’ought were my ‘friends.’ My pere came by ta help me clean my apartment, and it looked like a crack house. Bottles an’ pipes ev’rywhere. Garbage bags full. I primed over a wall dat I painted dark red. Still don’ know why. I even wrote t’ings on it.”
“Like what?”
“Let it end now. Loser. No love. Live fast. Die young. Leave a beautiful corpse. Whole lotta nonsense.”
“Wow.” Ororo shook her head numbly. “That isn’t you.”
“It was, back den.”
“So I didn’t mean to freak out about the champagne. But now ya know why.”
“That reminds me… excuse me.” She shuffled into her bedroom slippers and dashed for the door. Remy jumped up and caught her arm.
“Where ya goin’?”
“Out for a moment. Give me a minute.” Ororo brushed him off and ran for the hall closet. She grabbed a hoodie and tugged it on before she made her way into the kitchen. She took the bottle, still unopened, and tucked it back into the bag. She looked at it longingly, but she made up her mind. Remy followed her, but she waved him off. “I’ll be back.”
“Ya don’t hafta dash off, chere! Ya just got home!” he complained. “And dinner’s ready!”
“I’ll be back.” Ororo briefly stroked his arm before she breezed out the door. Remy sighed at the sound of the hollow slam.
“Fuck,” he muttered, wondering how far into his mouth he’d shoved his foot.
But it was out. The weight was off his chest, and Remy felt as though they were on more even ground. He was relieved, but part of him wondered how Ororo would feel about him now. Did she think he was a hypocrite? Did she think he’d treated her like a child?
His thoughts raced as he set the table and brought out serving spoons and utensils and made them both hot Tazo tea. He’d forgotten that he’d left his music playing, and he headed back to his bedroom stereo and changed the discs in the carousel. He added a couple that Ororo mentioned she’d liked, an olive branch.
He was already at the table, sipping his tea when she came back inside. She gave him a brief, noncommittal smile as she hung up the sweatshirt and sat down, toeing off her slippers under the table. “Where were you?”
“Down the hall. I gave it to Wanda. She was pretty stoked. Thought I was crazy for giving it away.”
“Ain’ not’in’ wrong wit’ givin’ up free booze.”
Ororo mused to herself, How about free rent? Free electricity? She didn’t voice her concerns again. Dinner was casual, not as tense as it could have been, but Ororo’s earlier good mood deflated. Remy asked her once in a while if everything was fine, and she assured him that it was delicious.
She headed back to her room, pleading exhaustion, but she needed to give the memories flooding her free rein, alone.
Victor. It always came back to him.
**
Flashback:
Ororo had never used. She could have. Some scrap of pride and self-preservation kept her from walking that road. But she threw her lot in with Vic as an easy out. Like Remy, he was generous. It didn’t mean anything to him to set her up in a rent-by-the-week motel or to take her where she wanted to go in his car.
He’d propositioned her. It wasn’t an ideal start to their “business arrangement” and working friendship. Ororo was huddled against the wall of a liquor store one night, trying to take meager shelter from a pelting rain that caught her by surprise. Victor came outside, lighting up one of the Camel’s he’d just purchased. He was larger than life and imposing in his shining black leather jacket, and he grinned at her like a hungry lion.
“Ya on the clock, sweetheart?” His voice was gruff and held a hint of laughter at her expense.
“What?”
“C’mon. Come over here and talk ta me for a minute.” He closed in on her, and his body provided a brief windblock as she struggled up to her full height. She glared up at him.
“I don’t know you,” she accused. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Why? Ya got somewhere ya need ta be?” He caught up to her easily with his long legs, and he took another fortifying drag of his cigarette. “I ain’t a cop.”
“Good for you.” Ororo didn’t trust the police. She’d nicked a few wallets and the occasional bag of groceries from people’s car trunks, but she’d been scared to death every time.
“Ya can trust me. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Name’s Victor. I go by Vic.”
“Rhymes with Dick. I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“What the fuck?” He kept following her, and Ororo wished that a cop would come along and chase him off, so he’d leave her in peace. Why did all the weirdos find her appealing? Ororo wondered if some tattooed “Come and mess with me” across her forehead while she was napping in the doorways and tenements where she squatted as necessary. “Why’ve I gotta be selling anything?”
“Looks like you’re making a big living selling something,” she pointed out. He kept following her as she pushed the walk light button and hustled over the crosswalk. “Check the time on that fancy Rolex you’re sporting.”
“It’s half-past seven,” he obliged, looking amused and annoyed at the same time. He cocked one shaggy, honey blond brow at her.
“No. It’s time to leave me the fuck alone.” She turned into a crowded diner, not caring about the disgusted look the waitress gave her as she took in Ororo’s shabby garb. Ororo wore a men’s ribbed tank that was soaked through from the rain, a dubious bargain from a Salvation Army shop and one of the only summer items of clothing she owned. Her jeans were faded and torn, and where they were once form-fitting, now they bagged around her waist.
It occurred to her that she couldn’t even order anything. She didn’t have any money. “How many?” The waitress’ voice was flat and her eyes held contempt, silently telegraphing We both know you’ll be out of here in thirty seconds. Don’t waste my time and yours making me seat you at a table.
“Two,” Victor pronounced over her shoulder. The waitress gaped as she saw the huge blond in designer labels and teeth like a shark’s sidle up to the too-tall, too-skinny Black chick with the freaky hair and let his eyes run over her in her disheveled state. Ororo’s breasts looked ripe in the flimsy, worn cotton that was plastered to her skin.
“One,” Ororo argued sharply.
“Both of ya can sit at the counter.” The waitress jerked her thumb over her shoulder and scooted off to help the next customers. Ororo glared at her retreating back, but Victor’s touch distracted her. His hand was warm at her lower back and gentler than she would have expected.
“My treat, if ya quit tellin’ me ta fuck off.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea about me. It’s that simple,” she told him, blue eyes blazing. His were blue too, but they were an icy slate and held a gleam of intelligence. The way he looked at her was making her shiver more than the chill from the rain on her bare skin.
“Then give me the right idea. Ya hungry?”
She was starving. “No. I just wanted a cup of coffee.”
“We’ll make that bitch over there in the orthopedic shoes bring us a whole pot,” he assured her, nodding back to the mean waitress. “Siddown. Tell me yer name.”
“My name’s not important.”
“Fine, then. Be that way, Blue Eyes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then give me something I can call ya.” A different waitress asked if they’d seen the menus and told them the specials. “Give us a minute, sweetheart.” She glanced back at him approvingly and eyed Ororo curiously, wondering why he was talking to someone so bedraggled.
“You don’t really care what my name is.”
“Damn. Ain’t old-fashioned at all, are ya? Can’tcha let a guy be a gentleman?”
“I can be a lady, but not if you think I was working that corner.”
“So ya weren’t.”
“No. Not my idea of a promising career choice.”
“Depends on the clientele.”
“Baloney. My daddy didn’t raise any fools.”
“So how’d ya end up here?”
“I was unlucky.”
“Then this is yer lucky day, Blue.” Ororo sighed. She gratefully thanked the waitress for the coffee and sugared it generously, letting the steam waft up around her cheeks.
“Not if you’re looking for a good time.”
“I’m already havin’ a good time.” He glanced at the menu and clapped it shut when the grumpy waitress sidled up.
“Know whatcha want?”
“The reuben with fries. And a root beer.”
“What about you, kid?” Before Ororo could answer, Vic held up his hand.
“Get her a cheeseburger. The combo.” Ororo gave him a wry look. That was just what she’d craved as soon as they entered the diner.
“And a Coke.”
“Got a ‘No Shirt, No Shoes’ policy hangin’ the front door, kid. That’s hardly a shirt, the way yer wearin’ it.”
“Hope ya ain’t workin’ here for tips,” Victor challenged. “Leave her alone.”
“That gonna be all?”
“Yeah, Flo. Go find some grits ta kiss.” His eyes hardened, even though his lips smiled at her in saccharine fashion. She took the hint and disappeared with their ticket.
“So I’m buyin’ ya dinner, and I don’t even get a name.”
“Ororo.”
“Different. How ‘bout a last name?”
“How about not.”
“I think I still like Blue Eyes better.”
“Get used to it.”
“Should I?” He smelled like smoke and some musky cologne that wasn’t unpleasant. His body radiated heat and having him beside her made her feel strangely protected, almost like owning a pitbull that only heeled at the sound of her voice. “What if I told ya I could help ya?”
“Why do you think I need help?”
“Ya wanna pick up the tab?” Ororo looked down and picked at her nails.
“Asshole,” she muttered. “Maybe next time.”
“That’s what I thought.” He gulped down his of coffee in two swallows and sighed, staring at her. “Yer a mess, but yer fuckin’ gorgeous, Blue. Real sweet-lookin’, like a little girl. I need that look of yers. I wanna put ya ta work for me.”
“You a pimp?”
“No.”
“Dealer, right?”
“Yes.” His answer was blunt and to the point.
“Hell, no.”
“Ya don’t hafta sell it.”
“That’s what they all say. You heard me when I said my daddy didn’t raise me to be a fool, right?”
“I ain’t ‘they all,’ darlin’. Give me some credit. I don’t wantcha ta deal. I need a contact. A lookout girl. Easiest job in the world.”
“What’s it pay, minimum wage?”
“A cut of every deal.”
“Right. You probably are a cop.” He threw back his head and laughed.
“Ya’ve got a mouth on ya, Blue.” Their food arrived, and Ororo was ravenous, but she didn’t want to tear into it while she was still making her case and turning him down. Too bad he didn’t get the picture.
“Look… I don’t need any trouble. I don’t know why you get your kicks, asking any woman on the street to be your lookout, or whatever-“
“Not just any woman. I think yer special. Ya have that ‘quality.’” He took a bite out of his reuben, and his eyes closed at how good it was. Ororo’s stomach growled. “Dig in,” he said with his mouth full.
She nibbled a French fry and wanted to cry at how crisp, greasy and salty it was. She hadn’t had any in so long. She was about to go primitive over the burger in a second, but she didn’t want to give Victor the satisfaction. “Men always say a woman’s special when they want something.”
“Whadda you want?” he said pointedly as he licked a dab of Thousand Island dressing from his finger.
“Stability. You can’t give me that.”
“Ya can buy stability. Stability,” he snorted. “What’s that? Really? That what yer chasin’, doll? I don’t know anyone in the world who’s a hundred percent ‘stable.’ Everyone’s got their problems. ‘Issues.’” He made finger-quotes and took a swig of his root beer. “That’s what shrinks call ‘em before they take yer money. Ya don’t need a shrink. Ya need a job. Easy as pie.”
He had to mention pie. She gingerly ate another fry and took a ladylike sip of her Coke. “C’mon. I’m a fair boss.”
“I’m my own boss.”
“Of what?” He shook his head. “C’mon. Yer tempted.” She was startled when he took her hand and stroked her fingers, examining them. “Where’d ya get that scar from?”
“Broken window.”
“Sounds like some story.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The way his fingers ran over her skin gave her chills, and she jerked her hand away.
“Fine. We’ll leave that skeleton in the closet. I’ve got a whole friggin’ graveyard full.” She chuckled as she ate another fry. “Ya better eat that, or I will.” He inhaled half of his sandwich within seconds, and she finally couldn’t stand it. Grease, ketchup and pickle juice ran down the edge of her hand when she bit into the patty, a generous, diner-sized quarter pound of juice beef. She made a rapturous sound. He shook his head and watched her thoughtfully.
“Bet it doesn’t take much ta make ya happy.”
“I can’t remember the last time that I was. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I don’t hope. I know how ta get what I want. Ya could learn a lot from me about that, darlin’.”
Her mother’s childhood lectures about not taking candy from strangers rang in her ears. N’Dare left out the part about dealers picking up the tab in dives with cracked vinyl seats and Formica counters. But N’Dare was gone.
Ororo was all alone.
She finished the last sip of her Coke and wished she had another. She was stuffed and wished she had a bed to sleep it off. “Ya got anywhere ta go?” Vic asked her, reading her mind again.
She’d learn to hate that about him.
“Wherever I end up.”
“I can put ya up.”
“Not at your place.”
“It’s nice.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the alternative? Women’s shelter? Dumpster? Alley? Crackhouse?”
“No. No. No. Hell, no.”
“Thanks for the burger. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but so was the Big Bad Wolf.”
“Yer not a little girl in a red hood. Not that I’d mind, if that’s what ya were into, Blue.”
“It’s Ororo.” Her pride bristled and she straightened up as she stood.
“I could get used to it.”
“I don’t think you’ll have the chance.”
“Ya need a ride home?” he asked dryly as he left the money on top of the ticket that the turnip-faced waitress slapped down. Ororo halted her stalk toward the door and closed her eyes for a moment. Fuck. He had her again. She waited for him to catch up, and she stared dolefully up at him.
“No funny business.” He held up his hands, and his hand was once again gentle at her lower back as he guided her toward his car. She was stunned to find that he had his own driver, and that sent panic fluttering into her chest. “This is North.”
“Chris,” he corrected her. He looked friendly enough, but he was too well-dressed with rich-looking gold and platinum rings littering his fingers; one was curiously thick, almost as big as a brass knuckle. Inwardly, she recoiled.
But Victor surprised her again by removing his heavy jacket and draping it around her shoulders. “Yer shivering.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Get in. Watch yer head.” She ducked down into the back of the Crown Victoria, having no clue that it was one of several cars Vic held the title to, often his collateral for clients who couldn’t pay. This one was one of his favorites.
He took her to his place, and she cursed herself; it wasn’t like she had an address to give him. He looked smug, but Victor was silent. His hand felt hot against her knee, and he gave it a little squeeze. She was stiff and tried not to lean against him, but it was difficult when he took up so much space in the back of the car. They drove across town, more city blocks, then eventually more miles than she could count. She lost track of how many shadows thrown by the streetlights ghosted over his blond hair before she dozed off against his bulk.
He supported her as she staggered up his front steps. His cologne filled her head with its musk, and she was close enough to smell his skin with its salty tang of sweat. She was exhausted; too many nights of sleeping on hard, unfamiliar surfaces and never being warm enough, sheltered enough, or never being able to feel safe enough caught up to her within minutes, thanks to a full stomach and the comforting warmth of the jacket and the car’s heater. Her eyelids drooped, and she had a hard time not nodding off as he keyed the lock. She didn’t pay attention to the furnishings of his apartment. All that she cared was that it had a roof. She began to shrug off the heavy leather, but he finished the task. She was dead on her feet.
He led her to the couch and knelt by her feet, tugging off her shabby sneakers and holey socks. He tsked. “Yer feet feel like ice cubes.” He rubbed them between his palms, and she sagged back into the cushions in contentment. Bit by bit, she let go, ignoring the earlier alarms in her head.
She had a choice. She could change her mind, scream, run like a bat out of hell, and run the risk of pissing him off.
Or, she could stay the night. Do the deed. Stay sheltered. Repay his favor, and sneak out in the morning.
His fingers drifted up her leg, light as a feather. He raised himself up from his crouch, nudged her knees apart, and leaned in, blocking out her view of the overhead light as his lips closed in on hers. Ororo was a realist. She didn’t believe in guardian angels or getting anything for free. Her fingers twined through his long hair, and she moaned beneath his warmth and the welcome feel of his bulk. His body was crawling with sinewy muscle and dusted with dark gold, fine hair when her hand found its way inside his shirt. His kisses were insistent and hungry, and she opened for him easily.
He knew she’d taste sweet. He didn’t expect her to be so compliant after she made her case. It was all he could do not to take her on the couch. He burned for her, enthralled by the lithe curves outlined by the ridiculous men’s undershirt. He scooped her up and carried her to his bedroom, with her long legs locked around his waist.
He stripped her down quickly and led her into the adjoining shower, making her feel initially self-conscious, but again, she didn’t care. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, leaving the room lit only by the scant sliver from his room’s lamp. He ground against her, alternately stroking her and jerking off his own shirt. Her hands fumbled with his belt before he relieved her of that task, too. He tested the hot spray before stepping into the tub first, and he helped her inside, slamming the glass door shut before he devoured her.
They made a soapy, steamy mess of the shower and the bathroom, leaving wide circles of water on the linoleum as they headed back to his bed. Ororo let herself go, letting her caution slip until she pushed her doubts into the dark, locking them away. She had no reason to trust Victor Creed. None at all.
But he was marking her with his kiss, nipping it and possessing it with his large hands, examining and exploring every inch of her soft brown skin, murmuring how sexy she was into her hair, stroking it back from her face as he drank kisses from her until they both drowned. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, unless ya want me to,” he growled into her neck. She shook her head.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, voice nearly a sob. “I’ll do what you want tonight, Vic. Please.”
“Yeah?” She nodded, and he nodded back to her. His fingertip slid over her plump lips and tickled her beneath her chin. He ground against her, enjoying how pliant her body was beneath him. She was driving him crazy.
“Tell me what you want.” He shook his head, chuckling.
“You show me, first.” His eyes were dark with passion and danger as he descended her body, painting a trail of heat over her flesh. She gasped at the feel of his teeth catching her nipple and arched up into his mouth.
Mom. I’m so sorry. It was her last coherent thought before she began praying out loud and crying out his name. He pried all of her secrets out of her with his skilled tongue, probing and teasing her until she shattered. He returned to her, crushing her into the mattress and breaching her with a hard, deep thrust that made her see stars. His girth stretched her with a sweet burn, and her hands caressed him as he wrapped her legs around him again and began to ride her. This was what she expected from him, the slickness of his sweat-drenched flesh, his dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, his sweaty tangle of hair mingling with hers every time he kissed her.
“Damn it, Blue! Damn you!” He pounded into her faster, harder, with so much force that that headboard banged against the wall. She was sweet, mewling beneath him and clenching around his throbbing cock, milking him of every last drop of juice… “Oh, God. Oh, God…shitshitshitSHITSHIT!”
His hands were tangled in her hair as his hips pistoned like a machine. Pleasure spiraled through her nerve endings, centering in her womb, tingling in the tips of her breasts. She felt his lips fasten themselves at her throat, and she yelped at the feel of his teeth sinking in a little too deep. He kissed the wound in apology, and for a moment, things grew almost too kinky, even though she was still aroused.
“Ya like it, darlin’?”
“Yes,” she hissed.
“Tell me how much ya like it.”
“Please…please,” she chanted as he pulled all the way out of her except for his swollen head, then snapped back into her in long, hard strokes, finding her hot spot with each thrust.
Panic flooded her when his hands closed around her throat. Her eyes flew open wide, and she shook her head, clamping her thighs around his ribs tight enough to crush a walnut. His expression was thoughtful, and he released her throat as soon as his fingers began their furtive squeeze.
“VICTOR!” Her heels bounced against his back as she tried to roll him off of her, and her fists rained down upon his shoulders until he caught her wrists and jerked them above her head, pinning her.
“Calm the fuck down!” he growled, amused and disgusted. “Too freaky, darlin’?” Tears flooded her eyes, and he knew he’d gone too far. “Daddy’s sorry, darlin’… I’ll make it better…”
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she whispered. He hadn’t stopped thrusting into her. He kissed her damp cheek, letting his lips trail down to her mouth. He captured her sob and once again tangled his fingers in her hair, murmuring reassurances into her throat. Her passionate haze never came all the way back, but her body still responded to his onslaught. She came hard, squeezing him and mewling his name. He finished soon after, more out of courtesy than exhaustion.
She fell into an uneasy sleep against him while he stroked her hair, once he pulled the covers over them both. “Sorry,” he repeated. “Didn’t mean ta freak ya out. Got a little carried away.”
Hearing that terrified her more than his playful throttling. Ororo remained silent.
She mused to herself at how she’d arrived at this point. She wondered how far she’d go, still, until the cards fell in her favor.
She accepted his offer over breakfast the next morning. Ororo became his runner.
*
Ororo was startled by the sound of Remy’s knock. “Chere?”
“Hold on.” She opened it to find him looking worried. He leaned his forearm against the frame. “What’s up?”
“Not’in. Jus’ wanted ta see if we were straight.”
“Solid.”
“Still t’inkin’ ‘bout leavin’?”
“When the time’s right. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“When I’m ready t’kick ya out, you’ll know, chere.” He smirked. She stuck out her tongue at him.
“Thanks a heap.” Her eyes still looked troubled.
“I feel like I botched dis up, somehow. Yer sure yer fine?”
“I’m okay. Just thinking about stuff. It’s no big deal.”
“We can talk. Want more tea?”
“Tea’s fine. But I don’t think I want to talk about it. It’s… just weird.”
“Complicated?” She nodded and reached up to pat his hand. His thumb snapped around hers and squeezed it, and he sighed, straightening up.
“C’mere, chere.”
C’mon, Blue.
Ororo stepped into his hug and sighed. Here she was again. She didn’t want to accept it.
But she didn’t want to let this go.
She didn’t want to let Remy go. And it scared her.
She felt tense in his arms, and he stroked her back, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “Ya okay?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Remy, I’m sorry I messed up today.”
“Already said it was okay.”
“I just am, okay? I don’t want to let you down.” They stood locked in the embrace, hearts pounding and just listening to each other breathe. Her arms tightened around his waist, and his palms mapped out her taut muscles and counted her vertebrae through her tank.
Yer special.
“You won’t. Yer special. I believe in you, chere.” Ororo shivered. Remy brushed her temple with his lips and pulled back to stare into her face. Her eyes were filled with emotion. “It’s okay.”
“Thank you.”
“Quit dat. Ain’ no need t’keep t’ankin’ me.” He kissed her forehead and smacked her hip. She gave him a watery smile, and she surprised him when she engulfed him again in a needier, much more desperate embrace. “Chere,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
I know how ta get what I want. Ororo wondered, deep in her soul, if Victor had taught her, too well, how to do that, too.
Remy just held her, wondering what thoughts were brewing in her mind.
*
Ororo arrived early for her go-see at Van Dyne Designs, out of breath and full of butterflies. She checked her hair in the window before she walked inside, and she decided she would pass muster. She longed to go back to Ali’s and pour out her heart over a protein pack and acrylic fill. But she had a job to do, more importantly, a job to get, so there was no point in wanting to fool around.
She approached the receptionist’s desk and introduced herself. “Hi. I’m here to meet with Sandy? I’m Ororo Munroe.”
“Perfect. They’re waiting for you down the hall, to your right.” Ororo’s heart jumped.
“Waiting? Am I late?”
“No. You were booked for ten, but they wanted to bring you in to try on an outfit or two, and they wanted the extra time to interview you.” Ororo felt antsy. “Right now, they’re meeting with another model and trying a few ideas out.”
“Sure,” Ororo said cheerfully, but she still felt uncomfortable when she was given a visitor’s pass. She headed down the hall as the receptionist called out, “Room three!”
“Thanks!” She waved back to her over her shoulder and braced herself before knocking on the door and peeking around the corner.
“Ororo?” A petite brunette looked up from a design table strewn with photos and fabric swatches. She looked like she could only be five-one in her bare feet, but she tottered over to Ororo on five-inch, mean-looking stilettos. “I’m Janet Van Dyne.”
“Oh, my God,” Ororo gasped. “You’re kidding!” Janet chuckled as she shook her hand.
“I wanted to sit in on your meeting with Sandy. She’s head of my personnel department and keeps tabs on my shop.”
“You’re a legend,” Ororo blurted. Janet threw back her head and laughed. She looked like she could be a petite model herself, with her small, even features and boyishly slim figure. She wore her chestnut brown hair in a razor-cut shag that cupped her heart-shaped face. Her coffee brown eyes were soft and fringed with ridiculously long lashes, and her brows were waxed as carefully as Ororo’s making her wonder if she went to Ali, too. Her outfit was a purple confection in wispy chiffon, and she wasn’t shy about accessories.
“Let’s see a few different things on you. Sandy,” she called back to another fashion-conscious blonde who entered the room from a small store room in the back. “Can you bring us some coffee?”
“I ordered in for some. Hank’s bringing it soon,” Sandy assured her. “Any preference?”
“Black,” Ororo supplied, even though the thought of a Starbuck’s latte nagged at her. She heard Raven’s voice in her ear threatening her with another fifteen minutes on the treadmill if she erred in favor of empty calories.
“You can head back into the changing room. Our model who booked the appointment before yours is still in there. You can say hi.”
“Sure,” Ororo agreed, but she wasn’t enthusiastic to meet her competition for the job. She was glad that Piotr liked her, but she needed to expand her repertoire and get her face out there, and Janet Van Dyne was as “out there” as you could get. She wasn’t afraid of color, unlike some of the designers who were thinking up different incarnations of the “little black dress” every season and giving all of their models Robert Palmer-slick buns and smoky eyes.
Ororo dutifully accepted the garment bag that Sandy handed her once she told her she was a size eight. As she made her way back to the changing room, she heard the women muttering between themselves.
“Little bigger than I hoped.”
“She has that look. Nothing wrong with hips, if we work around it.”
“She needs to work around us,” Sandy reminded Janet.
“They always said I was out of the box. At my height, I’m your usual designer’s nightmare. That’s why I booked Pryde, too.”
“Still don’t get it. She’s too short and too young.”
“She’s spunky.”
“Let her be spunky from the cover of Marie Claire.”
“I like this one. She looks like a real woman.”
“Models aren’t supposed to look like real women. I can take that dummy,” she said, pointing to the body double fit mannequin, “put a wig on it, and wheel it down the runway in one of your ensembles, and I’d have an easier time selling it than I would on a model with hips.”
“How about breasts?” Janet quipped. “People pay for ‘em like hers.”
Ororo was flushed with embarrassment and resentment, but then she thought back to her sessions with Jean-Paul. Strut. Work what you’ve got, and believe that you’ve got it, or no one else will think so. Just as she thought her chances were shot to hell, Janet surprised her.
“She has that hungry look. Kind of vulnerable.”
“She’s not ‘waify.’”
“Thank goodness. No. I can’t stand that look. Remember how Chrisiansen and Seymour both looked back in the day? Turlington? They were doe-eyed like that, and really lippy. I can work with that.”
“Maybe if you have a lingerie line.”
“Hmmmm…” Ororo chuckled at Janet’s contemplative tone. But she ignored them. It was time to face the music. She hung up the garment bag and stepped out of her heels, hanging up her purse. She turned on the small lamp and gave herself a once-over. She looked fit, again, thanks to Raven. Makeup? Check. Hair? Decent, and thankfully, she wouldn’t have to worry about pulling her own outfit off over her head.
She opened the garment bag with a sharp zip once she had stripped down to her skivvies, but a familiar, raspy voice with a Brooklyn burr intruded on her privacy. “Damn. Look at that big ol’ ass. Guess I’m wasting my time if they’re booking you. Seven days a week running my ass off, krav maga, yoga and no red meats, and I’m wondering now who you had to fuck to get the same show I did, looking like the Big Bad Wolf after he ate the first two little pigs.” Callisto tsked and folded her arms across her rib cage. Ororo glared and rolled her eyes.
“Before you opened up your mouth, I thought Bono stepped out the door in drag.” Ororo turned around and began stepping into the dress, a gun-metal gray number with a short skirt that appeared to be backless. From behind her, Callisto gave her a sickening smile in the mirror.
“You think you’re cute. That’s your first mistake.”
“Yours was that haircut. Shemp and Moe called, they both want their look back.”
“Please. You call that a comeback?” Callisto tsked with emphasis, shaking her head. “I’m gonna read yer fortune right now, kid. You’re gonna walk out the door, they’ll take one look at you in that dress, and they’ll try not to laugh as they tell you not to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
“That gives me two minutes to change their mind. That gives you even less. You’re wasting my time and yours, and you’re in my light.” Cal sauntered up close to her, and Ororo edged away from her as she invaded her space. Cal smirked, and in a move straight off the streets, she flicked her razor-sharp nails through Ororo’s hair. Ororo instinctively slapped her hand away. “Get away from me.”
“You’ve got nothing, bitch.”
“You’ve got nothing,” Ororo countered, letting her eyes dart down to Callisto’s chest. Cal caught her look and shrugged, but her smile faltered.
“Boo-hoo.” She pretended to wipe away tears with her knuckles. “You might make it working a pole, but you suck on the runway. Prissy bitch.”
“Skank,” Ororo muttered. She turned her back on her and did up the tricky side zipper, the kind that she hated, but she was glad that her stomach was flat enough to allow it.
“Don’t forget to do this on the way out,” Cal snickered, and she made an exaggerated gesture of twisting around to look at her own backside.
“Are you done? I have places to be after I get this job.”
“Bullshit. You don’t have anywhere to be. I don’t know where Remy dredged you up from, but you’re better off crawling back there. And you won’t get this job. I’ve already got a spot in this show. Me? I’ve got the look they want. It works. That’s why I work so much in this business. You?” She snorted and waved her hand in Ororo’s direction, turning up her nostril. “Please. You won’t hit, and even if you hit, you won’t last.” Her words stung. Ororo fumed.
“You okay back there?” Sandy called out from the office.
“Coming,” Ororo replied before she glared at Callisto. She stepped back into her shoes and ran her hand through her hair. “It’s funny, hearing that from you.”
“What’s so funny about it? You’re shit.”
“I might be struggling my way up, but you’re on your way out. So, go on. Get out.” Ororo brushed by her in the narrow doorway to make her impression.
“Bitch,” she muttered.
Without turning around, Ororo flipped her the bird.
Janet looked up at the sound of Ororo’s low voice. “Well?” She wished she could think of something intelligent to say, but keeping it brief might work out to her advantage. Janet looked up from her coffee and then set it down before it reached her lips. Sandy’s brows rose, and she beckoned Ororo forward.
“Come out here. Walk around in it.” Ororo obeyed, heart pounding, but she caught a glimpse of herself in the pane of a framed print. Her too-critical eyes doubted the appeal of her curvy body in the delicate little dress. It looked like it was hanging on by a thread with its halter neckline and gaping back, and she was getting a draft. Tiny silver chains draped across the waist unevenly, emphasizing her flat belly and wasp waist.
“Come back this way,” Janet murmured. Her eyes roved over Ororo. “Come here.” Ororo flushed. “Try this with it.” She handed her a small alligator purse. Ororo slung it over her shoulder by the strap and stepped back, vamping with her hand on her hip.
“Try the necklace,” Sandy added, approaching her with a string of mismatched hematite and cut glass stones that Ororo would never pick out for herself, but it looked right with the dress. As Ororo caught her reflection in a standing mirror in the corner of the room that she hadn’t noticed before, she almost “ thankfully not quite “ checked her ass out like Callisto predicted she would. Bitch.
Callisto stepped out of the changing room, hobo bag draped over her shoulder, and she gave Ororo a crooked grin as she headed for the door. “Thanks for coming in, Cal,” Janet bade her. Sandy gave the needle-thin brunette a hard look that piqued Ororo’s interest.
“Bye-bye.” She waved and appeared to be laughing at Ororo, and when she walked away, it was with an exaggerated swish of her narrow hips, miming that Ororo had a big butt. She rolled her eyes silently.
“Mind telling me what you did to get Cal on your scent?” Sandy asked quietly after she left. Janet was rifling through the racks of samples, selecting Ororo’s next look.
“Breathed.”
“Ah.” Sandy sighed. “You’re a hard sell. You know that, right?”
“Better than everyone thinks I do.”
“Buck up. Here’s your coffee.” She handed Ororo the to-go cup that still had steam snaking through the slit in the lid.
“Try this one next. I want to see it against that hair of yours,” Janet told her as she handed her a cut-out black gown. Ororo’s brows shot up.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“Go for it. Don’t take too long; we’ve got a tight day today.”
“Right. Be right back,” Ororo promised. She hoped she didn’t end up putting it on backwards or strangling herself with any of the myriad straps and loops.
Janet and Sandy wore polite smiles when she took her next walk, but inside, they brimmed with excitement.
*
Beep. “Ororo, this is Sandy. Just calling to let you know that we decided to go a different direction with the show this time. I’m sorry.” Ororo’s heart fell. She was about to delete the message, but after a pause, Sandy continued to torture her. “You have a great look, but we’re not sure it’s ‘runway’ enough. Couture is tough.”
“Damn it,” Ororo hissed, feeling the hot sting of tears and the flush of shame.
“…so what I’m thinking, if I haven’t ruined your day yet, is that we’ve got a photo spread coming up in Swag. It’s next month. Give us a call.” Ororo spun away from the answering machine, heart pounding. She braced herself against the counter with shaking hands and took a deep breath.
Then she screamed, not caring one bit what the neighbors thought.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Ororo learns more about Remy’s dark past. Her own comes back to haunt her when she’s trying to move forward.
Thank you to those of you still reading this story. Also, QT Fic, I’ve enjoyed your visits to my comments pages, thank you so much for the attention. Now...
WARNING: You might hate this chapter. Ororo's flashback takes her character into a different, more negative light. But my muse wouldn't let me make her too "Mary Sue." Desperate people do desperate things.
Thank you to those of you still reading this story. Also, QT Fic, I’ve enjoyed your visits to my comments pages, thank you so much for the attention. Now...
WARNING: You might hate this chapter. Ororo's flashback takes her character into a different, more negative light. But my muse wouldn't let me make her too "Mary Sue." Desperate people do desperate things.
Chapter End Notes:
I did a lot of name-dropping in this chapter. Sorry. By "Christiansen, Seymour, and Turlington," I meant three Victoria's Secret supermodels that most of you should be familiar with, especially if you remember the nineties pretty well. And they ARE doe-eyed and lippy.
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