Logan’s out to get laid tonight.
I could tell as soon as he came strutting down the stairs. It should be illegal for anyone to look that good. And he knows it, the handsome bastard. He knows he can work women with his looks alone, and that brawny body. He winked at me, grabbed the keys to his bike off the wall of the garage, and rode away toward town. I know where he goes, his favorite hang-out with live country music and a dance floor on one end, pool tables on the other, and an amazingly well-stocked bar in the middle.
There’s even sawdust strategically scattered on the floor, and empty peanut shells tossed everywhere. Add many women in tight clothes and sporting lots of hair, and you’ve got one very busy roadhouse. I’ve been there with him before. He took me in for lunch one day when we were out for a ride. It was nice just sitting at the bar with him, munching peanuts and drinking beer. He even bought me a shot of brandy to celebrate my twenty-first birthday, while we waited for ribs and spicy fries.
After we had eaten and shot a few games of eight ball, he dropped a handful of quarters in the jukebox and slow-danced with me. That was the first time I realized that Logan could dance. Nothing fancy, just slow, smooth, and close. He’s really very light on his feet for a muscle-packed man with a hundred pounds of metal inside him.
I even helped him pick out those new black jeans last week. I told him he needed some more clothes besides the work jeans and t-shirts, and the mansion’s regulation sweats. He grabbed his wallet and pulled me out the door with him. I couldn’t believe it! I was expecting a trip to the mall, but we ended up at Tractor Supply Company, in the clothing section. Lots of western wear hung from the racks.... lots of denim, chambray, flannel, and plaid, of course.
So I dressed him in cowboy-sexy -- evil, lean black jeans, a pack of new black t-shirts (you can’t hide that body under something loose, seriously now!), and a new black belt with some silver studs on it -- nothing too flashy, but not subtle, either. Black and silver -- that’s his style.
And those damned sexy boots -- he dropped seriously long green on those. Genuine pointy-toed cowboy boots in black tooled leather, with the little silver caps on the toes and around the heels. The only thing that would have been more obviously kinky would have been a shiny silver spur or two, but he’s not that blatant. Maybe he’s into leather and chains, but I’m guessing he just likes the leather, how it looks, feels, smells... I’ve seen him sniffing around leather before, and I admit I like it, too. Leather smells like men. Men smell like leather.
But those damned boots! Tooled leather silver sex!
I’m gonna follow him, I swear. If he’s going dancing in those boots, I want to see it.
I wait thirty minutes while changing into something inconspicuous, then grab the blue minivan that he never pays any attention to (so he’s not quite as likely to spot me) and slowly drive toward the bar. Circle the parking lot, and yep -- there’s Logan’s Harley, parked in the back.
I shouldn’t be doing this; it’s like I’m spying on him. I should just drive right back to the mansion and forget about this crazy idea. I just.... I want to see.... ah, there’s a parking spot in front...
Dammit, I want to see him dancing in those boots!
The place is packed, noisy, and dark – good cover for my reconnaissance mission. Neon beer signs and a few colored lights over a dance floor don’t make for good reading light, but this is a bar and it’s supposed to be dark on weekends.
I slip up onto a stool at the backside of the bar, tucked away in the corner and as out of sight as possible, and order a beer and a brandy. I lay my ID on the bar right away so there’s no fuss over carding me -- I don’t want him to know I’m here if I can help it.
Do I? Would he freak out? Take me home? Ask me to dance again? Ignore me while he picks up another woman?
Could I handle that, if I saw him leaving with some floozy? Or even a nice woman who’s here with the same intention he is, to find a warm bed and a willing body for the night?
Holy hell, there he is! He’s dancing with a red-head, real slow, real close. She whispers something and he half-smiles, sniffs her hair, and pulls her closer as they slowly turn around the dance floor. Thankfully, she doesn’t look like Jean -- she’s short and has lots of fleshy female curves, not the lean, lanky, catwalk physique that was Jean’s. He seems to be over that whole disaster, the flirting, the death, the resurrection, the execution at his own hands, and at her request. God, what an awful time in our lives that was...
The red-head gives a hearty laugh (I think -- she looks like she’s laughing, though I can’t hear her over the band), and the music changes to a fast Texas swing, and damn if he doesn’t twirl her into a Texas two-step! Those boots are new and slick and he’s elegant on the floor, and the women are watching him dance with unmistakable lust in their eyes.
So am I. Eep!
A guy cuts in, and Logan lets him -- he’s not out for a fight tonight. Another woman slides up and Logan is caught up in her arms as they move out of sight behind a pillar. She’s a blonde.
He’s not picky. I wish he had a hard-core taste for brunettes. With white streaks.
And when he reappears on the other side of the pillar, there’s a brunette beneath his other arm and they’re in a boot-scootin’ line dance. The blonde has her hand planted on his belt - any lower and she’d have his ass in her palm. DAMN HER!
I choke back that realization, that I’m feeling possessive, and insanely jealous that he’s using this new wardrobe that I helped him pick out, to pick up other women.
The brunette ends up against him when the music slows again, and he’s looking at her like she’s saying something intense to him -- studying her, but he’s not talking. Then he nods, and they leave the floor, moving toward the bar, across from where I’m sitting.
AUGH!
I duck into the women’s room right behind me. Hey, I’m an X-Woman -- I always have a great back-up plan.
Yeah, sure -- a really great plan, Rogue: hide in the ladies’ room all night. I pee, I wash my hands, I fix my hair, I straighten my perfect yet inconspicuous clothes, and I tap my foot a few dozen times before pushing the door open and returning to my seat. I see Logan’s back disappearing out the door to the parking lot, the brunette in tow.
The spear of pain that rips through me centers right in my middle. Now I know why they call it heartache. That’s where it hurts.
I order another beer and brandy shot, and even when a nice-looking guy my age comes up and offers to buy my round, I politely blow him off. I start on my second beer and brandy when the band comes back from their break and start up another set of stompin’ Saturday night tunes. A concrete cowboy (you can always tell them from the real thing -- the perfect clothes, the lack of suntan, the jewelry...) comes up and starts by putting his hand low on my back, way too close to the hem of my shirt and my bare skin. I shrug him off, tell him to leave me alone. He persists. He’s slurry drunk, and doesn’t want to hear the word ‘no’. I smile cold and tell him to fuck off in a rather loud voice, but he inserts himself on the empty stool beside me, leaning on my shoulder and throwing money onto the bar, ordering us both another round.
I shove him away, gloves safely in place, and start to get up when he grabs my arm and pulls me close. I could handle him easily, but before I even have to land a poke or a punch somewhere, a familiar hand appears on his collar and the fake cowboy literally lifts off his stool and lands on the floor in a heap at the feet of my barstool.
Logan stands there glaring at him, tensed for whatever the drunk decides to do. His fake cowboy buddies gather him up and move away.
“You okay?” Logan asks, still frowning, still watching the men who slink away into the booths in the rear of the place, as far away as possible without actually leaving the building.
“I’m fine, sugar, but thanks. He was being a pain in the ass.”
Logan slides onto the stool, turns toward me, and asks, “What are you doin’ here?” No beating around the bush tonight, I guess.
I gotta think quickly. “It’s your fault -- you gave me a taste for this stuff,” I motion toward the beer and brandy. Not hesitating, I add, “What are you doing here?” I’m so glad I parked at the front of the lot, and can innocently claim that I couldn’t see his bike from the other side of the building.
“Just hob-nobbin’ with the locals,” he says, and orders a beer, settling himself beside me. Curiosity is killing me at this point, so rather than do the smart thing and shut my mouth, I have to know.
“I saw you leave a while ago with a woman, but now you’re back here. What happened?” I know they didn’t have time enough to actually do anything. But I really need to keep my mouth shut now, or my curious goose is cooked.
“Her husband showed up in the parking lot -- put a crimp in her plans, I guess.”
Ah-ha! Now I know.... so I gotta play little-sister and... and.. oh hell, screw the sister routine. “Aren’t you afraid that you won’t score tonight if you’re sitting here beside me? Might keep the women away, if they think we’re together.”
“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll keep the men away, sitting here with you, especially since I just bounced that drunk that was hitting on you?”
Uh-oh, I hadn’t expected that question. Wait a minute - it’s me we’re talking about here... “It’s not like I’m out cruising for a date, sugar, what with the...” I wave my gloved hands discretely beneath the bar, “well, you know.”
“That won’t matter when you find the right one.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying the right one is sitting beside me at the moment, and go with the logical approach. I speak so softly that I know only Logan could hear me over the music, “There’s no easy way around this mutation of mine. If I try dating a human, I’ve got to ‘fess up before we *don’t* get naked together, and I risk getting dumped on the grounds of he might be a mutant-hating asshole. If he’s not a mutant-hating asshole, I still can’t get naked with him, and I’m betting a lot of guys would find that really off-putting, even mutant guys who don’t have the bias.”
Logan swigs about a quarter of the beer in one long swallow before saying, “Okay, all that’s true, but there’s more to it than that.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Life ain’t just about sex. You reach a certain point, call it maturity if you want, where the simplistic rut mentality is over-ridden by a developing appreciation for the other person as an individual. Then sex becomes icing on the cake. Some cakes don’t need a lot of icing.”
Did those metaphorical, philosophical, totally-supportive words just fall out of Logan’s mouth? I can feel/sense my Inner Wolverine nodding his approval, and okay, that’s just weird. I throw him a bone.
“You should be proud -- you’ve just rendered me speechless, and that’s not easy.”
“You mean you’re not gonna argue with me?” The emoting eyebrow crawls up a hitch.
“I can’t. I don’t have any experience from which to base my position in the debate.”
He takes another long, slow sip before asking, “That mean you’re still a virgin, or just not dating anyone important to you?”
It’s my turn to sip a little liquid courage from the brandy shot before answering, “Both.”
We’ve developed a tradition now, because he’s taking another stabilizing sip before asking, “What do you want from a relationship? Sex? Companionship? Love? Friendship? What?”
I sigh and contemplate from both my glasses before I answer, “I want sex. Companionship is nice, but I don’t crave it -- guess I’m kind of used to being on my own most of the time. Love... well, that comes in lots of different colors and sizes, so it’s negotiable. Friendship I already have with you, and a precious few at the mansion, but mostly you. So, I guess that boils down to friendship that I already have, and sex that I want but can’t get.”
I know something big’s coming because he not only drinks most of the remaining beer, but he swivels his stool to face me and leans in so no one else hears us, staring me straight in the eyes.
That hazel gaze melts me every time.
“I taught you to drink, and fight, and drive. I can teach you to screw.”
Not wanting to go all gushy teenager on him, which I’m not any more, I spent a few moments staring right back into his eyes before replying, “Are we talking detailed narrative here with a technical manual, or the genuine, hands-on, sticky-sheets-in-the-morning, condom-requiring act?”
“If you’ve got that manual, I’d like to read it just for fun, since I don’t really ‘need’ a manual for sex. I’m talking the real thing: you, me, a bed, and a little patience and cooperation.”
“You’re asking me to bed with you.”
“I am.”
“And no freak-outs in the morning, no disappearing acts if I’m a total klutz, no strings, no grudges?”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman regarding the whole thing.”
Without realizing what I’m saying, I blurt, “Who are you, and what have you done with Logan?”
There’s a sudden hardness in his eyes -- gotta get rid of that; he’s obviously not used to being rejected. His voice goes a little sharper, “Hey, if you’re not interested, just say no.”
“Yes.” It comes out instantly with a dawning smile, and I realize that I am now grown up enough to do this, handle this, and handle him. I can. I will.
More importantly, I am.
He smiles and reaches for my hand, and leads me out of the bar. He mounts his Harley and I follow him back to the mansion, his silver-capped boot heels gleaming in the headlights of the minivan I’m driving. My hands are shaking on the steering wheel, but it’s a good nervousness. Dreams will be fulfilled tonight.
Once the minivan is parked, he’s still astride the Harley, and beckons me over, patting the seat behind him. We spend the next hour gliding through the night air, my arms around his waist, just cruising the back roads. My Inner Wolverine is telling me he’s giving me time to digest the whole situation, think about it, make sure I’m doing what I want.
I know what I want, and who I want, and what to expect in the aftermath. And it’s okay.
It’s well past midnight as we glide onto the main road leading back to the mansion. I lean into the wind and speak softly beside his ear, knowing he’ll hear me over the rush of the night air.
“Thanks for the night ride, sugar, and I’m ready for the next one, too.”
His hand comes down from the throttle as the bike winds down near the driveway, and he pats my thigh just behind his. His head turns a little toward me and I hear him say, “We’re both ready.”
The Wolverine in my head is whispering to me again: this won’t be a one night stand.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
"But those damned boots! Tooled leather silver sex!"
She knows what he's up to on Saturday night.
She knows what he's up to on Saturday night.