DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid
track two // “ANY COLOR YOU LIKE”
OUT OF THE BLUE
“I’m – Hell, kid. For all you know I could be a…” He slides his hand out of his pocket
to indicate any number of things. Rapist. Serial killer. Jesus freak.
– Logan –
Not unusual for Logan to ramble aimlessly room to room when he first comes back to the cabin. That a fixed position could offer any sort of relaxation is a concept that takes awhile for him to believe. The open road needs time to work itself out of his system, and even then he never quite loses the call. Forward motion is forward motion regardless of how circular the drive.
So he paces, head tilted back when he’s not adding to the mental list of shit he’s wrecked that he now has to fix just in case he decides it needs punishing again. Not as bad as he thought. The recliner has seen worse, simple enough to get new wood for the bottom. TV toppled but didn’t break. Nothing above the mantel fell. Overhead beams look sturdy.
Weren’t for the fire, he’d be unpacking, too: that book with the familiar cover belonged with the others in the back room; the mid-nineteenth century map of Canada that he’d picked up when he was down in Kelowna would’ve been just the right size to cover that gash in the wall, though not the high one next to it. His gaze moves to the ceiling again.
No, the restlessness isn’t anything out of the ordinary but the preoccupation is. There’s a runaway-mutant ex-soldier girl-woman fast asleep in his loft, and Logan has to decide whether or not he should wake for her dinner.
Kid can’t really afford to be skipping meals the way she clearly has. If it weren’t for the generous ass he hadn’t been able to keep himself from eyeing on the way up the stairs earlier, she’d be lean as a greyhound. Way she ate her lunch, chewing slowly, holding each bite in her mouth before swallowing, was even more pitiful than the way she’d somehow managed to look dainty devouring the piece of jerky he’d given her in the pickup. It was those hollow cheekbones of hers. Made him think she was some kind of bird long before she proved she could fly.
Logan wishes she’d just smell the food and come out herself, but even with the stairs down she hasn’t made a peep. Of course, some asshole did make her drive straight through the night so she more than deserves the shuteye.
He moves into the kitchen to check how the rabbit is cooking. Kind of a scrawny thing, but she’ll do for tonight, maybe with some leftovers for jerky. A deer would’ve been better, that way he could put off going to town awhile longer, but Logan didn’t want to go too far into the woods.
The rabbit he’d found right in the brush. Big, fearless eyes had locked onto his. She didn’t even twitch an ear as he inched closer. Could’ve been his imagination, but her head seemed to tilt when he slowly pushed one claw though the skin between his knuckles. The measured sting made him remember a question no one had ever thought to ask him before – “Does it hurt?” Open curiosity, no wariness. The rabbit, locked down by his stare, let him kneel beside her. A small quiver in her haunches betrayed warranted mistrust. Still, it wasn’t until Logan reached out to touch the velvety-looking fur on her back that she uncoiled her legs and he sliced off her head.
Have to eat something.
Opening the oven, he cuts into the rabbit with a knife. The sum of his cooking talent is a sixth sense about exactly when the meat is on the right side of rare. He gives it ten more minutes. So long as the finished product sits in its own juices, it’s edible enough for him. He has a spice rack that could be a hundred years old for all he uses it. Marie’d thought to cook the trout in honey, and it was the best damn thing he’d eaten in recent memory. Were he a complete and utter bastard he’d have already hauled her out of bed and gotten her to work her magic on the rabbit. He hadn’t, but just how tempting the thought was spoke plenty to his character.
He pops open a can of corn and dumps it into the pot he took from the sink. He puts on some soup, too, and sets out the crackers. Enough for now, though he doesn’t know how he’s going to feed her tomorrow. No bread, no milk. He could’ve been to the store and back twice in the time she’s been asleep.
Seemed like a risk. Kid doesn’t need to be waking up in some backwoods cabin, roughneck owner nowhere to be found. Sleep deprived as she was, it was possible she hadn’t been thinking straight when she agreed to stay. She’d called them friends, too, another suspect judgment call. Logan doesn’t pretend to know how twenty-one year-old kids deal with life on the run, but there’s no denying she’s put herself in an awfully vulnerable position. Super strength, poison skin, whatever the hell else she thinks she’s got in her arsenal wouldn’t be enough to keep him from getting at her, if he was some kind of psycho pervert.
Sure, he knows Marie’s safer under his roof than outside of it, but just because he told her so doesn’t mean it’s smart to believe him. Least she could’ve done was ask him to close the stairs and put the mattress over it or something. That she didn’t isn’t so much a compliment as it is a cause for concern – fucked up people are unavoidable and this world, and they should’ve taught her a lesson by now.
And wasn’t that just the most horrible goddamn thing to wish on anybody? Christ’s sake.
Logan ends up eating the rabbit on his own. He called her name up the stairs half-heartedly, but, even though the whole place belongs to him as much as anything did, going up into the loft would’ve felt like a violation of her privacy. So he leans on the refrigerator as he shovels food in his mouth, staring at the setting sun through tattered curtains. After he’s had his full, he stands out on the porch for a better view.
Only when the blue is almost completely faded from the sky and the stairs to the loft creak does Logan realize, all afternoon, he’s been doing nothing but waiting for Marie.
Sliding steps muffled by socks, he turns as she comes to join him.
“Hey,” he says, pulling his crossed arms tighter against his chest.
She squints at him, eyes still puffy from sleep. Hand hidden under the blanket she has wrapped around her shoulders, she reaches up to rub her tangled hair. Her answer is lost in a sudden, voracious yawn. Shaking it off, she drops into the porch’s only chair.
“I had the weirdest dream about you,” she raspily tells him, as if they know each other well enough to share shit like that. As if he’d ever.
He makes a general sort of noise, which doesn’t do anything to convey the real questions on his mind, like how sharp the ax in his hand was and how fast she was running in the other direction.
A tired smile appears on her face as her eyes drift shut. “You took me to prom.”
To…What in the hell? He looks into the sunset. Just as he thought. Poor judgment.
“The tux fit great,” she continues. “And your dress was real pretty.”
Incredulous, he turns back around.
Marie just goes on grinning charmingly, eyes awake now. A snort tumbles out, starting an avalanche of giggles she has to suppress against the blanket. “Faces like that, you should carry around a mirror,” she eventually manages.
He shakes his head slightly, aware that he’s starting to smile. “There’s food in the kitchen.”
“Smells great,” she says, snuggling deeper into the chair and rocking herself. “Thank you.”
Her eyes drift to the skyline. Oranges and pinks and reds bleed into the pond and glint off the powdery show. A golden eagle grips tree bark in her talons, beating her wings to settle herself in.
“This is how I always thought the great white North would look,” Marie observes. “I haven’t gotten to see it like this yet.”
“Too busy tryin’ to keep warm,” he guesses.
She agrees. “Rogue the Lonesome Hobo.”
“Why ‘Rogue’?”
“Anna Marie D’Ancanto’s too Southern.”
Logan quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, I see. ‘Rogue’ is sophisticated.”
“Shut up,” she chuckles, warmth rising in her cheeks.
He smirks. “Get your dinner.”
“Mm.”
Marie’s head lolls against the back of the rocker. They watch the color fade behind the trees. He listens as her breathing turns deep and even.
“Kid. Food,” he says. “Before you pass out.”
Eyes still shut, her lips turn up. “I was fishing for you to bring it to me.” She pushes herself to her feet, stiff as an old lady. “I guess the boss shouldn’t have to wait on the help.”
Never occurred to him to fix her a plate. Her good humor aside, he feels reprimanded. Like a damn puppy who didn’t know the rules of fetch.
Logan turns his grimace toward the window. Sun’s pretty much set. Tomorrow, he’ll stand at the edge of the cliff at the front of the cabin and watch the it rise. He likes the order to that cycle.
When he starts to lose the light, he shoves his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and shoulders his way back into the cabin.
In the kitchen, Marie leans back in her chair. She’s humming a tune he can almost place. The plate and bowl in front of her are practically licked clean.
“You get enough?”
She pats her tummy. “More soon. I’m digesting.” Marie idly picks up the tune again. Dylan, he decides, just as she starts to murmur-sing, “‘How does it feel…’”
Logan stands against the counter. “Make me a list – stick to the essentials – and I’ll go to town tomorrow.”
“There’s only one thing in this whole world I want right now.” She runs her tongue over her teeth, making a face. “A toothbrush.”
“Bathroom, under the sink.”
“Bless you.”
He shrugs off her grateful relief. “When I’m in town, I’ll check the papers, too. Find out the damage.”
Marie cringes.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He surprises himself with the question, and even more with how much he actually wants to know.
Her open-palmed answer lifts her shoulders to her ears. She drops her arms bonelessly.
That response is the last thing he wants from her. He scowls. “You don’t think things through much, do you?”
Eyebrows at her hairline, she asks, “Are you lecturing me?”
“No,” he replies, not convincing himself anymore than Marie.
She rubs her hands over her face. “I could’ve sworn when I went to sleep I was ‘resourceful.’ Now I’m back to being a ‘stupid kid.’”
“That ain’t what I’m sayin’,” he counters, the hurt in her voice making him bark at her. “I’m – Hell, kid. For all you know I could be a…” He slides his hand out of his pocket to indicate any number of things. Rapist. Serial killer. Jesus freak.
“Mutant lumberjack guy with near-immortality and razor-sharp fist claws?” she offers. “I could still end you with my pinky toe. But I’m beholden to you, so don’t you worry your spiky, bearded head about it.” The tone she uses drips sarcasm, but her little chin juts forward.
He opens his mouth to tell her off. Laughter comes out instead. Jesus! Rubber meets glue, no question. What a smart-mouthed spitfire she is.
Indignation drops Marie’s jaw.
Rolling chuckles settle in the back of his throat. “Button your mouth, kid. You’ll let the flies in.”
She harrumphs, but gives him a closed-lipped grin anyway.
It strikes him all of a sudden, how sweet Marie actually is and how much that scares the hell of out of him. He doesn’t know where to look.
Turning, he steps down into the main room and throws, “Make that list,” out behind him.
He occupies himself getting the TV working again. The socket hangs out by the wires. He must’ve jerked it out of the wall when he tipped the set over. He fits it back in, while Marie starts to clean up the mess he left in the kitchen.
“Leave it. You’re dead on your feet,” he calls, jerking his hand back just in time to avoid a spark. “I ain’t askin’ for slave labor.”
“Now listen here, sugar. A minute ago you were berating me because I don’t fear you properly. Until you make up your mind about yourself, I’m gonna go ahead and do what I feel like doing. All right?”
“Yeah, all – ” Motherfucker! He sucks on his burnt fingers. The generator out back more than survived another winter.
He’s already healed and finished with the fixture by the time Marie appears beside him with a glass of whiskey. “Bet that smarts,” she says, handing it over.
Phantom pain. His brain is never quite as quick to forget as his body. Ironic, since his memory functions in the opposite.
He drinks, and Marie rights the TV so it sits straight in its frame. Her gloved hands trail over the varnished wood. “Impressive,” she comments. “Though I don’t suppose you get cable.”
“Depends on the time of day,” he replies.
Going over to the couch, he sets his glass down to pick up the remote. He flips past a few blank channels before landing on the Oilers against the Flames. A rerun no doubt, but he hasn’t watched it yet. He settles into the cushions grandly, finally, arms outspread.
That ass he was admiring earlier is now in his way. “One side or the other, Marie.”
“Can I join you?” she asks, motioning to the long space next to him.
Logan shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
She sits, the back of her hair brushing along the edge of the couch and against his fingers. He resists the twitch.
“You know anything about hockey?” he asks pointedly, wary of Dixie-belle ignorance.
“I’ve picked up a few things here and there. Flames have Kipoff – Kipruff?”
“Kiprusoff.”
“That’s the one. I remember now. He was the top goaltender a few years back. He deserved it this season, too. Especially after that shutout against Montreal. Our offense drags ass this year, compared to our defense.”
“‘Our’? You from Mississippi by way of Calgary?”
Marie waves it off. “Ours, yours, theirs. Anyway, this’ll be no contest. I heard the Oilers phoned it in since the preseason.”
“Oh, that so?”
“Long distance,” she confirms.
“I don’t know who you’re gettin’ your facts from, kid, but the Oilers are damn close to their dynasty years. Next season – ”
“Oilers fans are always, always talking about next season. The present must be painful for you guys.”
Logan puts up one finger, twisting around. “Listen, if you want to start the Battle of Alberta under my roof, you’re not gonna interrupt…”
Marie’s not paying attention. She’s holding her head away from the hand that slipped onto her shoulder. He pulls it back immediately.
“You crowded?” He nods toward the length of the couch.
She folds up her legs Indian-style so that her knee rests on his leg. “Nope. You?”
The innocent expression on her face tells him it’s a kind of game. He thinks it might be better for his sanity if he refuses to play. Her face starts to fall.
Logan stacks his palm on top of her knee. “Nope.”
Pleased glint on the TV, she says, “Oh, watch this. Seventeen’s about to eat ice. Look at that leg wobble. And…wipeout. Ouch.”
“Yeah, well, he put Visnovsky in a sweet position.”
“Too bad he’s not getting by my man Kip.”
Kiprusoff doesn’t let her down, and the puck knocks against the boards.
“Visnovsky’ll come back with it. He doesn’t miss twice.”
“Wanna bet?” Marie nudges him when he all he gives her is a look. “I’m serious. Ten bucks a call and, let’s say, fifty dollars advance if I go under.”
“Darlin’, you’re forgettin’ this is all my money anyway.”
Marie puts a satin-covered finger to her full bottom lip thoughtfully. “So we should make it twenty bucks a call and a hundred dollar advance. I like the way you think.” Her index finger salutes the TV. “That’s twenty for me.”
In the replay, Visnovsky’s second shot bounces off the crossbar.
Logan starts to suspect this game of hers is rigged. The next two miraculous predictions confirm it.
“Lansdale ain’t exactly known for his aggression,” Logan says after she gives herself twenty more dollars for calling the rookie crashing at the net.
Marie’s got to know he’s on to her. She just gives one of her dainty shrugs. “Lucky guess, that’s all. Pardon me, sugar.”
She gets up on her knees and crawls over him, ass lifted into the perfect smacking position. He digs his blunt fingernails into the couch cushions until she’s over the side and swinging her hips into the kitchen.
“I’m gonna make us a snack. Give you chance to catch up.”
A cheating gambler and an unapologetic thief, not to mention a shameless flirt. Logan sure can pick ’em.
Or could be it’s that she can chose ’em. Maybe this is just how she gets by. Damsel in distress routine lands her a new sucker boyfriend in every town, she takes them for everything they got, then she moves on.
He’s still thinking about that possibility when she comes around the couch with a plate of stale crackers and a jar of peanut butter with a faded label.
Marie wedges her socked feet under his thigh. “You’re like a furnace. What’d I miss?”
She’s watched this game already, that’s for sure. Probably on a fuzzy TV in the kind of motel that advertises vibrating beds, with her ass in the lap of some shaggy-haired, fedora-wearing card-shark grifter.
“Wha’?” Peanut butter sticks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Not exactly the picture of a master con artist. She’s back to being that sweet kid again.
Cynicism disappears faster than it came on. He snorts. “Jig’s up. Why don’t you just tell me the score?”
She answers sheepishly through peanut butter and a polite hand covering her mouth, “Seven-tree, F’ames.”
Figures. He changes the channel. “Better get used to the idea of earning an honest dollar.”
“Exactly where does the cable company send your bills?”
He reaches over to take the buttered cracker out of her hands and pops it between his teeth. Out of one side of his mouth, he says, “Do as I say, kid. Not as I do.”
Giggling, Marie wipes his crumbs off her chest.
He peels his eyes away and concentrates on not looking back. Car ad. Skelton of an actress he wouldn’t have kicked out bed five years ago. Nightrider, pansy. MacGyver, better. Tampon commercial. Figure skating. Highlander’s running credits, too bad. Bullshit mutant PSA. That flick about a girl on a milk carton. Not a half-bad Spanish soap. Mm. He could go for some hot wings.
“Jeez, you flip so fast how do even register what’s on?” Marie complains.
His finger automatically pauses on CBC but he catches himself.
“Hey, wait, go back.”
“No.” Stupid thing to say. It peaks her interest even more.
She catches him off guard by yanking the remote out of his hand. Not once in his entire abbreviated life has anyone had balls-out gall to assume control of a television he’s watching.
“I take it you already sleep with one eye open.”
“I sleep like a rock, actually.” Marie goes back exactly three channels. Her brow goes in. “Your guilty pleasure is Canadian Antiques Road Show?”
Logan takes the remote and tosses it on the rug. “Antiques Road Show it is.”
“The thrills you backwood Canadians get up to.” Settling in so close their belt loops are touching, she asks, “So do you hide copies of Better Homes & Gardens under your mattress or what?”
“Button it.”
For awhile, all he hears other than the TV is Marie munching on her crackers. Much better. Logan stretches out again.
He snorts at a woman, married to a ninth-generation Molson, who thinks she’s got a mahogany candle stand on her hands. “It’s for servin’ tea,” he educates Marie. “She put the cup on the shelf and the kettle on top, and poured from there.”
“‘She’ who?”
Logan’s a little thrown. “She. Her.” Isn’t that what he said? A second later, the appraiser proves him right about it being a kettle stand. “Told ya.”
Neck craned like a groundhog, Marie’s doing some math. “Honestly, you should be on the show. Look at that rug, or the kitchen table. The TV itself is probably worth a killing.”
Logan brushes that comment off. “Don’t start gettin’ ideas about flying off with my dinette set.”
Marie pokes him in the ribs. “Say, ‘dinette set’ again.”
“Quit it.” He locks her into place against his side. “I’m ticklish.”
On screen, the Molson woman is screeching over a ten thousand dollar offer and flinging her arms around the appraiser, who hollers, “I’m blushing, I’m blushing!”
Marie’s breathing hitches. Logan can smell her blood stirring up, see it rising to color her cheeks. And, hell, no wonder, he’s all but hefting her right tit. He moves his hand to the small of her back. She awkwardly tugs down her shirt, nerves souring her scent again.
Christ sake. He leans forward and rubs his bare hand together. He can feel her eyes intent on his profile. What was he thinking, putting his arm around her like he had the right? If she wasn’t anxious about his character before, he’s giving her good cause to be now.
“Look it,” he mutters. “I wasn’t tryin’ anythin’.”
“Oh,” she replies. Then, after a second, “Why not?”
He jerks his stare to her face. Slowly, her bowed, parted lips widen into the brightest smile he’s seen from her yet. She cocks her head to the side, giving her expression an allure no one who smells so innocent has any right to.
Logan’s lost count of how many times Marie’s swiped his feet out from under him in the single day he’s known her.
Fuck almighty, he should’ve known he was in for it.
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