Through the setting sun Logan caught a glimpse of the slow moving Mississippi River and heard the horns from the ferry taking people back and forth across the wide expanse of muddy water over the low rumble of his engine. He paused to consider the piece of paper crumpled in his hand. It was a place the locals hang out, off the beaten path and far from the gild of downtown. An institution, a dive located in a sketchy neighborhood known for its shootings. Not too far from there, in a local’s only neighborhood known as the Bywater.
As he pulled up in front of the bar he saw the place hadn’t changed, not even the sign out front advertising ladies in barely flickering neon, resembling more of a bug zapper than an invitation. Even in the now black night he can see it’s still just as fucking run down, with peeling paint, and gutters falling down. Logan said a silent prayer as he walked in, rolling his shoulders, fists clenched and hoped like hell he had something to drive when he left. As his eyes scanned the room they slowly adjusted to the dim light, lit only by sparse red bulbs and a dangle of recycled Christmas lights. You could hardly see the patron sitting next to you. It was a dark cocoon of solitude that set it apart from the obnoxious bustling tourist bars that lined the French Quarter.
There she was. Belly to the bar, downing the drink that made the place famous. The Possum Drop. All the Schlitz Beer with Jager Bombs you could drink for customers who sat at the bar sans clothing. Which she was slowly and seductively discarding piece by piece, laying them across the bar as payment for each shot, coyly asking the enraptured bartender how much she owed him now.
Logan straddled the stool next to her when she hiked up her mini skirt and slid her lacey panties down the creamy expanse of her thighs, rubbing them together like a cat in heat, never breaking eye contact with the bartender as she did so, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she tilted her head and her platinum streaked hair fell around her shoulders, blessedly shielding her bare chest from view.
“It’s on me.” He growled, slamming a hundred dollar bill on the cracked polyurethane like a gun shot, ready to drag the asshole across the bar and gouge his eyes out after showing him what his definition of laissez le bon temps rouler was. They both jumped, caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of his voice, though the bartender didn’t look inclined to scare easily. Logan doubted there was much the man hadn’t seen in a place like this. Though he was happy to introduce him to some adamantium if he didn’t back the fuck up in about two seconds.
The burly stranger sized him up, weighing his options and flashed a wicked smile at Rogue, his words not registering on her dizzied senses as her panties dropped to the floor and she turned in stunned shock.
Through the roaring din… she breathed one word.