Title: Guilty By Association

Author: Rhapsody

Rating: R

Chapter 4: Acting Out

Logan had been to the attic loft many times and he has had many a dreams with Ororo as the star, but no dream could come close to the things she was doing. He had been half dressed to no dressed in front of her before but never had he thought on a thousand years that he'd be the center piece of her room. On the floor laid a quilt made of real Kente cloth, not the stuff manufactured in Europe to look African and then is sold to and by Africans as authentic. It was a keepsake from her days and journey of the past, a gift, the size of a queen size bed. He was happy to be let in on such a gift, but there he was laying on it shirtless and on his stomach and straddling him was a woman that encompassed femininity, companionship, eroticism, friendship, and all those things that can't be put into words.

Her knee length royal blue skirt made it's way to the top of her toned thighs, that were gripped the side of his hips as she straddled his backside. "Dear god, woman" He thought it so loudly he almost figured her for a telepath because her hands started to do work on his lower back. She was doing things never done before. He had other women, very few he loved. They had the opportunity to do this, but those one-night chicks were the fuck 'em and leave 'em. It's what they wanted and just so suited his purposes. All knew Logan was no saint, honorable, but no saint.

Ororo noticed his pensive look and allowed her hands to do part of the speaking for her. They traveled upward slowly, up his spine between and around his vertebrae, to his neck where his baby hairs were silky half curls and slowly into his unruly hair and then she popped him right on his cranium.

"Damn, 'Ro! What's that for?" he said turning over under her. He looked like an egg, sunny side up. He gripped her hands at her hips. Her palms were flat on her thighs and his hands trapped her wrists to her hips. The same hips he watched on a number of occasions. It was the same hips he watched in spandex uniforms, the same he watched on X-men nights out.

"You were thinking. This is not a brain-buster. You are to enjoy this."

'Damn those eyes of hers.' His eyes traveled the contours of her face. Two eyes that scare and entice, yet inspire, check. A nose, that has does that cute little flarin' thing when mad, check. Well-defined jaw structure, check. Lips. Fuck, those lips. Kissable ain't the only word they scream.

"Now what are you thinking about? You know, Logan. I am not sure that you grasp the concept of this exercise."

"Darlin' I'm sure I do. Also, we are in your room darlin', there's no pretending anymore."

For sometime now they've been together. It just happened one night. He gave up those women that meant nothing to him and ultimately did nothing for him and she realized her body needed more than the tortures of battle and routine simulations. It began out of a mutual need and then progressed further before they had time to really think about what was happening. It was the first time that it could be said that either party did something without really thinking about it. But it was conscious effort to keep it secret. They did their normal daily routines, acting the part. He'd still flirt with Jean but cast sideway glances at her. He'd flirt with Ororo in public, like he always did but for them it was more like Morse code. She still carried a normal semi-antagonistic relationship with Remy. He'd call her that dang name and she'd threaten him with bodily harm. Everything was right the way it should be. Someday, things would change, but for now it was the way they wanted it to be. But there they were, secret lovers and true friends.

His hands left her hips and traveled and with the barest touch of his finger tips slid up her sides. He knew she was ticklish. With an intake of breath, she corrected her posture, expanded her ribs causing her back to arch and breast to pout. Her knees gripped his sides, eliciting a purr. His arms slipped under her armpit and up her back. His hands resting on her shoulders, he nudged her forward and she willingly obliged meeting him in a kiss and a good idea of where the night was headed.

***

Elsewhere in the 'City That Never Sleeps', there was a woman that couldn't sleep.

In the living room of her one two-bedroom apartment she paced the room. She couldn't sleep and she had been trying since she kicked her boyfriend out for good. He wasn't really anything to her but a sick game. It could never have been love.

"Maybe he had a point, am I trying to fill a void in my life?"  

"You know damn well you were. You weren't born yesterday so quit whining like a little bitch" her inner voices, inner demons like to argue. It was like watching Angel on one shoulder and Devil on the other and her true self, rational thought, was the spectator.

"SHUT UP," she screamed to all voices in her head good and bad.

She needed another solution. TV didn't work, usually music worked. It was the cure for so much that ailed her. She didn't want to disturb the neighbors so anything loud and heavy was out. Country was a no-no. That last thing she needed was someone whining about their cheating or abusive spouse or lover, who ran over their dog with their Toyota Tacoma and took it to the taxidermist and set it back to them as a gif, you get the point. R&B was out, she didn't need someone taking it to church at the moment. Unless it was Anita Baker but this was not an Anita moment. This called for Ella and Louis, Billie and Dizzy, Charlie and Parker.

Her favorite Jazz song by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong was 'Summertime'. The same 'Summertime' from "Porgy and Bess" Grace never knew her parents, but her father knew them. So he never spoke an ill word of either of her parents, not that he could. But the song spoke volumes to her. Whenever she was saddened or depressed, she'd put it on. It made her feel like she had her parents with her. But at some point she would remember they were dead and she never knew them anyway, so she was just being silly.

Did the song help tonight? No. She was madder and madder with each moment that passed. She started to pace again, trying to ignore the emerging voices. Then she spotted the one avenue she didn't explore. Her art pad that was collecting dust and or used as a coaster for drinks and such, was like neon lights to 42nd Street. There was always a pen or pencil somewhere, the first thing she found is what she usually used when she was feeling inspired. Inspiration was neither in the form of pen or pencil, but in the form of Olive Green by Crayola.

She began furiously creating shape after shape until it formed something. What was it supposed to be, she didn't know, but she never forced her creations, just let it flow. Ovals, to stray lines, Abstract to definition, and then to top it off, shading and she was done. She stared at it. She drew her a portrait of herself and when her eyes did the coloring, she saw her sister.

"Why the hell is this happening to me?"

She couldn't stay at home. She crumpled the picture to a tight ball and threw it across the room with the crayon. A quick pace to the bedroom and she threw on her discard Jeans from last weekend. For safe measure she just threw on a sweater over her nightgown. She knew where she was going. It was 2 in the morning. It was best she knew where she was going at that time in the morning.

She grabbed her keys and flew out of her apartment slamming the door behind her.

She was going home.

When she left, that drawing she crumbled started to unfold itself a little. She'd find it again.

Tbc…