The Velvet Red
It took a couple of days, but Pawn came through for Remy. Remy, however, was none too pleased with the results of his old friend's stakeout. In fact, he only paid a visit to the club hoping to God that Pawn screwed up somewhere and was wrong about this. Dead wrong.
And so, Remy sat at one of the various card tables, winning and losing few hands so as not to be too conspicuous. He was quiet for the most part, drawing no more attention to himself than need be by sipping his drink and taking slow drags from his cigarette. He was thankful Rogue was not the one handing him his whiskey sour or offering any of the men a cigar, but the dancing had not started up yet, and that's what Remy really worried about.
**
"Betsy, with or without the hat?" Rogue placed a hard-hat on her head and extended her hands to display her outfit.
Elisabeth spun from her mirror and looked over the southerner's tool girl outfit with a deciding eye. "Hmm, with that tool belt, I think I'd go with the hat. Stick your hair under it and let it be the first thing you whip off; all your hair will go whishing around. The apes go crazy for that."
Rogue smiled at Betsy's comment and began tucking her hair under. "The apes?"
"Oh, yeah honey. They're so easy to please, what else can you compare them to?"
Rogue threw on the white tank that exposed her belly. "Gee, I guess I never thought of it like that," she said in mock awe, placing a hand against her right cheek.
"Hey, say what you will, but just ask Ororo or Jean. We know the truth! Every one of us that work here were selected for a certain style."
"Style?"
"Yep. Like you."
Rogue gave Elisabeth a faintly amused look. "What about me?"
"You, missy, are the southern comfort of the group. Kind of like the bucking bronco cowgirl, down home charm, catch my drift?"
"Oh really?"
"And Jean-she better-thank-her-lucky-stars-for-that-red-hair is the American sweetheart, girl next door. Half the men out there have dreamt about fucking the captain of the cheerleading squad. And 'Ro, she's this exotic, goddess type thing that every man has weird, sexual fantasies about. Sort of like that whole Princess Leia, slave bikini obsession."
"And you?" Rogue asked, a smile curling at the tips of her crimson lips.
Betsy stood from her seat and did a spectacular twirl in her Arabian princess costume, covering the lower half of her beautiful face with a piece of flame colored silk. "I play the trendy, easy, movie star type. I'm the woman that plays with whips and chains." She shot Rogue a wolfish grin and her violet eyes glimmered in the bright lights of the dressing room.
Rogue laughed gleefully. "Thanks for the 411, Betts."
"No problem. It's always good to know the scoop." The black-haired beauty said, opening a pill bottle and popping two tablets in her mouth.
Rogue perked a russet eyebrow. "What are they, sugah?"
"Jollies," Betsy noticed Rogue's bewildered expression covered by a quick nod of the head. "Speed; It helps me...let's just say it helps me get into the groove of things." Rogue's face quickly etched with concern. "Don't worry, I only take them when I absolutely need them."
"Yeah okay. Just don't go doing anything stupid, heuh? I don't want to have to covah for yoah ass if anything happens to yah."
Betsy chuckled. "Whatever you say, Dixie." She gave Rogue's butt a playful smack. "Now get out there and earn lots of money. My birthday's coming up. You have to start thinking about presents!"
The last thing Rogue heard from Betsy before she headed on stage was her singing "Cuz it's all about the Benjamins baby," and then she took center stage.
The lights dimmed in the club and some honky-tonk song began blaring through the speakers. Every man sat in silent attention, glaring hypnotically and excitedly at the stage as if they were caged animals waiting to be released. Remy took a deep breath and braced himself. 'Please, Jesus. Don't let it be so.'
And out stepped Rogue, cut-offs, tool-belt, hardhat and all.
**
"Gawd, Ah am exhausted!" Rogue fell onto the dressing room couch and caught her breath later after the show. "It's been a long naght."
Ororo nodded in agreement and folded several dollar bills, placing them securely in her bra. "Yes, it has. Are you ready?" She gathered her belongings and Rogue followed suit.
"Mm-hmm," Rogue said wistfully, her soft eyelids drooping. "Where are the others?"
"Jean's still on floor and Betsy is downing a few drinks with another rich boy-billionaire."
"Oh, okay." Rogue hoisted herself off the couch and the two headed out of the dressing room, chatting amicably about Betsy's preference in men.
"Ah know! She's real nice and everythang, but man does that girl love to-" She stopped dead at the sight of Remy leaning against the wall right outside the door. His cigarette sat casually between two fingertips, belying the anger boiling slowly and steadily within his gut. "Remy!" She gasped, coming to an abrupt halt.
Ororo Munroe glanced from Remy to Rogue, then back at Remy. "Uh-oh," she mumbled. She gave Rogue a sympathetic, questioning look. "Should I stay?"
"No, 'Ro. Ah'll be alraght."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes I'm sure. Thanks." With that, Ororo left the couple to resolve their problems privately.
Remy turned and walked out of the club, motioning for Rogue to follow him. She hesitated, but decided not to make him madder and trotted behind him. In the parking lot, he wordlessly opened his car door. "Wait, Remy," Rogue said from her side of the car, speaking to him over the car roof. "Say something, sugah."
Remy clenched his jaw and bore his red on black eyes into her. "What do you want me to say, Rogue? I saw everyt'ing! Can you imagine watching every guy in de room get hard 'cause your girlfriend is strutting around in some barely dere outfit, showing dem stuff dat only I need to be seeing!?" He was yelling, now. "When were you-" he lowered his voice as a group of young, drunk frat boys made their way to their car and sped off. "When were you planning on telling me? Ever?" His voice was lower this time, but still venomous.
Rogue's liquid green eyes welled up as she responded, "Yes, Remy. Ah was. It's just-"
"And de ot'er night! Dat was real cute! How long did it take you to t'ink of DAT one?!"
"Ah'm sorry. Ah'm so sorry, Remy. You're right, Ah should have told you, but let me explain."
He shook his head vigorously. "No, Rogue. I want answers to MY questions now." He slammed the palm of his hand on the car and she jumped, startled.
"What do you want to know?" She was screaming now, too. Her southern blood had begun to boil. "Ah need the money, and it's only temporary!"
"I have de money to take care of bot' of us, Rogue!"
"Ah don't want yoah money, Remy! When Ah moved here, it was for me." She held a hand to her chest. "Ah'm flattered that you're willing to take care of me, but Ah want to prove to myself that Ah can do it!"
His eyes flashed. "By how? Selling your body?"
"No, it's only temporary!" She repeated sternly, as if she was trying to get an uncooperative child to listen.
"I don't care! I don't want you going back dere!" He pointed to the club's doors with a swift flick of the wrist.
Rogue shook her head, wispy strands of ginger falling into her eyes. "No way, Remy. Ah'm staying until Ah get another job that pays just as well. Christ, I'm making a week's salary from the Candle Café working just one night here!"
Remy opened his mouth to deliver a snappy comeback, but stopped. Their yelling contest was getting them nowhere; he knew they were both stubborn as all hell and this would get them nothing but a headache, more to dwell on later, and nowhere near a resolution. He needed to think. "Fine, do whatever you want," he muttered. He slid into the seat of his Jag and sped off, leaving a now frustrated and angry Rogue to haul a cab.
**
Jean took it slow in her car that night. She needed to clear her mind and she wasn't at all in the mood to go home. She never was. She cruised around a bit down a few streets, weaving in and out of alleyways, until the blue digital numbers read 2:15. It was time to head home or she would never make it before her curfew of 2:30.
She pulled into the parking garage and promptly took the elevator up to her penthouse. On her way in through the door, a perky blonde no older than nineteen stepped out. She looked at Jean sheepishly, blushed, and scurried down the hall. Jean rolled her eyes in disgust and pushed her way through the apartment door, slamming it behind her.
In their bedroom, Warren stood in a pair of black silk boxers she had bought him one year for Christmas. He was running a comb through his golden waves when she came in. She walked briskly past him and straight to her walk-in closet.
"Hey, baby," he called, turning from the mirror.
"Hi," she replied curtly from inside the closet. She soon appeared wearing her own lavender silk pajama pants and matching tank.
"What's the matter?" He asked.
"Nothing." She walked straight to their king-sized bed to turn down the fluffy down comforter and sheets.
He strode over to where she stood preparing their bed and slowly but firmly grabbed her wrist. "I'm only going to ask it once." He annunciated clearly.
She stopped and turned to him with pleading eyes. "Warren, she's the second one this month."
They both knew exactly whom Jean was talking about: the blonde just having left the apartment.
Warren took both of her hands and pressed them against his naked chest. "Oh, Jean, honey. How many times do I have to tell you? It's business, love. Just business."
Jean sighed inwardly. How many times HAD she heard that? Too many. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her tight against his chest. She returned the embrace with the emotion of a brick, her heart tearing in two with every movement he made towards her. Why did he play with her like this? Why didn't he just let her go?
As if he had sensed her thoughts, he said, "You know I can't live without you. I love you and I want to keep you forever." How many times had she heard that, too? At least these words had some truth to them. For whatever reason, he made it clear he never wanted to give her up, like a pretty bird that a selfish child wants to keep caged so he may see it when he so chooses. It was okay for the child to see other birds, but his bird may not fly, ever.
"Besides," he mumbled into her velvet soft hair, his favorite attribute of hers. "Where would you go if you left me? You know how unhappy it would make me if you were anywhere but by my side." He caressed the back of her neck. "I would be extremely angry." Simply put: I'll make your life a living hell if you even think about leaving me. Jean sank helpless into his embrace and Warren smiled satisfied above her, resting his chin atop her head. He rocked her for a moment like a small child and laid her down on the sheets. "See, Jeannie? We belong together."
He climbed into bed beside her and clutched her possessively against him throughout the whole night, making sure every position they shifted in kept physical contact.
Jean didn't know what to think of her husband. The sex was good, and the money was good, but they didn't love each other and that was that. At least Jean had matured enough to grow out of her dreamy adolescent phase. They were young and, hell, they thought they were in love; but when it's over it's over, and Jean knew that time had long come. Warren, however, really thought he still loved her, even though he couldn't keep himself away from other women. He wanted the best of both worlds, and growing up getting anything he wanted thanks to his rich daddy, he got it.
As she had done so many previous nights before, Jean fell asleep with a racing mind and a desolate soul.
**
Ororo Munroe stepped through the door of her apartment and slithered out of her clothes. She plopped naked on her bed and maneuvered into the satin sheets, lying comfortably with the lamp on until she felt ready to go to sleep. Although it was well past two in the morning, Ororo's mind was racing, her creative juices flowing. She could very well have gotten up out of bed and composed a beautiful sonnet or planted another rosebush in her garden on the roof, as she was fond of both poetry and gardening, but she opted instead to simply lay peacefully in bed and revel in the serene atmosphere she created for herself.
The beautiful African's mind was mostly consumed with the thought of a single man, tall, alluring, really quite handsome in that rugged, feral attractive way. He had piercing blue eyes and a mane of unruly blonde hair framing his square jaw. Victor Creed, she believed he said his name was. He visited the club often, arriving no later than nine and leaving no earlier than closing. He was always watching, staring, gazing, devouring her with his savage stare. Ororo was very capable of taking care of herself, after all, she was single and attractive and living alone in a New York apartment, but this Creed man made her very uneasy. She found herself darting out of the club the back way almost every night, trying to avoid him.
At first, she was flattered with the attention, even responsive. But when he began following her home, as had been the case two or three times, she began to pick up a metaphorical "bad feeling" from him. She wanted to tell Logan about it, any of the girls, even Warren, but she was a capable woman and only when there arose a serious problem would she do so.
At the thought of men troubles, Ororo's mind turned to Rogue and her little dilema. She had had to give the southerner a ride home because the two had apparently had a tiff in the parking lot resulting in him taking off. Rogue was just about to hail a cab when Ororo found her and offered the extremely grateful girl a ride.
Men, can't live with them, can't kill them. And with that, Ororo turned off the lamp on her bedside table and drifted into a blissful slumber.
Continued...
**Though Remy's eyes are red on black, these characters are not mutants.
**Thank you Metroprincess for so kindly and benevolently pointing out my mistake. Boy, do I feel like an ass! Liquor, liquor, liquor. There! Is everyone satisfied?
It took a couple of days, but Pawn came through for Remy. Remy, however, was none too pleased with the results of his old friend's stakeout. In fact, he only paid a visit to the club hoping to God that Pawn screwed up somewhere and was wrong about this. Dead wrong.
And so, Remy sat at one of the various card tables, winning and losing few hands so as not to be too conspicuous. He was quiet for the most part, drawing no more attention to himself than need be by sipping his drink and taking slow drags from his cigarette. He was thankful Rogue was not the one handing him his whiskey sour or offering any of the men a cigar, but the dancing had not started up yet, and that's what Remy really worried about.
**
"Betsy, with or without the hat?" Rogue placed a hard-hat on her head and extended her hands to display her outfit.
Elisabeth spun from her mirror and looked over the southerner's tool girl outfit with a deciding eye. "Hmm, with that tool belt, I think I'd go with the hat. Stick your hair under it and let it be the first thing you whip off; all your hair will go whishing around. The apes go crazy for that."
Rogue smiled at Betsy's comment and began tucking her hair under. "The apes?"
"Oh, yeah honey. They're so easy to please, what else can you compare them to?"
Rogue threw on the white tank that exposed her belly. "Gee, I guess I never thought of it like that," she said in mock awe, placing a hand against her right cheek.
"Hey, say what you will, but just ask Ororo or Jean. We know the truth! Every one of us that work here were selected for a certain style."
"Style?"
"Yep. Like you."
Rogue gave Elisabeth a faintly amused look. "What about me?"
"You, missy, are the southern comfort of the group. Kind of like the bucking bronco cowgirl, down home charm, catch my drift?"
"Oh really?"
"And Jean-she better-thank-her-lucky-stars-for-that-red-hair is the American sweetheart, girl next door. Half the men out there have dreamt about fucking the captain of the cheerleading squad. And 'Ro, she's this exotic, goddess type thing that every man has weird, sexual fantasies about. Sort of like that whole Princess Leia, slave bikini obsession."
"And you?" Rogue asked, a smile curling at the tips of her crimson lips.
Betsy stood from her seat and did a spectacular twirl in her Arabian princess costume, covering the lower half of her beautiful face with a piece of flame colored silk. "I play the trendy, easy, movie star type. I'm the woman that plays with whips and chains." She shot Rogue a wolfish grin and her violet eyes glimmered in the bright lights of the dressing room.
Rogue laughed gleefully. "Thanks for the 411, Betts."
"No problem. It's always good to know the scoop." The black-haired beauty said, opening a pill bottle and popping two tablets in her mouth.
Rogue perked a russet eyebrow. "What are they, sugah?"
"Jollies," Betsy noticed Rogue's bewildered expression covered by a quick nod of the head. "Speed; It helps me...let's just say it helps me get into the groove of things." Rogue's face quickly etched with concern. "Don't worry, I only take them when I absolutely need them."
"Yeah okay. Just don't go doing anything stupid, heuh? I don't want to have to covah for yoah ass if anything happens to yah."
Betsy chuckled. "Whatever you say, Dixie." She gave Rogue's butt a playful smack. "Now get out there and earn lots of money. My birthday's coming up. You have to start thinking about presents!"
The last thing Rogue heard from Betsy before she headed on stage was her singing "Cuz it's all about the Benjamins baby," and then she took center stage.
The lights dimmed in the club and some honky-tonk song began blaring through the speakers. Every man sat in silent attention, glaring hypnotically and excitedly at the stage as if they were caged animals waiting to be released. Remy took a deep breath and braced himself. 'Please, Jesus. Don't let it be so.'
And out stepped Rogue, cut-offs, tool-belt, hardhat and all.
**
"Gawd, Ah am exhausted!" Rogue fell onto the dressing room couch and caught her breath later after the show. "It's been a long naght."
Ororo nodded in agreement and folded several dollar bills, placing them securely in her bra. "Yes, it has. Are you ready?" She gathered her belongings and Rogue followed suit.
"Mm-hmm," Rogue said wistfully, her soft eyelids drooping. "Where are the others?"
"Jean's still on floor and Betsy is downing a few drinks with another rich boy-billionaire."
"Oh, okay." Rogue hoisted herself off the couch and the two headed out of the dressing room, chatting amicably about Betsy's preference in men.
"Ah know! She's real nice and everythang, but man does that girl love to-" She stopped dead at the sight of Remy leaning against the wall right outside the door. His cigarette sat casually between two fingertips, belying the anger boiling slowly and steadily within his gut. "Remy!" She gasped, coming to an abrupt halt.
Ororo Munroe glanced from Remy to Rogue, then back at Remy. "Uh-oh," she mumbled. She gave Rogue a sympathetic, questioning look. "Should I stay?"
"No, 'Ro. Ah'll be alraght."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes I'm sure. Thanks." With that, Ororo left the couple to resolve their problems privately.
Remy turned and walked out of the club, motioning for Rogue to follow him. She hesitated, but decided not to make him madder and trotted behind him. In the parking lot, he wordlessly opened his car door. "Wait, Remy," Rogue said from her side of the car, speaking to him over the car roof. "Say something, sugah."
Remy clenched his jaw and bore his red on black eyes into her. "What do you want me to say, Rogue? I saw everyt'ing! Can you imagine watching every guy in de room get hard 'cause your girlfriend is strutting around in some barely dere outfit, showing dem stuff dat only I need to be seeing!?" He was yelling, now. "When were you-" he lowered his voice as a group of young, drunk frat boys made their way to their car and sped off. "When were you planning on telling me? Ever?" His voice was lower this time, but still venomous.
Rogue's liquid green eyes welled up as she responded, "Yes, Remy. Ah was. It's just-"
"And de ot'er night! Dat was real cute! How long did it take you to t'ink of DAT one?!"
"Ah'm sorry. Ah'm so sorry, Remy. You're right, Ah should have told you, but let me explain."
He shook his head vigorously. "No, Rogue. I want answers to MY questions now." He slammed the palm of his hand on the car and she jumped, startled.
"What do you want to know?" She was screaming now, too. Her southern blood had begun to boil. "Ah need the money, and it's only temporary!"
"I have de money to take care of bot' of us, Rogue!"
"Ah don't want yoah money, Remy! When Ah moved here, it was for me." She held a hand to her chest. "Ah'm flattered that you're willing to take care of me, but Ah want to prove to myself that Ah can do it!"
His eyes flashed. "By how? Selling your body?"
"No, it's only temporary!" She repeated sternly, as if she was trying to get an uncooperative child to listen.
"I don't care! I don't want you going back dere!" He pointed to the club's doors with a swift flick of the wrist.
Rogue shook her head, wispy strands of ginger falling into her eyes. "No way, Remy. Ah'm staying until Ah get another job that pays just as well. Christ, I'm making a week's salary from the Candle Café working just one night here!"
Remy opened his mouth to deliver a snappy comeback, but stopped. Their yelling contest was getting them nowhere; he knew they were both stubborn as all hell and this would get them nothing but a headache, more to dwell on later, and nowhere near a resolution. He needed to think. "Fine, do whatever you want," he muttered. He slid into the seat of his Jag and sped off, leaving a now frustrated and angry Rogue to haul a cab.
**
Jean took it slow in her car that night. She needed to clear her mind and she wasn't at all in the mood to go home. She never was. She cruised around a bit down a few streets, weaving in and out of alleyways, until the blue digital numbers read 2:15. It was time to head home or she would never make it before her curfew of 2:30.
She pulled into the parking garage and promptly took the elevator up to her penthouse. On her way in through the door, a perky blonde no older than nineteen stepped out. She looked at Jean sheepishly, blushed, and scurried down the hall. Jean rolled her eyes in disgust and pushed her way through the apartment door, slamming it behind her.
In their bedroom, Warren stood in a pair of black silk boxers she had bought him one year for Christmas. He was running a comb through his golden waves when she came in. She walked briskly past him and straight to her walk-in closet.
"Hey, baby," he called, turning from the mirror.
"Hi," she replied curtly from inside the closet. She soon appeared wearing her own lavender silk pajama pants and matching tank.
"What's the matter?" He asked.
"Nothing." She walked straight to their king-sized bed to turn down the fluffy down comforter and sheets.
He strode over to where she stood preparing their bed and slowly but firmly grabbed her wrist. "I'm only going to ask it once." He annunciated clearly.
She stopped and turned to him with pleading eyes. "Warren, she's the second one this month."
They both knew exactly whom Jean was talking about: the blonde just having left the apartment.
Warren took both of her hands and pressed them against his naked chest. "Oh, Jean, honey. How many times do I have to tell you? It's business, love. Just business."
Jean sighed inwardly. How many times HAD she heard that? Too many. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her tight against his chest. She returned the embrace with the emotion of a brick, her heart tearing in two with every movement he made towards her. Why did he play with her like this? Why didn't he just let her go?
As if he had sensed her thoughts, he said, "You know I can't live without you. I love you and I want to keep you forever." How many times had she heard that, too? At least these words had some truth to them. For whatever reason, he made it clear he never wanted to give her up, like a pretty bird that a selfish child wants to keep caged so he may see it when he so chooses. It was okay for the child to see other birds, but his bird may not fly, ever.
"Besides," he mumbled into her velvet soft hair, his favorite attribute of hers. "Where would you go if you left me? You know how unhappy it would make me if you were anywhere but by my side." He caressed the back of her neck. "I would be extremely angry." Simply put: I'll make your life a living hell if you even think about leaving me. Jean sank helpless into his embrace and Warren smiled satisfied above her, resting his chin atop her head. He rocked her for a moment like a small child and laid her down on the sheets. "See, Jeannie? We belong together."
He climbed into bed beside her and clutched her possessively against him throughout the whole night, making sure every position they shifted in kept physical contact.
Jean didn't know what to think of her husband. The sex was good, and the money was good, but they didn't love each other and that was that. At least Jean had matured enough to grow out of her dreamy adolescent phase. They were young and, hell, they thought they were in love; but when it's over it's over, and Jean knew that time had long come. Warren, however, really thought he still loved her, even though he couldn't keep himself away from other women. He wanted the best of both worlds, and growing up getting anything he wanted thanks to his rich daddy, he got it.
As she had done so many previous nights before, Jean fell asleep with a racing mind and a desolate soul.
**
Ororo Munroe stepped through the door of her apartment and slithered out of her clothes. She plopped naked on her bed and maneuvered into the satin sheets, lying comfortably with the lamp on until she felt ready to go to sleep. Although it was well past two in the morning, Ororo's mind was racing, her creative juices flowing. She could very well have gotten up out of bed and composed a beautiful sonnet or planted another rosebush in her garden on the roof, as she was fond of both poetry and gardening, but she opted instead to simply lay peacefully in bed and revel in the serene atmosphere she created for herself.
The beautiful African's mind was mostly consumed with the thought of a single man, tall, alluring, really quite handsome in that rugged, feral attractive way. He had piercing blue eyes and a mane of unruly blonde hair framing his square jaw. Victor Creed, she believed he said his name was. He visited the club often, arriving no later than nine and leaving no earlier than closing. He was always watching, staring, gazing, devouring her with his savage stare. Ororo was very capable of taking care of herself, after all, she was single and attractive and living alone in a New York apartment, but this Creed man made her very uneasy. She found herself darting out of the club the back way almost every night, trying to avoid him.
At first, she was flattered with the attention, even responsive. But when he began following her home, as had been the case two or three times, she began to pick up a metaphorical "bad feeling" from him. She wanted to tell Logan about it, any of the girls, even Warren, but she was a capable woman and only when there arose a serious problem would she do so.
At the thought of men troubles, Ororo's mind turned to Rogue and her little dilema. She had had to give the southerner a ride home because the two had apparently had a tiff in the parking lot resulting in him taking off. Rogue was just about to hail a cab when Ororo found her and offered the extremely grateful girl a ride.
Men, can't live with them, can't kill them. And with that, Ororo turned off the lamp on her bedside table and drifted into a blissful slumber.
Continued...
**Though Remy's eyes are red on black, these characters are not mutants.
**Thank you Metroprincess for so kindly and benevolently pointing out my mistake. Boy, do I feel like an ass! Liquor, liquor, liquor. There! Is everyone satisfied?
