Warren slumped against the bar and watched as his new employee swayed her hips on the stage, teasing her invisible audience with every simple gesture and playful caress against her skin. Worthington smiled and took another sip from his brandy. Emma was fully aware of him lurking within the shadows of the bar, he was sure of it. Idly, he pondered the last time Jean had put on such a show for him.
When her song came to an end, she paused and met her eyes with his. "What'd you think?" Normally, Warren would have responded with something witty and suave, progressing the sexual undertone that lied between them already. But he wasn't currently in the mood for Emma. He was currently in the mood for a touch of purity and chastity, to roam his mouth around his legal wife's body and feel her own luscious lips roam around him. The other women were simply there to pass the time, but Jean was indeed the owner of the finger he had slipped a diamond around.
He shrugged. "It's getting much better." He took a disinterested sip of his drink. "Keep up the good work."
Emma pursed her pink lips into a thin, irritated line. It was transformed into a seductive smile before Warren even realized what had happened. Lithely, she made her way off the stage and advanced toward Warren with slow, purposeful steps. "Something wrong, Mister Worthington?" She asked in a dulcet, articulated tone. She slid her arms around his neck and began trailing sensual kisses along his jaw and around his lips.
Warren removed her hands and nudged her away in one flippant gesture. Emma raised a kempt, wheat-colored eyebrow in faint bewilderment. She tried again, sliding into his lap this time and making sure to add extra, urgent pressure against his lap with her thighs. He rested his hands on her hips and promptly hoisted her off.
"Back off, woman." He snapped, taking yet another sip.
Emma was taken back by his refusal- a scant occurrence in her case. "What's your problem?" She spat, a little offended by his sudden lack on interest.
Warren rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. "Nothing. I'm just not in the mood."
"Liar. You're always in the mood. You're just not in the mood for me."
He nodded. She gasped and stalked back to the stage to gather her duffel bag. At the door, she tossed over her shoulder. "Maybe I'll go see what Scott Summers is doing, since he seems to be keeping everyone else company these days." And then she stepped through the door.
She hadn't gotten three steps when she felt a hand grasp her from behind and slam her against her Corvette.
"Mmm," she sighed, tipping her head back, "I like it rough, Warren."
"Spill, bitch." He sneered, clutching her shoulders in an iron grasp.
She giggled, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Warren."
He twisted her flesh a bit, causing her to cry out in something that sounded like both delight and pain. "You sick whore," he muttered. "Now tell me, what the hell did you mean 'Scott Summers?'"
Emma's beautiful caramel-colored eyes widened in mock surprise and glittered with a twisted passion. She responded in a patronizing tone, cooing to him as if he were a little boy. "Aw, you poor baby. You didn't know? I thought everyone knew. I mean, Logan does, I do, and surely THEY know."
"They?" He said tightly.
"Scott and Jeannie of course. I saw him in the dressing room the other night, comforting your wife as she cried about something or other."
His grip tightened and this time she clearly cried in discomfort. "Warren!" She nearly wailed.
"Go on," he annunciated.
"Next thing I knew, they were kissing."
"Kissing?"
"Oh yea, and it gets better. She asks him to take her back to his place and the poor misguided fool agrees. I thought, 'someone stop them!' but I didn't have the guts. Then, thankfully, Logan finds them. I think, 'Great. Saved.' But you know what he does? He lets them go, can you believe it? All she had to do was bat her little eyelashes and he was a goner. Then she slides into Scott's passenger seat," by now Emma saw that Warren was gone, possessed in his imagination of what his wife and Scott were doing at this moment. All the same, Emma encouraged his undoubtedly boiling rage by recounting vivid details of the account. "...crossing her legs toward him and screaming through body language that she needed to be fucked right then and there. Man, I'd never seen Summers drive so fast in my life."
Warren Worthington could hardly breath. He felt as if someone had sucker punched him in the gut and it was all he could do not to double over. Releasing Emma, he hurled himself into his car and slammed the door behind him, leaving her with a smug smile curling on her pretty, frosty features. Speeding through the New York traffic, he whipped out his cell phone and pounded a few digits, waiting impatiently for someone to answer. "Xavier, hey! It's Warren Worthington. Yeah, um, hey, I was just wondering if I could get a favor off of you. Yeah, well, you see, I know a man named Scott Summers works for you; I just need his address if it's not too much trouble."
**
Remy's eyes fluttered open when he heard the sound of nearing footsteps. He dismissed the dismal gray ceiling of his solitary cell and sprung off of the bed. On his feet, he saw his old time friend and partner in crime, Pawn, accompanied by an over-weight security guard. The cop notified them of their five-minute time limit and left the two alone. Remy approached the iron bars and gripped them, leaning his head against the cool metal.
"Man, Remy," Pawn began. "How you holding up, brother?"
"My trial is tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. Be dere. If I'm ruled innocent, fine. If guilty, you know what to do."
Pawn nodded. "Where will they take you?"
"The state pen down town. You know de one. Security's not too tight, so it shouldn't be a problem busting me out..." he paused. "Only IF I'm even found guilty, which I shouldn't be if dey have any brains in deir heads."
The conversation was brief, but it never had to be long. Simple as that, and Remy was suddenly grateful again for the loyalty he found in his old accomplices. If he were found guilty tomorrow, he would be in jail for two days tops.
**
Jean knew she shouldn't have come, but her hand had a mind of it's own when it knocked on his apartment door. Her mouth had a mind of its own when he kissed her and she kissed back in desperate wanton. Her daydreams had a mind of their own when they wouldn't leave him alone all day. Her heart had a mind of its own when it pounded against her ribs every time he so much as brushed against her.
Scott accepted her with open arms when he found her at his door. He too could find nothing else to occupy his mind with during the long hours they were separated than impious thoughts of her and him.
He pressed her into a wall with his own body weight as he dumbly shut his front door behind him. He focused his hands back on her: her hips, her breasts, her neck and face. She eagerly responded, jumping into his arms and strapping her thighs around his hips. Her hands ran freely through his hair and pressed his head harder against her, trying to deepen the kiss until she was swallowing his soul.
She wrenched away in a lungful of air and slithered her self down from where she was pinned to his wall. "Wait." He stopped, confused. "Wait."
"What's wrong?" he panted.
She smoothed her hair. "Nothing, I..." She fell back against the wall. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm NOT a slut. I'm not." She repeated and shook her head. "I don't do this kind of thing with every guy I meet. With you, it's not just s..." she trailed off.
Scott's face contorted into a look of utter incomprehension. "What? No, no, I never thought that." He brought his face close to her again. "Never, do you understand? I think..." he stopped himself, but the pressing look in her eyes let him know she needed to hear it, for one reason or another. "I think I'm falling in love with you." He looked away, a bit ashamed. "In love with a married woman. Another man's wife." He added a bit despairingly. What was he getting himself into?
Instead of the tentative, awkward response he was expecting, she leapt again into his arms and showered him with a fresh batch of tantalizing kisses. "Me, too." She breathed.
"How touching." Jean yelped at the sound of Warren's voice at the door, a mere five feet from the scene he was witnessing- his wife and another man making love. Even Warren's heart, behind its tall barricades and thick, icy walls, wrenched at the sight. Two men poured forth from behind him, each grabbing one of Scott's arms and pulling his clinging form away from Jean. She screamed in protest and attempted to follow but Warren held her back in the crook of his arms.
She begged Warren to make them stop, wailing obscenities and finally crumbling to her knees in a plea, but he wouldn't hear of it. She was forced to be made witness to Scott's merciless beating, not an ounce of the men's brutality held back. One would hold while the other beat, then the other hold while his companion drove his fist into her lover's gut, face, or anywhere else they could inflict pain. Finally, neither had to hold because he was too weak to defend himself. Scott simply lay in a boneless heap on the floor while they kicked and clawed and punched and bloodied. When Scott was bordering unconsciousness, Warren held up his hand and the two men stopped immediately. Warren wanted Scott to be coherent when he led Jean away, placing an ardent kiss on her full, stiff mouth and mumbling something about going home and setting her straight, too, loud enough, of course, for his beaten victim to hear.
Before slamming Scott's apartment door behind him, Warren turned. "And if I ever see you back at my club or anywhere near my wife or anyone who even GOES to the club again, I'll strangle you with my bare hands."
**
"And you claim, Mister LeBeau, that you had positively no relation to the victim?" The prosecuting attorney paced the courtroom with his hands crossed behind his back.
"Dat's right." Remy replied.
"Except that she worked with your girlfriend, in the strip bar?"
Remy squirmed. It didn't suit him that this dick was bringing Rogue into this. He glanced at his southern belle sitting in the courtroom seats. She was gazing at the scene with worried eyes, wringing her handkerchief between her slim fingers. "Dat's right." He answered.
Rogue swallowed, darting her eyes from one juror to the next. These twelve people were to decide the fate of the man that held her heart in his palm. She fidgeted as if she were dangling from a 100-foot drop on a one-inch long rope. Next to her, Warren had his arm draped across Jean's frame, holding her as close as he could without her sitting on his lap. 'That's some whelp she's got there,' Rogue thought absently, looking at the small black blotch that covered territory on Jean's right cheekbone. 'Poah thang. Wondah what happened.'
The trial went smoothly for a couple more hours. Long, but smooth. Rogue's heart had stopped pounding so loud to the point where she thought everyone in the courtroom could hear it, and settled down to a moderately fast tempo. That is until right before the last witness was called to the stand. She wasn't sure what, but something told Rogue that all hell was about to storm into the room.
"I'd like to call to the stand my last witness, a Mister Guy Marks." Guy strode into the room, flashed the jury a brief smile, and promptly took his seat on the witness stand. He felt the cool leather of the bible under his palm and uttered the fateful, solemn oath.
"Mister Marks, please state to the court your involvement with this case."
"I'm a Lieutenant of five years for the NYPD, sir. I was assigned to investigate the murder case of Elisabeth Braddock."
"Objection," Remy's lawyer said from beside him. "Case has not been legally determined murder yet."
"Sustained."
Guy continued. "Sorry, I was assigned to investigate the questionable murder/suicide of Elisabeth Braddock."
"And what did the autopsy results find?" His lawyer asked, addressing the question more to the attentive jury.
"That the victim had been pregnant at time of death."
"For how long?"
Marks shrugged. "I'd say two weeks to a month. Hard to tell, really, that early you know?"
"Of course. Go on."
"Well anyways, on a tip, we arrested the defendant, Remy LeBeau. We held him for questioning but we had to let him go on account we couldn't find any prosecuting evidence in the victim's house and/or at the club she was employed at."
"Until now."
"Until now," Marks repeated. A slight stir occurred in the courtroom and Rogue's stomach sank into the pit of her. 'What evidence?' She stole a glance at Remy. Unfortunately, he too had a look of pure shock on his face. 'Oh Gawd. Please Lawd, don't do this.'
"Order!" The judge slammed his mallet against the wood and demanded silence. "Please proceed with your evidence."
The lawyer nodded and retrieved three plastic bags from his brown suitcase. Back turned to the courtroom and jury, he fished out the articles in each bag and pinned them on the white bulletin board standing on a tripod in front of the room. The courtroom gasped. Rogue nearly fainted.
Three crude pictures of Remy and Betsy during various stages of intercourse were displayed, each one with Remy's face clearly shown.
The prosecuting attorney let the shock sink through the audience and nearly smiled with smug satisfaction. "And you found these in the victim's house?"
"That's correct. Hidden under her mattress."
"No further questions, your honor."
Rogue choked out a sob, causing Remy to whip his head around. His lawyer's eyes met him first. "Confess," he mumbled under his breath, and Remy's head continued to spin out of control.
"I..." he began, and the courtroom went silent. "I...I didn't mean to. We'd gotten in a fight, Rogue and I; it was that night I'd found her working at de club for de first time." He weakly gestured behind him to Rogue. "I don't know how, I'd only had one beer at de bar. Den Betsy came in and it was like Bam! I was drunk before I knew it and I don't remember anyt'ing after dat except waking up at three a.m. in her apartment. I told her it was a huge mistake and dat it wasn't right, should have never happened." He paused in his hysterical rantings to slowly and quietly repeat the words. "Should have never happened." His head shot up to the jury. "But I didn't kill her! You hear me, I didn't! I am no killer! She never told me anyt'ing about any baby or abortion or not'ing!" The jury's verdict was made before they even went in to deliberate.
AUTHOR's NOTES
Oh boy.
First and foremost to stormfreak: not like that at all. Storm's a very beautiful woman and a lot of men love her, I'm sure, but I'm just saying Logan will not. Nor will she pine over him. Storm would never do that for any man. She's too dignified and has way too much class.
Second off: Pawn is no one we know. I made him up. I know, I know, I promised myself I wouldn't, but I did.
REVIEW. Just Review!
When her song came to an end, she paused and met her eyes with his. "What'd you think?" Normally, Warren would have responded with something witty and suave, progressing the sexual undertone that lied between them already. But he wasn't currently in the mood for Emma. He was currently in the mood for a touch of purity and chastity, to roam his mouth around his legal wife's body and feel her own luscious lips roam around him. The other women were simply there to pass the time, but Jean was indeed the owner of the finger he had slipped a diamond around.
He shrugged. "It's getting much better." He took a disinterested sip of his drink. "Keep up the good work."
Emma pursed her pink lips into a thin, irritated line. It was transformed into a seductive smile before Warren even realized what had happened. Lithely, she made her way off the stage and advanced toward Warren with slow, purposeful steps. "Something wrong, Mister Worthington?" She asked in a dulcet, articulated tone. She slid her arms around his neck and began trailing sensual kisses along his jaw and around his lips.
Warren removed her hands and nudged her away in one flippant gesture. Emma raised a kempt, wheat-colored eyebrow in faint bewilderment. She tried again, sliding into his lap this time and making sure to add extra, urgent pressure against his lap with her thighs. He rested his hands on her hips and promptly hoisted her off.
"Back off, woman." He snapped, taking yet another sip.
Emma was taken back by his refusal- a scant occurrence in her case. "What's your problem?" She spat, a little offended by his sudden lack on interest.
Warren rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. "Nothing. I'm just not in the mood."
"Liar. You're always in the mood. You're just not in the mood for me."
He nodded. She gasped and stalked back to the stage to gather her duffel bag. At the door, she tossed over her shoulder. "Maybe I'll go see what Scott Summers is doing, since he seems to be keeping everyone else company these days." And then she stepped through the door.
She hadn't gotten three steps when she felt a hand grasp her from behind and slam her against her Corvette.
"Mmm," she sighed, tipping her head back, "I like it rough, Warren."
"Spill, bitch." He sneered, clutching her shoulders in an iron grasp.
She giggled, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Warren."
He twisted her flesh a bit, causing her to cry out in something that sounded like both delight and pain. "You sick whore," he muttered. "Now tell me, what the hell did you mean 'Scott Summers?'"
Emma's beautiful caramel-colored eyes widened in mock surprise and glittered with a twisted passion. She responded in a patronizing tone, cooing to him as if he were a little boy. "Aw, you poor baby. You didn't know? I thought everyone knew. I mean, Logan does, I do, and surely THEY know."
"They?" He said tightly.
"Scott and Jeannie of course. I saw him in the dressing room the other night, comforting your wife as she cried about something or other."
His grip tightened and this time she clearly cried in discomfort. "Warren!" She nearly wailed.
"Go on," he annunciated.
"Next thing I knew, they were kissing."
"Kissing?"
"Oh yea, and it gets better. She asks him to take her back to his place and the poor misguided fool agrees. I thought, 'someone stop them!' but I didn't have the guts. Then, thankfully, Logan finds them. I think, 'Great. Saved.' But you know what he does? He lets them go, can you believe it? All she had to do was bat her little eyelashes and he was a goner. Then she slides into Scott's passenger seat," by now Emma saw that Warren was gone, possessed in his imagination of what his wife and Scott were doing at this moment. All the same, Emma encouraged his undoubtedly boiling rage by recounting vivid details of the account. "...crossing her legs toward him and screaming through body language that she needed to be fucked right then and there. Man, I'd never seen Summers drive so fast in my life."
Warren Worthington could hardly breath. He felt as if someone had sucker punched him in the gut and it was all he could do not to double over. Releasing Emma, he hurled himself into his car and slammed the door behind him, leaving her with a smug smile curling on her pretty, frosty features. Speeding through the New York traffic, he whipped out his cell phone and pounded a few digits, waiting impatiently for someone to answer. "Xavier, hey! It's Warren Worthington. Yeah, um, hey, I was just wondering if I could get a favor off of you. Yeah, well, you see, I know a man named Scott Summers works for you; I just need his address if it's not too much trouble."
**
Remy's eyes fluttered open when he heard the sound of nearing footsteps. He dismissed the dismal gray ceiling of his solitary cell and sprung off of the bed. On his feet, he saw his old time friend and partner in crime, Pawn, accompanied by an over-weight security guard. The cop notified them of their five-minute time limit and left the two alone. Remy approached the iron bars and gripped them, leaning his head against the cool metal.
"Man, Remy," Pawn began. "How you holding up, brother?"
"My trial is tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. Be dere. If I'm ruled innocent, fine. If guilty, you know what to do."
Pawn nodded. "Where will they take you?"
"The state pen down town. You know de one. Security's not too tight, so it shouldn't be a problem busting me out..." he paused. "Only IF I'm even found guilty, which I shouldn't be if dey have any brains in deir heads."
The conversation was brief, but it never had to be long. Simple as that, and Remy was suddenly grateful again for the loyalty he found in his old accomplices. If he were found guilty tomorrow, he would be in jail for two days tops.
**
Jean knew she shouldn't have come, but her hand had a mind of it's own when it knocked on his apartment door. Her mouth had a mind of its own when he kissed her and she kissed back in desperate wanton. Her daydreams had a mind of their own when they wouldn't leave him alone all day. Her heart had a mind of its own when it pounded against her ribs every time he so much as brushed against her.
Scott accepted her with open arms when he found her at his door. He too could find nothing else to occupy his mind with during the long hours they were separated than impious thoughts of her and him.
He pressed her into a wall with his own body weight as he dumbly shut his front door behind him. He focused his hands back on her: her hips, her breasts, her neck and face. She eagerly responded, jumping into his arms and strapping her thighs around his hips. Her hands ran freely through his hair and pressed his head harder against her, trying to deepen the kiss until she was swallowing his soul.
She wrenched away in a lungful of air and slithered her self down from where she was pinned to his wall. "Wait." He stopped, confused. "Wait."
"What's wrong?" he panted.
She smoothed her hair. "Nothing, I..." She fell back against the wall. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm NOT a slut. I'm not." She repeated and shook her head. "I don't do this kind of thing with every guy I meet. With you, it's not just s..." she trailed off.
Scott's face contorted into a look of utter incomprehension. "What? No, no, I never thought that." He brought his face close to her again. "Never, do you understand? I think..." he stopped himself, but the pressing look in her eyes let him know she needed to hear it, for one reason or another. "I think I'm falling in love with you." He looked away, a bit ashamed. "In love with a married woman. Another man's wife." He added a bit despairingly. What was he getting himself into?
Instead of the tentative, awkward response he was expecting, she leapt again into his arms and showered him with a fresh batch of tantalizing kisses. "Me, too." She breathed.
"How touching." Jean yelped at the sound of Warren's voice at the door, a mere five feet from the scene he was witnessing- his wife and another man making love. Even Warren's heart, behind its tall barricades and thick, icy walls, wrenched at the sight. Two men poured forth from behind him, each grabbing one of Scott's arms and pulling his clinging form away from Jean. She screamed in protest and attempted to follow but Warren held her back in the crook of his arms.
She begged Warren to make them stop, wailing obscenities and finally crumbling to her knees in a plea, but he wouldn't hear of it. She was forced to be made witness to Scott's merciless beating, not an ounce of the men's brutality held back. One would hold while the other beat, then the other hold while his companion drove his fist into her lover's gut, face, or anywhere else they could inflict pain. Finally, neither had to hold because he was too weak to defend himself. Scott simply lay in a boneless heap on the floor while they kicked and clawed and punched and bloodied. When Scott was bordering unconsciousness, Warren held up his hand and the two men stopped immediately. Warren wanted Scott to be coherent when he led Jean away, placing an ardent kiss on her full, stiff mouth and mumbling something about going home and setting her straight, too, loud enough, of course, for his beaten victim to hear.
Before slamming Scott's apartment door behind him, Warren turned. "And if I ever see you back at my club or anywhere near my wife or anyone who even GOES to the club again, I'll strangle you with my bare hands."
**
"And you claim, Mister LeBeau, that you had positively no relation to the victim?" The prosecuting attorney paced the courtroom with his hands crossed behind his back.
"Dat's right." Remy replied.
"Except that she worked with your girlfriend, in the strip bar?"
Remy squirmed. It didn't suit him that this dick was bringing Rogue into this. He glanced at his southern belle sitting in the courtroom seats. She was gazing at the scene with worried eyes, wringing her handkerchief between her slim fingers. "Dat's right." He answered.
Rogue swallowed, darting her eyes from one juror to the next. These twelve people were to decide the fate of the man that held her heart in his palm. She fidgeted as if she were dangling from a 100-foot drop on a one-inch long rope. Next to her, Warren had his arm draped across Jean's frame, holding her as close as he could without her sitting on his lap. 'That's some whelp she's got there,' Rogue thought absently, looking at the small black blotch that covered territory on Jean's right cheekbone. 'Poah thang. Wondah what happened.'
The trial went smoothly for a couple more hours. Long, but smooth. Rogue's heart had stopped pounding so loud to the point where she thought everyone in the courtroom could hear it, and settled down to a moderately fast tempo. That is until right before the last witness was called to the stand. She wasn't sure what, but something told Rogue that all hell was about to storm into the room.
"I'd like to call to the stand my last witness, a Mister Guy Marks." Guy strode into the room, flashed the jury a brief smile, and promptly took his seat on the witness stand. He felt the cool leather of the bible under his palm and uttered the fateful, solemn oath.
"Mister Marks, please state to the court your involvement with this case."
"I'm a Lieutenant of five years for the NYPD, sir. I was assigned to investigate the murder case of Elisabeth Braddock."
"Objection," Remy's lawyer said from beside him. "Case has not been legally determined murder yet."
"Sustained."
Guy continued. "Sorry, I was assigned to investigate the questionable murder/suicide of Elisabeth Braddock."
"And what did the autopsy results find?" His lawyer asked, addressing the question more to the attentive jury.
"That the victim had been pregnant at time of death."
"For how long?"
Marks shrugged. "I'd say two weeks to a month. Hard to tell, really, that early you know?"
"Of course. Go on."
"Well anyways, on a tip, we arrested the defendant, Remy LeBeau. We held him for questioning but we had to let him go on account we couldn't find any prosecuting evidence in the victim's house and/or at the club she was employed at."
"Until now."
"Until now," Marks repeated. A slight stir occurred in the courtroom and Rogue's stomach sank into the pit of her. 'What evidence?' She stole a glance at Remy. Unfortunately, he too had a look of pure shock on his face. 'Oh Gawd. Please Lawd, don't do this.'
"Order!" The judge slammed his mallet against the wood and demanded silence. "Please proceed with your evidence."
The lawyer nodded and retrieved three plastic bags from his brown suitcase. Back turned to the courtroom and jury, he fished out the articles in each bag and pinned them on the white bulletin board standing on a tripod in front of the room. The courtroom gasped. Rogue nearly fainted.
Three crude pictures of Remy and Betsy during various stages of intercourse were displayed, each one with Remy's face clearly shown.
The prosecuting attorney let the shock sink through the audience and nearly smiled with smug satisfaction. "And you found these in the victim's house?"
"That's correct. Hidden under her mattress."
"No further questions, your honor."
Rogue choked out a sob, causing Remy to whip his head around. His lawyer's eyes met him first. "Confess," he mumbled under his breath, and Remy's head continued to spin out of control.
"I..." he began, and the courtroom went silent. "I...I didn't mean to. We'd gotten in a fight, Rogue and I; it was that night I'd found her working at de club for de first time." He weakly gestured behind him to Rogue. "I don't know how, I'd only had one beer at de bar. Den Betsy came in and it was like Bam! I was drunk before I knew it and I don't remember anyt'ing after dat except waking up at three a.m. in her apartment. I told her it was a huge mistake and dat it wasn't right, should have never happened." He paused in his hysterical rantings to slowly and quietly repeat the words. "Should have never happened." His head shot up to the jury. "But I didn't kill her! You hear me, I didn't! I am no killer! She never told me anyt'ing about any baby or abortion or not'ing!" The jury's verdict was made before they even went in to deliberate.
AUTHOR's NOTES
Oh boy.
First and foremost to stormfreak: not like that at all. Storm's a very beautiful woman and a lot of men love her, I'm sure, but I'm just saying Logan will not. Nor will she pine over him. Storm would never do that for any man. She's too dignified and has way too much class.
Second off: Pawn is no one we know. I made him up. I know, I know, I promised myself I wouldn't, but I did.
REVIEW. Just Review!
