CHAPTER SEVEN
Silence, so pervasive I think I heard a cockroach sneeze, falls upon the room. Like the brown creepy-crawlie, if I could skitter under a baseboard I would.
Logan stares at the floor. "Right," he mutters. A tight inverted V forms across the bridge of his nose and fans out in parallel lines streaking along his forehead. His lips form a narrow crooked line as he chews on the inside of one cheek. Another moment passes in agonizing stillness before he explodes, "That's fucking bullshit!"
Ranting, "There is no way in hell. She never had anything to do with the program," he's a ball of frenetic energy. "Hell, fifteen years ago she was just a kid herself….."
There's an almost imperceptible note of pleading in his voice, "Hank's gotta be wrong."
"I assure you he is not," Charles replies his expression controlled despite the passion in his eyes.
Logan turns away, scrubbing his face with his hands, "Jeezus fucking Christ!" Rocking back on his heels, he lets out a long audible breath asking, "How?"
"It's no secret blood and tissues samples are routinely…."
"Rhetorical question, Charles," Logan's voice is laced with acid. "Bottom line is somebody got her goods."
"Highly likely."
"From where, though?" I wonder out loud over Logan's muttered vows of retribution against the perpetrators.
"Several possibilities," Charles replies. "As a teenager she had an emergency appendectomy. Of course the hospital typed her blood. There's no way to know whether an actual specimen was kept though if it had been screened for mutant gene markers it most assuredly was."
Concurring with Charles I add, "Safe bet."
He nods once and continues, "And genetic piracy seems to be flourishing despite so- called safeguards."
"Got that right and with Nazi bastards like…Stry…like her father." Logan glances uneasily at me, no doubt sensing my dismay.
He can't miss the dirty look I'm beaming at the middle of his forehead. Not that I disagree. My father committed heinous crimes against mankind; against his own son. But what happened to our agreement to refrain from public comment where the misdeeds of our parents were concerned?
His voice trips, "Sorry darlin'."
I nod but I'm thinking apology not accepted as he plows ahead.
"With watchdogs like that what do ya expect?"
Charles replies, "Indeed." There's an odd pause and I get the feeling he's sent secret communication to Logan.
He scrubs the back of his neck releasing a loud, bitter sounding laugh. "And I thought things couldn't get any more fucked up." He strides to a side table topped by a crystal decanter. Uncapping it, he asks, "Ya mind, Charles?"
Charles shakes his head at Logan's gesture to share, "No thank you. I must brief Scott shortly."
"Like hell!" The bourbon slops out of the tumbler as he pours. "This stays right here."
"Logan, put yourself in Scott's place. Effects to the team aside, I can't in good conscience conceal this from him."
"Don't sling that shit on me. Ya didn't seem to lose any sleep over not telling me right off the bat who Susie was."
"I concealed nothing concerning Susan. All you had to do was ask and a complete dossier would have been immediately provided. As I recall, you didn't ask."
Clamping his mouth shut, Logan blasts Charles with a murderous scowl then tosses back a second shot.
Charles turns his focus to me, "Do you wish to raise any concerns?"
"A couple dozen come to mind but they're between me and my husband. One thing though…"
"Go ahead."
"It strikes me that Scott knowing about Wendy carrying Jeans DNA might actually be detrimental to everyone involved."
"I strongly believe disclosure is the lesser of two evils."
"What's that Charles; the difference between eatin' shit or steppin' in it?" Logan grumbles.
Ignoring Logan, Charles explains, "Trust me, he will discover the fact sooner or later. Considering we have committed to protecting the girl and her mother, it's best he come to terms with it now."
Logan snarks, "Always running the show."
Charles turns on Logan, "Jean was like a daughter to me. Even I can't be completely objective knowing Jean is a part of Wendy. I think of Scott as a son and regard you…."
"Stow the one big happy family routine."
"Charles, can I ask something else?" I say hoping to derail my husband from further snide remarks.
"Of course."
"Who are you more worried about? Scott or Logan?"
Logan doesn't wait to hear Charles' answer. Waiving him off, he grabs the decanter and makes for the exit leading outside, "He's afraid of sonny boy going off the deep end again."
"Both," I mutter answering my own question but am not heard over the slamming of the door. Making my own way out to retrieve a coat, I tell Charles, "I'm going after him."
xXx
Here she comes, just like I expect. Crunching across snow above her ankles, her breath forms a cloud in the cold air.
"No, I don't," I answer pre-empting her usual question.
"Oh. Want me to go away?"
"Suit yourself," I say with a cigar clenched between my teeth.
"Ok," she whispers.
Even through a thick blue cloud of tobacco smoke I can smell the tears and hurt. God, I am a fucking asshole! A little over an hour ago we were as intimate as two people can be and now I'm smacking her down and locking her out like she's the enemy.
"Don't go," say holding out my hand offering apology.
She's gone defensive with her arms folded across her chest.
"Please," I add gently stroking her cheek with my knuckles.
She nods; a sad smile plays on her lips. She wraps her arm around my waist and I drape mine across her shoulder. Standing silent, we soak up a small measure of peace.
The early afternoon sunshine casts a glare on snow covered rolling hills. I can hear the whine of a jet engine on approach to LaGuardia, the muffled sounds of kids' voices inside the mansion. Cardinals and Blue Jays decorate the drab grove of trees at the lawns edge. A deep conifer forest in the great white north it ain't but it'll do to clear the decks just enough.
Of the possibilities how ironic Wendy ends up with the DNA she's got. Fate's a real joker and I'm the butt.
Charles is dead right. This has got fuck over potential written all over it. It's gonna affect Summers and it's gotta hurt.
I kinda feel for him.
Gotta trust Susie but we need to talk about this sooner or later. Like me, she a bundle of raw nerves and I can't help wondering why she ain't blown a gasket yet. She's got a right.
Want to or not, I—we got another kid to cope with. Don't matter if she was cooked up in a test tube or brought about through the good ol' horizontal bop.
Hang tight, bub. She will and it'll fucking be something I never see coming. Worse, the flood gates'll bust. Blow my ass off the Brooklyn Bridge, pump me up with molten metal; just don't torture me with a weeping dame--a pregnant weeping dame. Times like this I wish I was a telepath just to get a handle on who or what all her spit and vinegar's aimed at.
She clears her throat yanking me from my thoughts, "That crack about my father was hitting below the belt, don't you think?"
Shit! Her sights're aimed at me. "Said I was sorry." Fuck! That sounds lame and she's not buying it. "I meant it."
Now drop it darlin'.
Though she doesn't make a peep I feel the tension release in her body. "I know," her voice quivers.
Uh oh! Here comes the flood. I circle her in a full arm hug thinking don't make this worse by opening up your pie hole, bub. Problem is with her raging hormones I won't get it right no matter which way I go.
"I'm sorry," she snuffles against my chest.
Lifting her chin with my thumb, "Sssh," I soothe. The winter blue sky is nothing compared to glycerin bathed baby blues that twist my attitude a one-eighty. "There's nothing to be sorry about."
"Every thing just…..just sucks."
Can't help chuckling, "Yeah darlin', pretty much," and press a kiss on her forehead.
Holding tight, we go silent again. Then she sniffs, wipes her eyes on her sleeve and says, "I'm being such a weenie. What do you say we just go home and start fresh tomorrow?"
"I'd say that's a damn good idea."
But not yet. What I really wanna do; need to do is finish this cigar and bourbon in peace.
She's trembling and it's not just from the tears. Her hands are like popsicles in mine. "You go on inside."
She looks at me with unspoken questions. Her scent tells me she's having a tough time.
"It's okay." I peck her on the lips, "Won't be long."
We separate and she takes a few steps. Glancing over her shoulder anxious eyes beckon me, "Promise?"
"Promise."
xXx
Cigar done and stubbed in a snow bank, decanter drained, I'm standing here in the cold feeling beat up, wrung out and hung over the line. Guess that's what a couple straight weeks of bullshit being shoved down your throat does. A bumper sticker I've seen sums it up real good: If it ain't one mother, it's another.
Makes me nostalgic for the road. Free, easy, no ties. Bug out when the bullshit got deep.
Right! The road had its glory but who the hell am I kidding? Never sure of the next paying gig. Camping in the elements is over rated, especially in winter. Done one lot lizard ya've done 'em all.
"Come on mutt," I say to the stray slobbering on my pants leg. He ambled by a few minutes after Susie went inside.
He goes all frenetic wiggling fur ball chasing a stick I keep tossing for him as we weave through the topiary garden and 'Ro's dormant rose arbors. My ears pick up what sounds like a string of firecrackers and so does mutt, from the way his ears perk up.
Boom! Sounds like a pipe bomb coming from the direction of the rifle range. A loose jog becomes and haul-ass sprint. What the fuck are those kids up to?
Scrambling through knee deep drifted snow I get to the top of a ridge. It ain't any kids. Couple hundred feet below is Summers and he's going to town blowing targets out of the sky with those eye cannons of his.
Guess Charles had the talk.
Watching him for a spell coupla things come to mind. One, he's so locked up with what he's doing he's got no clue I'm nearby. If I were an enemy he'd be fucked, if not dead by now. Two, he's a crack shot and finally, he's got a damn good idea blowing off steam this way.
"Stay," I command muttley and he does!
Silently, I make my way to the rifle shed a few yards behind the range. Punching a combination I unlock the door. Some shed it is, too. Solar heated and electrified, over head lights come on as the door swings inward. We use a specially modified section of the range for training but its second purpose is recreational. Charles hosts deep pocket mucky-mucks a couple times a year. He's got as keen an eye for sport rifles as he does for that classic car collection of his.
I select a handsomely checkered, deeply polished, customized Browning, shrug on a pocketed vest and stuff it with shells. Bag the ear protectors.
Summers makes it real clear I'm not expected or wanted. The missed target and a string of slurs is a strong clue. So's the sour stench of disgust and him snarling, "This is a closed session."
"Uh huh," I reply before shouldering the gun. "Pull," I bark and pop two clay pigeons to smithereens. "That's why I'm here and you're over there."
He stands there, arms crossed, grinding his jaw, watching me like a vulture while I squeeze off a few more rounds.
"So, you're the father of Jean's child. Satisfied now?"
I shrug, "It's not like I had a choice," and change out empty shells with fresh ones.
"Tell me you wouldn't have if you did."
"Are you fucking kidding me? My feeling for Jean weren't a state secret. Neither were hers; she turned me down flat."
Closing the shotgun, I assume the position. "Pull!"
Squeeze once, twice; thinking knock her up? Oh, hell no!
Miss and a hit. Brilliant! Know better than to think when ya pull the trigger, I berate myself silently.
What the hell can I say? I did pursue the woman he was engaged to. Now through a bizarre twist of fate I'm the father of her kid.
"Listen Scott, for what it's worth, I'm sorry things turned out this way."
"Got that right. You're the sorriest s.o.b. I've ever known."
Summers turns toward the range. He raises his visor, shouts, "Pull," and half a dozen clays spit from the launcher in rapid succession.
Pow, pow, pow! Son of gun nails 'em all. "Nice!"
"Take your fucking praise and apology," he smacks a fist against his bent elbow, "and stick it."
Summers' ain't playing with a full deck and maybe I ain't either. Nothing to gain by trumping his ass. "Ok, you're pissed, I get that. But you've got a mad on for the wrong guy."
"Oh! Who then Logan? Forget it. You couldn't say anything to make a difference so don't try."
"I came here to shoot clay not shit." To emphasize I blast a couple more clays into the Promised Land.
"Right." He obliterates another half dozen. "You think I'm dumb as you look?"
"The way you're acting right now, I'd say so, bub."
He clams up, his face red as boiled ham and lets loose on the range. Blasting wild and furious, down goes a launcher and reducing a tree beyond to kindling. Fucker's as lethal with the beams as I am with the claws.
He turns and I flinch inside thinking I'm his next target.
"You make me sick," he grinds between a locked jaw. "Knowingly and willingly engaging in eugenics."
"Get this Summers, there's no willingly about it." He's about to cross a line in the sand and I don't smooth out the grit in my voice.
"There never is, is there? As long as you can claim no memory then there's no culpability."
It takes everything I have not to scrape that holier than thou look off his pretty boy puss. "You calling me a liar?"
"Yeah Logan and not just a liar; you're a coward. Hiding behind that excuse for every rotten thing you've done. You're not fit to lick Jean's boots let alone raise her daughter."
Throttle back Wolverine! This is exactly what cue ball meant. Digging deep for an ounce of civility, I reply, "Technically, Wendy isn't Jean's kid and even if she was, fucked up as it sounds I'mthe kid's father and you don't get a vote."
"You a father? Oh, that's rich. Where the hell do you get…"
I cut him short," I don't get off anywhere. You heard what Jennings had to say same as me."
"Sure Logan; a low down immoral bastard who fucks anything with a cunt. Prime genetic stock, huh? That little girl should be mine?"
The fool don't know when to quit. To keep from pounding him to paste I load up and splat a couple more pigeons.
"Jeezus, Scott! Listen to yourself! You're not making sense. I didn't sleep with Jean; not last year, not fifteen years ago."
"Don't try to weasel out, Logan. From the day Storm and I saved your sorry ass from Sabertooth you've been ripping my life to hell..."
Summers has lost the bubble.
"…And damn you to hell," his voice hits a pitch an adult male shouldn't, "Jean died as a direct result of you."
"And I'll volunteer for one of many scourgings in hell for it." My turn for a place in the boy's choir, "But Scott ya gotta let it go."
His breath hitches. Adrenalin surges through his bloodstream. Tense as a bowstring, he detonates, "I'll let it go after I've pulped your body from one end of this campus to the other. Then we'll see how the fishes in the pond like adamantium toothpicks."
"Uh huh. You and what army, bub?"
Voom!
There's a flash. The atmosphere splits wide open. Thunder roars in my ears. I duck, dodge and roll as a concussive eye beam punches through the air like a supersonic fist.
The aftershock rattles the gray matter inside my skull. My slowly healing left eye feels like it's being shoved through the back of my head.
Rraarrgghh!"
Snickt!
Sonofabitch!. I'm gonna gut him. I'm gonna rip his stupid head off and shove it up his ass.
I'm on him before he gets a chance to blast my ass a second time.
Fuck!
Breathing hard, I manage to control my anger before the claws turn him into sushi. "I'm gonna be real generous here and assume you made a mistake. Don't make a liar outta me or it's the last mistake you'll ever make."
"Fuck you, Logan. You might run me through but at this range even your adamantium won't keep you from a world of hurt."
"You're right. You'll be dead and I'll be back in the infirmary." Retracting the claws and backing up a step I'm still posed to inflict damage but I'm gonna give him a chance to save face. "And that's going to solve it, right?"
He drops his hand from the visor. Seething with hot, slow anger, his muscles remain tense and ready as mine.
"No," he replies, his voice cold and ruthless. But this'll help." Summers rears back, launches a fist to my blind side.
I dodge it but, "Oooofff!" The wind's knocked out of my lungs
Shocked to hell and doubled over, I'm gonna put this idiot into a hurt hole so deep he'll never crawl out-- once I can breathe and choke back the bourbon I recently consumed from turning the snow amber colored.
Crack! I see stars as the motherfucker thrusts his knee upwards splatting my nose.
Pop! "Aaah, uuhh! F-u-u-ck," he wheezes, stumbles and grabs his kneecap.
With no wind, my ah fuck dribbles out with a stream of blood and snot.
Stupid, stupid fuck! I saw this coming in his body language; smelled the chemical warnings. My reflexes and muscles must still be fucked up from the explosion; it's the only explanation.
"Rrraarrghh! Enough of this shit!" explodes from my chest more a growl than human speech. Positioned for a perfect head butt that'd shatter his skull, fuck only knows why I pull back from turning his lights out once and for all.
Before he can say what the fuck, I've got him arm locked. Payback time, junior! Wrenching his arms and flipping him over my shoulder there's a satisfying crack as his shoulder pops out of its socket. His scream can probably be heard clear to Manhattan.
Pinning the twit into submission his face is red as a sunburned pig's ass. With one hand smashing his visor against his eyes, the flesh on his forehead and cheeks whitens from the pressure. He'll have bruises worth bragging over tomorrow.
Tears leak out from the sides of his visor. His face is screwed up in agony. His heart's pounding against his sternum forcing his breath out in gasps and tortured grunts.
"Had enough?" I growl in his face.
His response is a nearly imperceptible nod. The adrenalin high is over and he's dumping altitude fast.
It's a good thing cuz I don't get anything from pounding the snot outta him. It's too damn easy.
My mama didn't raise no fool so I keep him locked down, "Here me now and believe it, Summers. You got righteous anger and hatred but I ain't the cocksucker you oughta be aiming for."
Guess he don't agree cuz he puts on that ass cramp expression and exhales a skeptical snort.
A kick of fresh adrenalin juices him up; forcing me to redouble the grip I've got on him. "Pull your head out of your ass and take a look at the big picture. All that piss and vinegar's a good thing and I need it."
He unclenches and for the first time I think he might be getting it.
"Help me take down the bastards who are responsible for fucking Jean and Wendy and the rest of our kind over." And read between the lines. I can't—won't admit being at a disadvantage; even a temporary one.
Bingo. I hit the right buttons. The fire in his belly cools. All I sense is overriding pain, regrets and deep despair. "Yeah," he replies, his voice a rusty groan.
He's just a screwed up dick head, not my enemy so I let up. Truthfully, him hooking up with my sis doesn't set right in my mind. Not because it's my sister but Summers' reaction to this DNA thing is a damn big clue that he ain't completely over Jean.
Join the club, bub.
Offering a hoist off the ground, he gives me the brush off. Don't blame him since I just cleaned the floor with his pride. Don't need to shove the mop up his ass.
Unless he asks for it.
"I think you broke my shoulder," he grunts cradling his arm.
"Could've if I wanted."
"What stopped you?"
Cuz I feel for ya but I can't tell ya. "Ya quit acting like a stupid fuck."
"You're all heart, Logan," he snaps then puts on the fearless leader mask. "I'm expected in Alberta. Have a full strategy briefing ready when I get back."
Boy, oh boy! That mean I get to play with the holo-map?
Aye, aye captain dick wad. "That's an affirmative."
xXx
Where the hell is he? He said he'd be right there.
I've just finished scanning e-mail and phone messages and now I'm drumming my finger tips on the glass paned door overlooking the lawn. There are oily smudges obscuring my view. No big deal; nothing but snow to look at.
I'm sick of snow. I'm sick of cold. I'm sick of issues. Come to think of it; I'm sick of everything.
I'm in a bitchy mood.
I'm beyond bitchy. I can't decide whether to scream or cry. Maybe I should do both. Better yet; can I kill somebody? I've got an A-number- one candidate.
Damn that bitch! She slid one right under my nose. I don't know whose ass VanKessel kissed, but before I left on vacation I know she didn't have the votes. Somehow in ten days time she got them and now Westchester Hospital is following the pack: Triage and Transfer mutants!
Excuse me!
We're doctors. We're supposed to heal people regardless of race and circumstance.
Where are these people supposed to go?
Oh, Logan where are you when I need you? You promised you wouldn't be long.
Who's that limping across the far yard? Scott! What's his problem? Stepping outside I holler, "Yoo-hoo! Seen my wayward spouse?"
"No," he shouts back.
He gets closer and I notice it's not a limp so much as really babying his arm. His hair, normally perfect, is all over the place. His coat's all askew and the back is soaked. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing," he says through clenched teeth.
"Baloney! Come here."
"I slipped on an ice patch is all," he offers, avoiding eye contact.
I don't quite believe him and reply, "Some slip," expecting he'll catch the hint. "Get in here and let me take a look. Broken?"
"Don't think so."
Ushering him to an examining room, from behind I immediately notice one shoulder blade protruding at an odd angle from the other.
"Let me help you with your coat." He grimaces and stifles a grunt shucking it off and I notice he can't raise the arm either.
"Where's the pain?"
"Here mostly," he gestures with his good arm. "Here too. Radiates across my back."
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad?'
"About a seven if I don't move."
"Numbness? Tingling in your hands or fingers?"
"Mmmm, not really."
"That's good but you know what?"
He stares vacantly across the room hardly nodding.
"We need to go down stairs. This is MRI territory and probably a job for Hank. Lil' ol' me doesn't have the upper body strength to fix adult joints and bones."
"Huh."
"Best case scenario you've dislocated your shoulder. Worst case, it's a fractured clavicle."
"Shit."
"Uh, huh. C'mon Cap'n Scotty. Faster we get you diagnosed and treated the faster you can get on your way."
I trail along with him and when we get to the elevator door he stops me, "I'm good from here."
"Sure?"
He flashes me a pained half grin, "Sure. And thanks."
I push the down button for him, "You're welcome."
Just as the door slides closed I feel a chilly draft at my back. "It's about time," I snark without even looking. There's only one person that use that door in and out of my office.
Turning around, it's who I think it is and he's got that dog with him. I'm so not in the mood.
Spreading his hand regretfully, he shrugs, "Sorry." He sounds funny, stopped up; nasal congestion kind of funny.
They're both wet, dirty and Logan is----bloody?
No, no, no, no. One more thing and… "Aarrgghh! What is all over your shirt?"
Moving in closer, my suspicion is confirmed, "That is blood! Oh no. Don't tell me! No, do tell me."
"Nothing to tell, darlin'." He crosses his arms as if to dare pursuit of the question.
"Don't darlin' me mister. Tell me; is it possible, even remotely so, that Scott's shoulder and the blood on your shirt are related in some far, out-of-this-world way?"
"Umm. What'd he say?"
"That he slipped on ice."
He lounges casually against the wall and nods, "Ok."
I toss up my arms, "Oh that's it!" Then cutting a palm across my forehead grind out, "I've had it up to here. One lies and now the other swears to it."
Crossing my arms over my belly, I jut one foot forward tapping on the wooden floor, "An injury like he has is not consistent with slipping on ice." I point to punctuate every word, " Now… you're… going… to tell… me… what… the…hell's… going… on."
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he mimics, "No… I'm… not.".
"I beg your pardon!"
"It's between me and Scott and it's over and done with."
This lame between us guys bull! I'll try another tack."What did you do to that poor guy? I mean, I think you broke his collar bone."
"Aw fuck that!" he booms sweeping his arms in an arc. Thrusting his thumb against his chest, "What did I do? Why's that always the first question?"
His turn to get in my face, "How about what did he do to deserve it?"
I flinch inwardly but stand my ground, "He's almost family! What could he do to deserve to have his arm practically torn off?"
Logan glares defiantly but remains silent.
Twirling my hair into a pony tail, I'm exasperated. "Honestly Logan, must violence always be your first response?"
He stiffens, "My first response? Listen up princess; you weren't there so drop it. Now."
"I will not until you talk to me." Lord! I know I sound like some old nagging hag but tough toe nails.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and lowers his voice, "Look Susie, it's something he had-- we both had to work through."
I sense his turmoil and moderate my tone, "Wendy?"
"In part and…'
"Jean," I finish gently.
"Uh huh."
"Oh gosh! I'm a schmuck." I should've expected that.
"The blood on your shirt; it's not his is it?"
"Nope. Bastard nailed me a good 'un. Busted my nose."
He's fishing for sympathy but I'm not biting, "Busted shoulder for a busted nose? Isn't that a bit much?"
His face hard and resentful, "Ya had to be there."
"Well I wasn't. Goddammit Logan! Why must I always hafta drag it out of you?"
"What the fuck more do ya want?" he yells and slams a fist into palm." I told ya what went down."
"There's a ton of stuff you're leaving out."
"It ain't important." Raking his fingers through his hair, he sounds weary, "C'mon Susie. There's nothing to be gained going here. Let's get going."
I'm being petty but crossing my arms, I cock my head and declare, "I'm going home but unless you come clean you can just stay right here."
"Like hell I am!" he booms. Too rough, his hand clamps down on my shoulder, "Now get your shit and let's go."
I push back, "Who in the hell do you think you are?"
The anger between us crackles and I think we both recognize the danger. He steps back, creating a buffer and heaves a deep breath, "Jeezus, woman! What the fuck's got into ya?"
"You! This place! Canada! Everything!" I scream at the top of my lungs. "Do you realize in the last month it's been…..everything…..has just been……miserable? Ever since…since…that child came into our lives."
His mirthful snort is like a cold glass of water thrown in my face.
"There's nothing funny about it."
"Nope, it ain't funny. Just ironic," he adds matter of factly.
His shift in attitude infuriates me further. "How?"
There's a protracted pause as his eyes track along the ceiling. Then his gaze settles back on me, "Umm….who rescued the kid and brought her here?"
"Oooohhh!" I grab a funky shaped ceramic paper weight, one that Travis had crafted in kindergarten, and fling it straight at him.
"Whoa darlin'!" Logan catches it and safely deposits it out of reach.
Completely out of control, I'm just about to grab for something else when I find myself wrapped in a bear hug. I struggle and push against him, "Get off me. Lemme go."
Does he let go? Of course not. Instead he rocks me back and forth while I become a human fountain.
"Sshh…."I feel tender fingers glide through my hair. "C'mon baby…."
"Let it out…." Warm, strong hands smooth up and own my back.
I'm blubbering, "I can't handle it anymore
He presses sweet kisses in my hair, "It's gonna be okay…"
"Can't we just have….normal…..some peace?"
"Sure…It's just a rough patch darlin'."
"I know but…you don't understand."
"I understand you're really pissed at something."
"No. No, I'm not."
He cups my chin gently, "Look at me and say that." His eyes are seeking and caring and it sets me off on another sob fest.
"What is it? C'mon, you can tell me."
"Oohh, it' not you---well in a way it is—but not really."
"Can't fix it if ya don't tell me."
My sad chuckle sounds like a strangled canary, "You can't fix this. The hospital is adopting a T and T policy."
"Huh?"
"They're going hard line with the MRA."
It takes him a minute shifting to the gear matching mine. "Oh right."
This time he laughs outright. "That's what this is about?"
Suddenly I'm feeling extraordinarily juvenile and self-absorbed. "Uh huh," I whimper.
"Aw shit!" He leads me to the couch, pulls me down and holds me close.
"Pretty stupid, huh?"
Another chuckle and then he answers, "Nah. Just never figured on a screw ball like that. What about all that committee work ya did?"
"I dunno know. I can't think straight anymore."
"Then don't think." He gets up, gathers my coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
"I've been thinking about this since before getting my ass blown off New Years Eve. We're going home, putting a fire in the fireplace, I'm gonna cook us something good and were gonna cozy up and not move til that medical leave I'm on expires."
"That sounds so good, Bright eyes."
Allowing him to lead me by the hand, we sneak out by way of the patio doors, cut up the side yard and slip into the garage. It would be the perfect getaway—except---we've got a tail. A large fury one. "What up with this?"
Logan grins, "Think I've been adopted."
"No. Just no. Please no."
"Aw c'mon Susie. He can't hang out here all the time."
"Seems to be doing ok so far."
"I heard Charles is allergic to dogs."
"That's digging deep," and he knows it from the look on his face.
"A dog is a huge responsibility; one that I don't care to put the energy or time into." I bump him with my belly for emphasis. "And they smell and the leave huge bombs in my yard." Counter that, dude
"I got it covered. I'll take him back and forth with me. You'll never even know he's around."
"My cats…." This excuse won't go far.
"Yeah….well…."
Oh! Score a point for a measure of diplomacy.
"He'll be a great watch dog."
"We don't need a watch dog."
"All right. You got all the reasons why not. But…I like him and …he seems to like us. I ain't gonna say pretty please."
"You're thinking it, aren't you?"
"I'm having you tested for telepathy."
"No telepathy involved. The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys and the aggravation they cause."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a highly qualified maybe."
"Ok. I'll run with that. I promise, ya won't be sorry and…and I'll start building a dog house this afternoon."
"Make it double sized so when he does make the inevitable mess or misbehavior you'll be comfy too."
"That's cold darlin', real cold."
I flash him an evil grin as I lift the rear hatch on the SUV and admit the dog into my car and my life. "I don't recall this in the pre-nup."
He closes the passenger door for me, "Paragraph three hundred eight two, subsection B…"
"Can it, bub," I tease as he settles into the drivers' side.
"Hey, you know I'm joking; right?" I say a little way down the road.
He ski's his finger down the tip of my nose. "Yep. But not about keeping things cleaned up."
"You're very perceptive."
"Glad somebody thinks so."
"I've had my share of dogs growing up."
"Me too."
"You remember?"
"Some. Elizabeth wasn't too keen on house dogs but I remember the hounds that my grandfather and John kept." He cops a fake aristocratic accent, "Fox hunting you know? Think Tom had a couple fighting dogs."
"Ew! Like pit bulls?"
"No. Rotwielers or something."
"That's terrible!"
"Yeah. Not my idea of a good time."
"Allen and I had the greatest Irish Setter; Molly was her name. Got her when the boys were little and after the divorce we split custody. So she went back and forth with the boys. We were absolutely heartbroken when she passed."
"How long ago?"
"Oh golly. Maybe a year before we met."
"See then. Matt's gonna be cool with it."
"Logan, you can quit with the campaign. You won when I let that slobbery brute in my car. Do we have a name picked out yet?"
"Nothin' yet. Got any ideas?"
"Oh no. You're not dragging me into this any more than I am already. Your dog; you name it. By the way, we better stop off and pick up a trough and something to fill it. Small wading pool ought to be the right size for a water bowl."
He laughs, "He's not that big."
"Is too. I've had smaller ponies."
xXx
Bowls, bedding, an oversized bright red bandana, leash and collar later, 'our' dog is outfitted for the Harris-Logan household. And yes; something fun, a chance for easy banter and teasing did us both a lot of good.
I talked Logan into a pre-fab fiberglass doggie Quonset hut citing a lack of time to build a dog house from scratch. He resisted but when I pointed out I needed him to start on the nursery, stat, he surrendered.
We garnered a lot of attention at the pet warehouse. Newfies aren't terribly common nor is one as well behaved as this one. Without a single command he heeled perfectly at Logan's side and charmed the diapers off a toddler or two shopping with their moms.
Finally, on the last leg home with said doggie hut tied to the roof rack, we're getting a lot of funny looks from the other drivers. Ah well, his truck would've been the smart solution but neither of felt like going home, getting it and then going out again.
Several blocks from the house we both notice heavy smoke hanging low in the sky. It stinks and burns our throats. "Gosh, that's a lot of smoke. Kinda close to the neighborhood."
Logan's non-committal grunt doesn't do much to stimulate conversation.
Driving a few blocks closer, it's easier to zero in just where it's coming from. "Honey, look at that. I think it's our neighborhood!"
"I'm thinkin' you're right." he agrees and hits the accelerator. "Old fire though."
"What? How can you tell?"
"A raging, new fire'd be billowing and black."
"Oh. Don't tell me; you've done firefighting."
"Couple big ones in the Pacific Northwest."
So if it's an old fire how come he cuts the yellow light short and speeds the last block to our street?
Slowing, we cruise down the street. It's blocked halfway down the hill by police cruisers and barricades as well as rubbernecking neighbors.
"Jeezus H. Christ!" Logan mutters and hits the breaks
For a moment I'm struck blind, deaf and mute. The swirling smoke and water obscure one of my personal worst nightmares playing out in real time right in front of me. Slowly, slowly, the scene comes into a hazy, surreal focus.
At the end of the street, three large pumper trucks pour water onto two structures. One, just a shell of charred brick and kindling; the other, for what we can see, seems okay except for scorched brick and hefty landscaping damage.
"Oh no!" I gasp.
"Oh my God!" I wail and suddenly feel faint.
Laying my head against Logan's shoulder I feel the knotted muscles just under the surface of his flesh. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel but his shoulders hunch forward and he shudders. His silent admission of anguish, defeat erodes my confidence, shatters my spirit.
Closing my eyes against the disaster, a sensation of intense sickness and desolation sweeps through me. Feeling acutely alive yet chronically drugged. I feel hot tears well up and dribble down my cheeks. I grit my teeth, choke on my breath, all futile attempts to imprison it. Overtaken, I surrender to deep, racking sobs.
xXx
A/N: Cue the scary, tragic music! One of these days I've got to give them a break. Well, not today.
Readers, I'm stumped for the dogs name. I'll consider your suggestions and if I pick yours, I'll credit you in the next chapter. Stats on the dog: Dark brown Newfoundland breed. If you aren't familiar with them, they're huge and furry; somewhat slobbery. They're expressive and loyal. Good with children. Mostly docile but protective of their owners. Used as rescue dogs until they age and then get lazy.
The usual disclaimer and the usual (though never routine) thanks to my beta. Also, thanks to Joe for a couple of lines of dialog. Credit for the phrase 'horizontal bop' goes to Bob Seager. All us 'old farts' know the song. Somehow I think Logan would be a big fan of Bob Seager. MLC