CHAPTER FIVE
I smell it and my stomach rumbles approval as I roll my bike between the Marquez' truck and SUV; the spicy, rich aromas of home cooking. Ain't been that long since I ate but an afternoon communing with the great outdoors sorta works up an appetite. Supper at Casa Marquez is a primo cure.
Electra's had open invite to faculty and staff Sunday nights since they joined the Team. Sometimes it's just me. More times, it's 'Ro and Kurt or Scott. Rarely, it's the Professor and his lady friend. Initially, I didn't want anything to do with it. Put in my hours and I'm gone; do my own thing. But, both of 'em kept at me and I'm glad they did.
Electra and Vic occupy what was once the grounds keeper's cottage when Xavier's estate was a posh enclave for a mega-rich dynasty instead of its current incarnation, a sanctuary and school for Mutants. She keeps a clean but cluttered house bursting at the seams with her hobbies. The woman paints, potters, gardens and who knows what else.
Vic's extra-curricular's are more in line with mine, restoring classic motorcycles. His collection, including a 'forty-seven, twelve hundred cc, twin engine Indian Chief, gives me a hard on.
He's also a musician, pro once. Percussionist for some big name Latino band I can't remember. He's even got a gold record hung on the wall in his study! And he's a friggin' X-Man?
Electra scolds, "You're almost late," as I shuck my jacket into a heap in her mudroom.
It's my usual habit to cut it close for Sunday supper at the Marquez'. No disrespect intended, I just seem to get hung up with something 'r another. Half the time it's Vic 'n me doing dishwashing penance for being late.
"Hey, I'm late 'r I ain't. What's cookin'?"
She laughs and directs me upstairs, "Chilies Rellenos and Vic could use your help setting up the new waterbed."
My complaint, "Makin' me work for my meal, eh darlin'?" is in jest as I take the stairs two at a time.
"You betcha," she yells from her kitchen.
The new waterbed she's talking about is actually a tank; a man-sized, filtered, and temperature controlled aquarium. Vic's mutation makes it so he's got to spend a certain amount of time submerged in water. Sorta have to wonder how the two of 'em manage? Opposites attract and all that bunk but electricity and water!
Vic stands at the foot of thing; I think it's the foot; arms crossed his face set in a sour grimace.
"Problem?"
He delivers the explanation in ripe, rapid fire Spanish.
Hoo-kay! Seems the wife doesn't like the location of said waterbed.
"I told her to be sure where she wanted it. I told her it's frickin' heavy; even empty," he rambles. "I told her once I got it set up it wasn't moving."
"So what's the issue?" I'm playing dumb and we both know it.
"Just shut up and gimme a hand."
If I applause, think he'll rescind the dinner invite? And prob'ly and kick my ass. "Where to?"
"Would you believe," he points left, "three feet this way?"
I shrug, not having a clue what difference three feet makes but I'm sure Electra has her reasons. Not that they'd make any sense to me.
It takes us a solid ten minutes, taking great care not to screw up the tile flooring, inching the bugger into place. Mid-point, Electra shows up to supervise and goad us with a chilled pair of Negra Modelos.
"Awesome," she cheers. "Now see, mi marido, it's perfectly spaced between the tile and carpet." Setting the beers on a dresser top, she beats a fast retreat.
Vic's eyes roll, "Si, si. Centered so it's pretty and I have to be careful getting out every morning." He takes a chug of beer and shouts, "Woman, I don't want to hear one word when your carpet gets dripped on."
"What did you say, mi amor?"
I gotta laugh. Mostly in good fun, they bicker like this all the time.
A most excellent supper consumed, dishes done and Vic and I are back to the waterbed assembly; your basic fill 'er up while we fill up on more beer, making sure it doesn't overflow. 'Bout as interesting as watching paint dry. The TV on in the corner provides a moderately entertaining basketball game. No idea where Electra's gone off too.
I can't easily get trashed on beer but five or six in a row'll loosen me up some. It's what I need to ask advice of just about anybody; my best pal included. Setting beer number whatever down, rubbing the back of my neck and letting go with a juicy belch, I'm working up to askin'.
"What's a good way to, um, say you're sorry when ya've fucked up?"
His eyes stay glued to the game on the tube asking, "Depends. Who?"
"Female. Said something I shouldn't 've."
"Serious female?"
I snort, "Not if I don't fix it."
"Anybody I know?"
My insides 'r squirming. "Let's keep it anonymous for now."
"Can't give advice if I don't know all the facts."
"Fine. Keep it to generalities, okay?"
"Okay, okay. Don't go all lobo on me."
"Aw fer chrissake. Never mind." Agitated, I itch my crotch and fart.
Copping a disgusted sneer, Vic gripes, "Gringo can't handle Mexican cooking."
"Jealous?"
He laughs and after a fair attempt besting me, says, "Flowers works pretty good."
"Jesus Christ!" I fan the air. "Kinda ordinary, ain't it? The flowers."
"Gotta be nice flowers. Not just any bunch ya get from the grocery store."
Ya can get flowers from a grocery store? "Well yeah, nice flowers. Prob'ly costs a bundle, eh?"
"Cost is in dee-rect proportion to your sin."
I stare at him like he's talking in tongues.
"Seriously, amigo. Poco fuck up, Poco wallet ouch. Grande fuck up…"
"Yeah, I get it."
"If you really want to score brownie points, you need to add a . . . um . . . personal touch."
"Aw c'mon."
Shutting off the water and going for more beer, he leaves to me ruminate.
"Like what?" I ask when he hands me another cold one.
"Like what what?"
"Personal touch."
"How should I know? It's your lady friend."
xXx
Okay, the flowers are a no-brainer. I guess my sin equals about a dozen roses. It's the personal touch part that has me racking my brain as I mess around with Charles' piano.
Box of chocolates?
Lame. 'Sides, dunno if she likes 'em.
What woman don't? Still lame.
Bottle of wine? Hmm . . . maybe.
Think, ya dumb Canuck. What the heck does she really like?
Teasing out a soft tune, I'm replaying our encounters in search of a clue.
Duh! We both like the some of the same kind of music.
Concert tickets? Uh huh. That could work.
Yeah, yeah. That really could work. Inspired, I cut out for my room and my seldom-used PC.
Whoa! Hold on. I check my watch. If I'm gonna get flowers in time, I better go. Right now.
I'm in luck, managing to score a dozen white roses from Whole Foods just before it closes. Grocery store 'r not, they look pretty good to me and they definitely cost a bundle. Even better, the chick at the counter must've been psychic guessing my plight and suggesting – sheesh - this is kinda dumb — no, it's really dumb.
I remember Sue saying how she's partial to Eeyore. Finally know what an Eeyore is. So, risking it all, including my bad-ass reputation, I buy it; a stuffed, depressed looking donkey.
Unfortunately, my luck doesn't hold getting the things back in one piece. Should've known a bouquet of flowers and a motorcycle ain't a good combination. Victims of wind, only half survive the trip.
Damn.
Concert tickets work out better. Much better. No clue who the dude is but performing Schubert, Beethoven and Janacek oughtta get me off the shit list with one Doctor Susan Harris.
Okay, now to get this stuff into her office unnoticed. Waiting an hour past lights-out, ease down the back stairs to the kitchen, out the back door, across the terrace that her office just happens to overlook and I'm there. Simple.
Tip of a claw jimmies the locked glass doors. In charge of security around here, once inside the door, I disengaged the alarm with the master code.
I feel a familiar, subtle buzz in the back of my consciousness. Charles is making his usual Cerebro-juiced mind sweep looking to bust errant hormonal kids and whatever. Sometimes, he and I engage in a game of mental hide and seek. I know how to block him but if I'm in a mood I can't resist giving the guy a brain dump of deep, dark feral sensory overload.
Good evening.
Good bye, I return.
May I inquire…..
No . . . Well, just call it an after-hours repair job.
The buzz in my head grows stronger as the nosy bastard ups the psi power. Piss off Chuck.
The buzz quits. Smart move cuz I was about to blast him with a migraine's worth of mental garbage.
Ah shit. What am I gonna put these roses in? Logan, ol'man, this just ain't yer thing. Hang on. There's a coffee mug on her desk. Cold dregs down the scrub sink drain and I got m'self an okay vase. I chuck the flowers in and it promptly falls over, dumping the water across the counter top.
Nice! Good thing it wasn't her desk.
A claw tip shortens the stems and it's all good.
I set it smack center of her desk. Nah-ah. Too damn obvious, especially if she ain't the first one in. Tucked beside her computer screen'll do. Almost forgetting, I stick the stuffed donkey beside it then have serious second thoughts.
Not about the flowers or the concert tickets; it's the stupid stuffed toy. I don't remember ever working this hard to get a woman to bed. But, here I am acting like some teenage, love-sick dope.
Shit! Better make up my mind fast. My senses tell me Kurt's close by, making night rounds.
Ah, what the hell! It looks kinda like I feel sometimes.
Quickly resetting the alarm, I lurk in a dark corner of Sue's office 'til Elf, none the wiser, goes past. Stealth no longer required, I exit through the door leading to the main hall – after parsing for scents. Old habits never quit.
xXx
Electra greets, "Buenos dias," her voice coming from exam room two.
"It is," I concur, happy for another sunny day. Now, if it would only warm up – just a little. I've lived in New York for twenty plus years and by February I'm still sick to death of the winters. "Guess we better not get used to it," I counsel my assistant.
"¿Por qué?"
"Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow."
Laughing, she pokes her head from the room, "Yeah, but Bee Cave Bob says spring's right around the corner."
"Who's Bee Cave Bob?"
"Texas' answer to the groundhog, an armadillo."
My turn to giggle, "You're kidding?"
She raised her hand, "Scouts honor."
"That's too much," I laugh even more. "What's the schedule . . . Oh what's this?" My coffee mug sprouted a rose bush over the weekend.
"Cute," I mutter. There's a six-inch tall stuffed Eeyore standing on an envelope.
Finished re-stocking the exam room, Electra inspects my discovery. "I saw the roses when I came in but I didn't notice that." Her eyes twinkle with mischief, "Ooh! Secret admirer? Open it."
I do and two slips of heavy paper plop on my desk. "Hmm." I keep my tone neutral though I appreciate the value of two tickets for first rate seats at Carnegie Hall. If I have a secret admirer, which apparently I do, he . . . he? Of course he. He certainly isn't cheap.
Electra grills, "Who's it from?"
"I don't know." But I think I can guess.
"No note?" Electra seems disappointed.
"Nope." And I think I'm not going to voice any speculation 'til I can confirm privately.
She sighs but I can almost see the wheels turning inside her head. Getting down to business, she says, "We've got a full day of well-checks."
"Right."
"I thought we'd get the quints done first."
"Yeah, I've heard they're quite a circus. Smart choice."
"Sweethearts, when they want to be." Veering off topic, she inserts, "I haven't noticed anybody being particularly attentive to you."
I shrug. Somebody has been but not when anyone might notice.
"Oh, and I've got a mandatory danger room session at ten-thirty."
"Fun. Right in the middle of the morning? Who scheduled that?"
"Probably Scott, but don't worry. I scheduled a break for you between then and noon."
"Terrific. By the way, just what do you do in the Danger Room?"
"In this case, work my butt off fighting holographic bad guys. But it can be programmed for all kinds of cool stuff. Want a fantastic run on the beach and don't have a beach handy? It can do that." She mimes the moves, "Dance a tango with your own specially programmed, ahem, partner."
"I'm not going to ask."
"Why don't you observe my session?"
"Well, since you scheduled me such a convenient break, I think I will."
"There's really only two possibilities," she ponders.
"Possibilities? What?"
"Your secret admirer. There are only two," she draws quotation marks in the air, "single guys on campus; Scott and Logan."
I roll my eyes, "Good grief."
She glances at the gifts, "That is definitely not Logan's style."
Beaming a secretive smile, I shrug. She obviously didn't notice the word Sorry scrawled on the inside of the envelope flap. At least I think that's what it said; the penmanship was pretty bad. Further debate must go on hold when the Stepford Cuckoo's show up for their check-ups. Can't wait to find out how their nickname came about.
xXx
The Danger Room observation booth is impressive as is Scott Summers' detailed explanation of its workings. Ultra modern as a descriptive doesn't do justice to twin consoles with touch pad this and that's and 3-D screens. You name the cutting-edge technology and this place has it.
But, oh my god, I'm captivated watching a ferocious display of male prowess. Agile and lightning fast, Logan seems intensely focused and totally in his natural element. He's, he's just... wow!
And such a body! I don't know where to look first. He's wearing nothing except low slung jeans that hug perfectly tapered hips and define a deliciously sculptured backside, the kind good for pinching or a playful swat. Any woman would happily die cuddled into thick, downy looking hair swathing his powerful chest and six-pack abs. It's not hard to tell, even with his shirt on but hot-damn; the man is ripped – in capital letters.
My distraction must show. Feeling an elbow bump my arm, I blush as Electra flicks a wink and conspiratorial smile. Thank my lucky stars I'm standing behind Scott.
Oh, Susan Aileen Harris, get a grip. Hot bod and possible very sweet apology or not, doesn't make up for those warning bells in your head – that you keep ignoring.
You couldn't fill a thimble with what I know about hand-to-hand combat, mixed martial arts or whatever it is Logan is doing. But, holding my breath, I watch him falter from a savage kick to his groin.
It's obvious he's in significant pain but the look on his face is unadulterated homicidal rage. Roaring, he pivots clear of his holographic opponent and spins, delivering a series of brutal, rapid-fire gut punches. Ultimately felled by a lethal throat punch, Logan's opponent staggers, collapses and pixelates into nothing.
Breathing hard, he glowers up at the control pod and hollers, "Shit. Izzat all ya got?"
"Yeah," says Scott, who's monitoring the session. "Time's up."
"Screw that, Scooter. Gimme five at level six."
Electra pushes a button and scolds, "Miho, don't be a hog. I need my time in or my boss isn't going to be very happy."
"C'mon down, darlin'. We'll combine sessions."
Electra laughs, telling him to take a hike in Spanish just as the room reverts from a holographic war zone to its natural state; a metallic tiled, inverted half-dome. Now, it's easy to see the projection devices that create any scene the mind can imagine.
Looking none too pleased, Logan disappears through a pair of automatic doors. A second later, doors swish open here in the control room. Carrying himself with compelling self-confidence, he strides from the elevator toweling the sweat from his dark, unruly hair.
Complaining, "Scott, the program's too damn predictable 'n slow," Logan drops into a chair. "Ladies," he acknowledges touching his head in a mock salute.
"You're full of it, Logan. Explain how you get nailed in the balls every time."
Never have I heard such a sound come from a human being. Logan releases a bass rumble. On his feet and in Scott's face, he challenges, "Cuz some dick-cheese gets his jollies programming it in there. Who d'ya think it might be, eh bub?"
Good grief. I witnessed these two together exactly two different times and each time has been a pissing contest. Note to self; ask Electra what their issues are?
Scott doesn't back down, "You gotta problem with the programming then get your ass down here and help sometime."
"Ya got it, bub. How 'bout t'night?"
Scott stands and makes for the exit, "Tonight. Eleven….uh eleven-thirty." He doesn't cloak annoyance or dubiousness from his expression or voice. "Now, I'm out of here. Gotta geometry class to teach."
Twisting his head to the side, Logan cracks his neck and exhales. Positioned in front of the console, he seems back in control, "What's your pleasure, darlin'?" He's talking to Electra.
"Scenario four, half speed to start, por favor."
He cuts her a disparaging frown but she bops him on the back of his head, "Someone, who shall remain nameless, didn't leave me enough time to warm up."
Guilt flashes across his face, "Just tell me who, 'Lectra and I'll take care of 'em."
She winks, "I'll count on that, miho."
Electra exits and he doesn't speak, no it's more than that. He ignores me going about initializing the training simulation as she makes her way below. I'm not surprised.
Eyes glued to the Danger Room and Electra's progress he finally asks, "Whatcha doin' down here?"
"Electra suggested I might enjoy the show."
His grunt sounds indifferent but watching his profile, I catch a brief grin.
I'm curious but I'm hesitant to start a conversation. If I have any sense at all, I shouldn't say one word about the little gift. I should go back to my office and forget all about this guy.
"How often do y'all work out like this?" So much for should and shouldn't.
"S'posed to every day. Don't always happen that way."
"Hmmm. Why?"
He shrugs.
Awkward silence hangs between us making me certain who my gift-bearer is. If I'm wrong, though, the last thing I want is gossip run amok. "Can she hear us?"
He points to a switch on the console, "Only if I activate two-way."
It's clear two-way is off. Perfect. "The items on my desk . . . they're from you?"
Without a beat he answers, "Yep."
"It's very sweet but why?" Like I don't know but let's see where this goes.
"I, uh, came down a little hard yesterday and um, I just wanna say sorry."
"You did and I accepted your apology."
"Yeah, well . . ." He makes direct eye contact for the first time today, "Sometimes I come off like a first rate jack-ass and I just figured . . . well . . . dunno what . . . but . . ."
He recoils ever so slightly as I put my finger on his lips, "Apology accepted, the roses are lovely and I'm looking forward to the show." And I'm not bitch enough to keep you hopping on coals over a detailed explanation of your callous remark at the cafe.
The look on his face is a mix of relief and wonder as I press a kiss on his forehead and vamoose for my office. I'll probably spend the remainder of the day kicking myself for keeping whatever this is going. Too attractive for his own good and a man on the make, I don't get it. Why me? And why am I powerless to resist?
XXX