How dare he?
The Rogue pulled aggressively from her beer as she fumed, and for a handful of moments, she actually considered chucking the bottle at the Wolverine's thick, arrogant skull.
What the fuck? The nerve of him! Who did he think he was? And more to the point, who the hell did he think she was that there was any universe where she'd actually be down for that?
She'd come to the shitty fight bar tonight, sure. Because there was no chance in hell she'd let him get the last word there. No way. She had a reputation to live up to, but more than that, she'd choke on her damn pride before she ever let him see how much this whole thing had shaken her to the marrow of her bones... but she never imagined he'd actually follow through. And she'd damn sure never acknowledge the small, bright part of her that was delirious that he had. What the fuck was that even about?
The offer infuriated her on principle. A nebulous invitation to watch him screw some faceless woman was even worse than a pity fuck.
Even the untouchable girl had standards. Morals. Lines she never thought she'd cross. Not even for him.
But sweet Jesus, it had been so long. Years. But not so many years that she couldn't remember what a man's touch felt like on her skin. Her whole body shuddered as that familiar panic welled up. Dry mouth. Churning guts. Racing heart. Clammy hands, sweating in her gloves. Fear and regret and a thousand what-ifs closing her throat until the spots flashing before her made her close her eyes.
If the Wolverine was the animal he thought he was, surely even he could see it? Nature didn't make mistakes. The natural order of things was not to be fucked with, and Nature had obviously made her this way for some twisted reason. Poison. Toxic. Deadly. How dare he defy that? How dare he give her even a glimmer of hope that there would ever be anything more for her than solitary orgasms in a cold, empty bed?
Fuck him.
Fuck them all.
Marie stalked back to the bar and pretended not to watch the fight as she pounded a shot of 'I don't dadgum care' and another of 'screw you'. With that burning in her blood, she moved on to a bottle of 'I'm gonna make you fucking pay for that'. That one she savored, enjoying the strong buzz and stealing glances at the cage when the roar of the crowd and the dull smack of flesh impacting flesh convinced her he was too busy to notice.
He caught her looking though, and roared in victory; a sound that had everything to do with her and nothing to do with the man he was in the process of beating bloody.
In response, she put her back to the cage and her temper flared when he laughed, fucking laughed at her fit of defiant pique. Smug arrogant bastard. She didn't even have to look to know that cocky smirk that infuriated her so was pulling at his lips. She spent the next half hour berating herself and feeling the room spin as she watched the women, wondering if any of them had been fucked by the Wolverine. Marie huffed in irritation, thinking how many of them in the room tonight would come running if he so much as crooked a finger in their direction.
The set of her shoulders and the steel in her magnolia spine broadcasted her position quite clearly. Don't hold your breath, cowboy. The world would stop spinning before she joined the nest of cage bunnies vying for his attention and hoping to catch his wandering eye.
Even the blood boiling in her veins wasn't enough to stop the flow of insidious, carnal thoughts from escaping the dark corners she'd shoved them into years ago, back when she was still foolish enough to believe in fairytales and happy endings. What he'd said— what he'd offered— that had wounded her pride, but even worse than that was the part of her that leapt at the idea. What did that say about her that she found the idea of watching him have sex disturbingly erotic?
She hadn't forgotten seeing him with that woman. Their ragged breaths, the slap of sweaty skin. All of it was burned into her memory; permanent shadows after a nuclear blast. The sound he made when he came seemed to be playing on an endless loop in her head. Those deep masculine grunts. So rhythmic. So primal. Marking the spurts as his shuddering body pumped his seed…
Imagine a front row seat to that?
Her hand was sliding up her thigh before she knew it, and suddenly it was all too much. Shoving away from the table, she pushed through the crowd and out into the night, dragging in deep breaths of the crisp night air.
She bummed a cigarette off a girl smoking outside. Under the heavy makeup, false lashes and push-up bra, the girl couldn't have been more than sixteen. So easy to see now that she was on the other side of twenty. It was disturbing. Marie's hand shook as she inhaled, wondering if that's what Logan had seen when she'd climbed into his truck so long ago.
Just a scared, belligerent kid, defiant to the end.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she got until the urge to find him and vent her spleen eclipsed everything else. She turned on her heel and stormed back inside. The crowd, three deep at the bar, told her the fights were over before her eyes had even touched the empty cage. The winners were celebrating. The losers were drowning their sorrows.
The announcer was gone and the Wolverine was too, presumably picking up his winnings before picking up something else for the night. He'd once told her the bigger purses weren't usually paid out at the bar, and he'd probably made a couple of grand tonight. Marie sailed past the restrooms, heading for the peeling door marked 'office' that she'd seen earlier, tucked away in the dark hall across from the utility closet.
The manager was loitering outside the door, puffing on a cheap cigar. She'd seen him earlier ringside, taking money and marking bets. His salt-and-pepper pompadour was hard to miss, but it was his wild shirt that screamed 1970's Vegas that had really made an impression.
"You seen the Wolverine?" It came out sharply, and her mama echoed strongly in her head, chastising her for speaking without the Southern manners that were as automatic as breathing, except when she was as pissed as she was tonight.
"Jesus! Another one?" he muttered under his breath, giving her a ruddy-faced leer. The man's bushy brows went up and seemed to imply both jealousy and approval at the ample amount of prime pussy that landed in the Wolverine's lap. Another universal law. The best fighters always pulled the hottest tail.
But he looked like he was going to give her the brushoff until she pasted on what she hoped was a suitable impression of the typical empty-headed bimbo and forced herself to drawl, "He wanted me to come find him, you know, after."
Her temper flared because of how that sounded, and because it was also the truth, and because she'd been forced to say it to get inside that office so she could tear a strip off Logan's presumptive hide. She wasn't about to wait outside, tapping her foot and fuming while he counted his fucking money.
"He's in there," manager grunted, jerking his head toward the door without taking his eyes from the rise and fall of her breasts.
His fingers twitched.
Her eyes narrowed.
For one perverse moment, she almost hoped he'd touch her just so she could see him writhing on the floor in agony afterward, but then reality came slamming back and her skin crawled at the idea of his fingers on her and his filth pouring into her mind. That sickening claustrophobic feeling swelled under her skin, a hot sear that lodged acidically in the back of her throat. How ironic that the girl who'd so desperately longed for touch now feared it so much the idea made her queasy.
"Thanks, sugar," she purred automatically, skirting his girth in the narrow hall. He was a big man, an old fighter past his prime, but still solid. Still imposing. He'd have to be to keep liquored-up fighters and the wild crowd in line night after night.
A good hard kick to the knee he favored slightly would probably put him down pretty effectively, but right now the Rogue was only focused on one thing, and it rankled even more that one of his lessons guided her even now. No need to make a scene unless you wanna, kid. Quick and quiet's easier than goin' loud. Less fun overall, sure, but not everyone likes a fight as much as I do.
The Rogue wasn't so sure about that. She was spoiling for one tonight, but it wasn't some has-been manager who was the focus of her ire. She was pissed and more than a little drunk and the door stuck, her gloved fingers sliding on the jiggly knob as it finally gave way and she stepped inside, ready for war.
The unexpected interior slowed her fiery roll.
It was more a storeroom than an office; crates of liquor and supplies crammed the shelves that filled the small, dark space. The glow of a light from around a corner created by a solidly stacked wall of miscellany suggested she'd find the Wolverine there with a large stack of small bills and a surly attitude.
She was not prepared to find Logan sitting in a chair with his thighs spread wide and a woman kneeling between them.
Every last argument died on her lips as the explicit sight struck her mute and fixed her leaden feet to the rough, wooden floor. The urge to run was strong but the erotic shock held her fast. And then he met her eyes, and what she saw burning there made the overwhelming need to escape press in hard, a searing wave of mortification pushing her unsteady legs back to lean against the wall and chasing at her heels.
She was poised to flee, heart in her throat, but one word, husky and low, rasped across the cramped room and pinned her in place.
"Stay."
Author's note: Yep. I totally did end it there. Heh. I'm going to try to get another installment up on Thursday. I thought it would be too mean to end this chapter here and then make y'all wait a whole week for more.
Up next: Singe. The Rogue has a decision to make: Stay or go. Both choices will have lasting consequences...
Any guesses?