Chapter 3

I Blamed It On the Peanut Butter


A brooding, half-tired Logan checked his watch and raked a steady hand through his wild hair. The stars faded in the stonewashed sky, the sun threatened to expose its naked self to the nation, and he had only just rolled into the garage on his treasured motorcycle. As he welcomed the sounds of chirping birds, relieved it wasn't Marie singing again, he parked the bike and stifled a yawn in a blood-stained palm.

There was a regimented, carefully constructed list of activities that calmed his feral soul, and riding readily topped the gruff totem pole. He didn't care for the specifics or whether it indicated his love of riding motorcycles or women. They both felt more than welcome between his powerfully built thighs when responsibilities and the chaos of everyday life continued to kick his ass.

His inner monologue had been banished with the bitter taste of sated violence and sobering thoughts of motorcycles mixed with confusion over Marie's latest stunt. She changed like the passing tide, never quite sure of her footing or route, and it bothered the dormant Wolverine. That promise between them on the train folded like a deck chair once the weather turned, and he shrugged it away with another yawn.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed them, his hand brushing the varnished wooden railing. Quickly stepping over the battered skateboard and toys that littered the landing, he rolled his eyes. "Stupid kids," he grumbled, booting the obstacles down the hall as he headed to a place of peaceful slumber.

Sighing in relief when he reached his unmade bed, Logan peeled the wifebeater off over his muscular shoulders and dropped it to the floor. The strong scent of blood wafted from the stained fabric, and he kicked it toward the laundry hamper.

Another activity that kept his feral side at bay and in check was fighting. He had become a born-again brawler after witnessing Jean's casket being lowered into the crumbling dirt. That transient way of life returned for a while, but putting down roots in Westchester to become a permanent team member seemed the logical next step. Storm needed support, but despite her reassurances, she buried secrets, and Marie added to the worry.

Heaving a sigh, he focused on the bloodied clothes. An hour ago, growling darkly in a moonlit car lot, his index finger traced deep scratches across a chrome-plated fuel tank. One solitary trip downtown to collect his precious motorcycle, he apologised to Jean's memory as his temper unravelled. Minutes later, all hell had broken loose inside the goddamn bar. He found himself knee-deep in drunken knuckleheads with glasses shattering and startled screeches piercing the night.

Logan gruffly observed, encountered and thumped the consciousness out of the tattooed barman who deliberately damaged the bike. But his clothing was another casualty because the splotches of blood that seeped into the cotton, denim, and leather would be hell to chase away. The scent would relentlessly stalk his senses even after a dozen washes and a mountain of laundry detergent.

He pulled his unzipped jeans down hardened, thick thighs and stepped out of the coarse denim. Leaving them in a puddle on the carpeted floor, he nudged the door shut, removed his charcoal-coloured boxer shorts, and slumped tiredly onto the bed.

As he reached for the pair of earplugs Hank sourced from the tight-knit medical community, he yawned roughly and ruffled the pillow with a clenched fist. After all, guys like him didn't fluff their pillows the ordinary way.

Maybe the latest fantasies were driven by an inability to block out the tuneless, drunken singing from last night because all he saw when he closed his eyes were bouncing, perky breasts, hardened nipples, and the soft lips of a Southerner wrapped around his aching cock.


Logan's eyes snapped open, and he growled furiously at the sight of the Floridian weather causing carnage at the foot of the bed in Westchester, New York. The walls vibrated, and a hurricane whipped across the carpeted floor and tossed his bloodied clothes and belongings into the chaotic air. He unsheathed his claws with a snarl but was too late to anchor himself. The destructive gale-force wind evicted him and the mattress. His stomach lurched with dread because he hated flying.

"Storm!" he bellowed against the rattling roar of the intense wind and spotted his boxer shorts floating past.

Out of his depth, the weather whipped against his naked body until he reached the eye of the storm. Abruptly, the wind died down, the hurricane vanished, and he crashed to the floor.

Tilting his head, he pulled the earplugs out and glanced at the door. "Did I sleep through lunch?" he asked, grumbling when the mattress landed on him.

Stood in the doorway with a look of approval, Storm raised a plucked eyebrow. "I just wanted to talk," she replied lightly. "And I'd appreciate it if you tried to look embarrassed."

Logan clambered to his feet and smirked. "Does this bother you?" he shot back, gesturing to his nakedness and groping for the sweatpants he spotted hanging from the light fixture on the ceiling. "And you could have just knocked."

"I did. Several times," she replied impatiently, turning her back as he dressed.

Of course, he didn't hear because of the goddamn earplugs. "What's so urgent you had to send a hurricane my way?" he asked, tugging on a pair of X-Men-issue sweatpants.

Storm sighed in annoyance. "You can go see for yourself," she responded and instantly piqued his curiosity. "I'm surprised you can't hear it from here."

His ever-vocal eyebrow raised in further interest. "Hear what?" Suddenly, a noisy crash from downstairs reached his ears. He glanced questioningly at Storm and wondered why she stood rooted to the spot. "What the hell was that?"

"That's what I wished to discuss with you."

With a growl, he stalked over to her. "Why are you talking to me and not dealing with whatever's going on down there?"

Another crash echoed through the mansion, and Storm wearily massaged her temples. "Because I'm tired, Logan." She uttered the words so faintly he almost lost them in the noise. "I can't handle this alone."

An amused snort would have been his go-to reaction if she hadn't edged toward the verge of tears. "You're not on your own," he said with a heavy dose of sincerity mixed with guilt.

Thankfully, a thunderous smash downstairs banished the mushiness of the moment. "I'll handle it," he promised, treading over the belongings and stepping out into the empty hall.

"Good luck," Storm sighed softly, watching him turn the corner. "I think you're going to need it."


Logan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sighed heavily. The hurricane had stripped his bedroom, body, and mind clean of the bullshit that had weighed him down these past months. Shaking his head, he reached the ground floor, sniffed the surrounding scents, and explored the eerily quiet rooms.

The chaos he discovered in the rec room matched the destruction in his bedroom. Still, the responsibility for the violent disorder, smashed vase, cracked television screen, and upturned furniture belonged to two recently graduated members of the team.

Grumbling, he spotted pool balls littering the floor, a broken historic lamp, and shards of glass scattering the route. Certain he had traipsed through war zones less troubled than this, he headed for the open patio doors.

"I'll never forgive you, Bobby Drake!"

The enraged shriek punched the silence, and Logan grumbled to himself. Stepping forward, a shard of glass speared the bottom of his foot, and thoughts turned to penetrating the sassy Southerner with his glistening head.

"Damn it," he snarled and focused on the glint of antique glass wedged where it didn't belong. As he twisted it free from his skin, he watched the small wound heal and sighed in irritation at the sound of another shout.

"Rogue, no!"

Logan instantly blamed that goddamn boy for the carnage. Cheating always led to smashed furniture, singed belongings, and burned clothes. With a shake of his unimpressed head, he headed outside into the eye of another storm. It's about time he stuck his nose in Marie's business and stopped any further damage.

The sniffling Marie circled Bobby's most expensive possession with an aluminium baseball bat in her hands. "You're nothing but a lying, cheating, heart-breaking asshole!" she exclaimed heatedly, her face darkening by the second.

Once again, sighing heavily, Logan slipped inside the garage door unnoticed and was less than impressed with their observation skills. He taught them better than this. Pleased to see them holding their fight well away from his bike, he folded his arms and watched the show unfold.

"I didn't want to hurt you, Rogue," Bobby explained gently, slowly stepping towards her with his arms outstretched. "I promise it was only the once. Please give me the bat."

Her gaze darted to the sparkling silver jeep. "Liar!" She raised the bat above her head and smashed it against the windscreen.

Bobby wore a look of mangled horror. "That's the graduation present from my parents!" he shouted, the temperature in the room dropping as sheets of ice spread across the walls.

Icicles formed in Logan's hair, and he cleared his throat. Both parties turned and stared, neither surprised to see him standing there with a scowl and arms tightly folded across his bare chest.

"At last," Bobby sighed, pointing an icy finger at Marie. "Don't just stand there, Logan. Get the bat off her! Haven't you seen the damage she's done inside the school?"

Logan arched a relaxed eyebrow at the boy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her swing the bat, and he whistled. "Your girl's a pro with the bat, isn't she?"

"How many times did you do her, Bobby?" Marie questioned tearfully,

swinging the bat repeatedly against the side windows and reducing them to little more than holes in a dented baseball bat imprinted frame on four wheels. "You said you couldn't sleep with me!"

Logan could feel the growl clawing at his throat and roughly rested a hand on Bobby's shoulder to stop him from attempting to freeze Marie. He didn't necessarily agree with her smashing up the inside of the mansion but had no qualms about her releasing that anger on some hunk of junk.

"You can't let her do this," an annoyed Bobby complained, the ice vanishing from his fists. "What kind of instructor are you? You're supposed to help us."

The boy made a good point there. He was a teacher and a badass one at that. "Kid, you've missed the taillights," he told her with a half-amused, half-proud smirk tugging on his lips. "And make sure your feet are parallel with your shoulders. Don't let your muscles tighten. Yeah, that's it. Now take a swing."

The bat bounced perfectly off its target, and she made quick work of the taillights. "You wouldn't touch me, Bobby!" she wailed, attacking the hood repeatedly. "I bought you Viagra, and you still wouldn't touch me!" Her body shook with heartbroken tears, and Logan's fingers bruised the boy's shoulder. "I blamed it on the peanut butter!"

Storm rushed into the garage and gasped at the scene. "Logan," she cried, beyond exasperated. "Will you stop growling and do something useful for once!"

"What do you mean 'for once'?" Logan grumbled, glancing over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. He watched her steering the boy to the nearest exit. Shaking his head sternly, he approached them. "He's not going anywhere until I've spoken to him."

An anxious Bobby stepped closer to the weather witch's side in search of protection. Choking on his words, he held up his hand to stop the impending danger. "I tried to break it to her gently."

Storm sighed at the macho dramatics and pointed a finger of warning to the gruff Canadian. "I'm trusting you to keep your-" Her words pursued a different course as she observed the swing of an adamantium fist. "Logan!"

Logan grunted in satisfaction when his knuckles collided with the boy's nose. He watched him stumble backwards in a daze, upright but gasping with a croaky breath. Turning to Storm, he shrugged. "I'm just keeping a promise."

A horrified Bobby's eyes bulged when he noticed blood gushing down the front of his sky-blue shirt.

She anxiously rushed to the boy's side, tilting his head up to stem the blood flow. "This isn't the result of words."

"Yeah, well, I was just getting to that part, and I've got six of them," he replied gruffly, leaning closer to whisper in Bobby's ear. "I warned you what would happen." Glancing at Storm, he sighed heavily. "Get him out of here while I deal with her."

Storm ushered the bloodied, shaking, and thoroughly subdued Bobby out of the garage and sent him in search of Hank. "Rogue's not easy to tame when she's like this."

Logan rubbed his jaw pensively and muttered to himself. Storm wasn't leaving, and Marie's personality had temporarily left the planet in search of fuck knows what. This day headed from bad to worse, leaping from a runaway hurricane to a temperamental Southerner with a baseball bat, and he had only just woken up.

"It's over, kid," he said, watching her stalk around the car with the baseball dragging at her feet.

She shook her head bitterly, just daring him to interfere. "Leave me alone, Wolverine."

He looked to Storm for a helping of advice, but she ushered him forward and urged a try-your-best approach. With a sigh, he stepped closer to the carnage. As the world's worst relationship counsellor, he growled and closed in on the baseball bat-wielding stubborn pain in the ass. Watching her beat the windscreen again, he felt a surge of pride, but surely, the muscles in her arms screamed for some rest and relaxation.

Standing between her and the car, he gazed down at her tear-stained face. "You're done for the day."

"Don't tell me what to do," she hissed sourly, holding the bat closer to her chest as she matched his glare.

He snorted in amusement at the show of stubbornness. "Have you forgotten about last night? Drake's not the only one cheating around here."

"Logan," Storm warned from the doorway, frowning disapprovingly at his chosen approach to the issue.

"I've got it all under control," he answered calmly, sliding his hands casually into the pockets of his sweatpants.

After all, the kid was easier to deal with now she had taken the cure. There's no mutation to avoid, no chance of slipping unconscious while trying to wrangle her out of one of those moods. It's almost too simple, he mused.

The staring match between a scowling Logan and a sullen Marie continued, and neither broke eye contact. He examined every inch of her pale face and plotted his next move in the tension-filled silence. Eventually, he reached for the bat at the five-minute mark and frowned when she backed away.

Tracking her steady, deliberate movements, he growled. "Don't. You. Dare."

"My sex life is none of your concern, Wolverine," Marie reminded him, inches from his motorcycle, and lifted the bat teasingly high above her head. "And you can't control me."

Logan unsheathed his claws, sliced comfortably through the aluminium and severed the bat in half. Both halves tumbled to the ground with a clang, and he sighed in relief. Unfortunately for Marie, that mindset didn't last. Sheathing his claws, he advanced on her, ignoring the calls from Storm to calm down. Seizing the front of her loosely fitting vintage Beatles shirt, he slammed her against the wall and growled.

"I don't know what your problem is, and I don't care, but what has my bike ever done to you?" he questioned gruffly.

Marie gazed down at the remains of her weapon of choice and huffed. She looked him straight in the eye. "For a start, it carries your ego around without any complaints."

Logan's lips twitched into a smirk, and he coerced his hands into letting her go before he skewered her. Many promises were made, and all but one revolved around hookers. Promise twenty-seven involved engine grease and new bike parts.

"It's your lucky day," he warned her, soon scowling at the smile plastered across her face as she treated his remarks as a victory.

Storm appeared beside him, and flowery perfume tickled his nose. "I think we all need to sit down and have a long discussion," she announced regally, flawlessly composed despite the mayhem of the early afternoon. "Thankfully, it's summer vacation."

Marie's smile suddenly faded. She looked apprehensive and smelt afraid. Before Logan could call her on it, she sprinted out of the garage and left them to stare at the trashed jeep for several minutes in silence.

Melting ice dripped from the ceiling and landed on Logan's head as Storm placed a cautious hand on his arm. "Promise me you won't overreact."

He wouldn't promise anything, especially when it involved the Southerner whose perfect, perky tits were imprinted on his mind. "Just spit it out."

Almost reluctantly, she explained and tightened her grip on his arm. "Remember all those months you spent in Canada after we lost Jean and the Professor? Well, Rogue developed an addiction after taking the cure."

"Drink or drugs?" he asked with a grumbling growl, mentally kicking himself for taking her to a bar.

Storm released a deep breath and gifted him the secret of a lifetime. "It's a slightly more delicate issue than alcohol or illicit drugs. I'm afraid touching turned into something Rogue's struggled to control. I think she's addicted to sexual contact."