King of Hearts
by
Dee
DISCLAIMER: No ownership. No money. No nothing.
DEDICATION: For the Angst Grrls, who led me down this path, but especially for Nacey, who loves them more than I ever could.
NOTES: Poker! http://www.kimberg.com/poker/dictionary.html. This is long(er). Lots of action. :-)
Oh yeah, and Deep and Meaningful Guitar Solos are a personal favourite of mine. For good examples see almost all Queen songs and some early-ish Metallica. :-)
Dear Diary,
There's more to poker than the cards, is there? Hah! I don't know what sort of fucked up game he thinks he's playing with me, but I'm going to call his bluff.
I can play too. And I can damn well win.
Anger was necessary for leather, Rogue decided. Otherwise it was rendered desultory, limp, uninspired.
No problem. She was mad enough to bite a chunk out of Logan and barely notice it going down. Looking in the mirror, her eyes had a hard, piercing quality that had nothing to do with the mascara Kitty had pressed on her, and everything to do with the way she'd been brushed off last night.
She twisted, running a hand down over her hip. The leather hotpants fit like a second skin. So did the lace bodysuit, looking like it revealed too much even with the long sleeves and high neckline. Ever-present gloves. Sheer black silk stockings. Knee-high combat boots with shined buckles. Jubes had called them 'fuck you' boots. Every inch of skin apart from her face was covered, but she still looked like a sex kitten.
"Logan's going to bust something when he sees you," Jubilee predicted from the bed.
Rogue sneered and turned away from the mirror to scoop up her coat. Three-quarter length black leather, to complete the outfit. "Fuck Logan," she snapped.
"That's also a distinct possibility." Kitty was leaning against the wall, but tried to edge further backwards when Rogue glared at her. "Hey, you can't dress like that without some... intentions."
"My intentions are my business." Rogue opened the door, waited for first Jubilee, then Kitty to file past her and out of the room. Her eyes lingered on her reflection. She looked like she was rough, bad, a bitch with an attitude. Except for those threatening tears glittering in her eyes.
Rogue flipped the light off and slammed the door behind her. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Fuck him.
It was anger that swung her hips as she stalked down to the garage, and any witnesses scuttled away after one glance at her face. It was anger that gave her the guts to hoist herself onto the motorcycle, wiggling around until she was perfectly positioned, stretched along the contours of the bike. Just right. And it was that lingering anger that kept her there as time ticked by. He'd be there. It was Friday night, and he always went out on Friday night.
Logan was two steps in the door before he noticed her there, and then he stopped dead. Those dark eyes on her were unnerving. She suddenly felt incredibly stupid. But then the anger came back. With him, for making her do something this stupid. For not being the way he should be in the first place.
She swung down off the bike slowly, languorously, to stand beside it. "Evenin', sugar," she said evenly, like this was the most natural thing in the world. "We gonna hit the town?"
"Sure," he returned, not showing any signs he'd even been startled. Pulling on his gloves as he sauntered - prowled might be better - to the bike. Paused at a bench to grab a helmet for her; he certainly didn't wear one, like he didn't wear seatbelts. Without another word, he got on the motorcycle and waited for her to get on behind him.
She'd expected more of a reaction. A fight right here. But if this was the way it was going to be... Rogue fastened the helmet and slid on the bike behind him, smiling a little at the sound of silk stockings against the denim of his jeans. She wrapped her arms around him and murmured in his ear: "Let's go."
And once again she remembered why she loved motorcycles. Why she grabbed every rare opportunity to ride on one eagerly. More than the feel of hugging Logan tight in front of her - though the heat of his body pressed to hers was a powerful force in its own right - but the freedom, the speed, the glorious feeling of flying. Of freedom. She laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it.
All too soon it was over, though, and Logan was stopping outside a drab building whose only distinguishing feature was the buzzing neon sign spelling out "Rusty's" in bright red. Rogue swung off the bike before Logan stopped the engine, taking off the helmet and shaking her hair out. "Nice place," she commented idly, looking up at the building that looked as if it should be raining. It had that sort of drab quality that demands compliance. "A usual hangout of yours, I take it?"
She hadn't expected any more than a grunt from Logan, and that's what she got. He kicked down the stand, killed the engine. "Sometimes they have fights here," he offered.
"Sounds like fun," she said blithely.
"Not tonight, though," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken.
With a sigh, she followed him up the few steps, through the door he held open for her, and into the bar. It was dim, thick with smoke and raucous with laughter and swearing. Cliches become cliches for a reason, and Rusty's was one of those reasons. Bikers and their girls played pool at three tables in the far end of the room. The rest of the bar was half-full of rough-looking types, male and female. Logan-looking types.
He brushed past her. "Come on. You want something to drink?"
"Something alcoholic?" It was hard to keep the surprise out of her voice, and she knew she didn't quite manage it from the amused look he shot back at her.
"Well, they do serve Coke here, but it usually has bourbon in it."
Logan was suggesting she drink. Logan had brought her here. Without one word of complaint. What the hell was going on?
The bartender greeted them with half a glass of dark amber liquid over ice and a friendly smile at Logan. "Good to see you again. And something for your lady?"
His lady? Yeah, that's what she was aiming for. She opened her mouth, but staring at the expanse of the spirits shelf behind the bar, she couldn't seem to think of anything. Logan chuckled. "Southern Comfort for her."
The bartender turned away, and Rogue found her voice. "Gee, thanks, sugar." He chuckled again, and somehow this was the most jovial she'd seen him in a while.
Once ensconced at a small table up against the wall, she looked at her glass. There seemed to be more there than one shot. Maybe two. Hell, maybe three, for all she knew. "So what do I do with this? Sip it or slam it?"
Logan shrugged. "Up to you." He took half of his drink in one mouthful, baring his teeth. "Put it all down at once and it will go straight to your head." It didn't sound like a warning, more just the imparting of information.
Rogue grinned at him. "Sugar, maybe that's exactly what I'm after." She mimicked him, taking half of the alcohol and an ice cube in one gulp. Eyes closed so he couldn't see their momentary widening. She'd expected the burning, controlled it with pure will, sucking on the ice cube for a moment before crushing it between her teeth.
When she opened her eyes, he was looking right at her, those dark eyes as intense as only he could manage. "Why'd you come, kid?"
She hadn't been expecting it, or maybe the alcohol had in fact gone straight to her head and fuddled her, because his question caught her off guard. "Why did you bring me?" she shot back.
"You wanted to come."
What?? "That's it?" Her incredulity was stamped all over the two short words.
He shrugged. "Yeah."
How did she feel about that? Think, Rogue. She wanted to come, so he let her. Was that good? Was it bad? What about looking after her? Suddenly it was too much to try and figure it all out. Why should she think about everything? Consider each round of cards so carefully? Couldn't she just play on instinct?
She downed the rest of the Southern Comfort, and he smirked at her grimace. "Well, this ain't exactly my kinda place, you know," she drawled, setting the glass back on the table with a clink.
"Yeah? It's got a bar, and some tables, and some pool tables, and a jukebox cranking out - " He tilted his head and listened for a moment. "Cranking out some old hard rock. What more do you need?" He was enjoying this, definitely, from the smile still flickering around the corners of his mouth.
"Pool tables aren't exactly useful to me," Rogue pointed out. "Since you, in your infinite wisdom, declared that until I turned twenty-one and could actually go into bars - " So what if she stressed that just a little bit. " - poker was a much better skill for me to develop."
"Just as well I didn't teach you how to play pool. At least with poker you only lose to people in the mansion."
She gaped. "Are you suggesting that I'm a bad poker player?"
"Unless you've improved since last showing..."
She snorted. "Yeah, I know, there's more to poker than the cards."
He laughed then, and took another drink, his eyes lingering on her over the rim of the glass. "On second thoughts," he said, lowering the glass, "maybe you are mastering the art."
She was not blushing, she was not blushing, she was- damn.
"Yeah well, what this place doesn't have is a dancefloor. What good's the music if you can't dance?"
Logan drained his glass, the ice tinkling as he slid it across the table a little. "Who needs a dancefloor anyway? Besides, you can't dance to this."
It was Rogue's turn to listen. Yeah, it was hard rock, not techno, but it still had a good strong beat and some rhythm. Her foot started tapping. "Sure you can," she returned.
He grinned. "Prove it."
Was he suggesting that she dance? Right here? He was, the bastard, and he was grinning across the table at her, sure she wouldn't so it. Well, she was't going to get bluffed out of this game. Her foot was tapping already, and she started to sway a little, her head nodding. It wasn't really dancing music, it was more headbanging...
When the music launched into the guitar solo she stood up, taking a couple of steps away from the table to give herself room. She was getting the hang of this, a different movement than usual dancing, but no less natural, all in the torso and let the head flop, hair flailing. Bend the knees and hands resting on her thighs. A swivel of the hips here to get a bit more movement in there. And then the solo was winding down and she spun around, shaking her hair out of her face.
To find that half the bar was watching her.
It should have scared her. But instead it started a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, where the alcohol lay, and a smile on her face. The bass in the song was louder now, an increasingly insistent rhythm building back into the main riff and it was simplicity itself to get her hips moving to it. A little shimmy around to face Logan again, who didn't seem to be grinning now, but didn't look entirely displeased either. Getting her whole body moving to the music - and she understood the appeal now, because this just felt so natural - she took a step back towards the table. She placed her foot on her chair and then - what the fuck are you doing, Rogue?! - stepped up onto the table.
First thing, shunt those glasses to one side with a booted foot. Don't lose the rhythm. She could feel the eyes on her, but none of them mattered. Just those dark, dark eyes boring holes in her, and she stared back at him. Come on, Logan. There's a barful of guys staring at me, wanting me, thinking of all the things they'd like to do with a body that moves like that.
Come on, Logan. Save me. Protect me. Look after me. You promised you would.
She was focused on him, and he was focused on her, which was probably why neither of them noticed the fact that some of those watchers weren't quite up on the 'look, don't touch' rule. The first thing Rogue knew about it was a hand grabbing a buttock, a squeeze, a rough voice leering: "Hey baby, why don't you put on a show for someone who appreciates you?"
Logan was on his feet in an instant, but Rogue had been training for the past year as well. It was pure instinct - natural as dancing - to turn smoothly, forearm knocking aside his hand, and her foot lashed out, landing in the middle of the guy's chest with a solid 'thunk'. He went staggering back into a small knot of men - his friends, it appeared. Five of them, now glaring at Rogue, and at Logan, and muttering. Taking a menacing step towards the table.
"Hey!" Heads swivelled towards the bar, where the bartender glared at the lot of them. "You know the rules. Not in my bar. You wanna brawl, take it out back." And he jerked a thumb towards the rear of the bar, past the pool tables.
"Yeah, no worries." The guy she'd kicked wasn't exactly small, Rogue noticed now, as he stood up fully, cracked his neck. They were all bikers, she guessed, and built in the traditional model. Belatedly, nervousness cramped her stomach. Kicked Biker gestured, a sardonic smile on his face as he looked towards Rogue and Logan. "After you two."
Oh shit. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, but there didn't seem to be any way out of it, especially with Logan not looking willing to back down (it'd be a cold day in hell when he did). She scrambled down from the table and grabbed her coat and the helmet. Logan took her by elbow, pulling her in front of him as they walked through the now-silent bar. Past the pool tables, the players turning to watch them, and out the back door.
An alley, the usual, bounded by brick walls on both sides and lined with trash. She looked up and down, just about ready to run if it wasn't for Logan's hand still warm around her elbow. "Kid." She looked up at him, his face carved from stone. "You could take these fuckers down alone. And you're not alone." The alley filled with biker-mass behind them. "You know how to do this." Then he turned, taking a couple of steps away from her.
She knew how to do this. Taking a deep breath, she turned around, stepping a little away from Logan as well. Don't let them come at you both at once, but don't get isolated. She felt her heartbeat in her throat, her muscles seemed to be growing liquid, burning, alive. This wasn't training. This was the real thing. But she'd been well-trained, by the best, and no matter how nervous her mind was, her body was flowing into fighting stance. Logan was bigger, obviously tougher, so they'd concentrate on him first. Sure enough, they split, three leaping for Logan, two for her.
She knew how to do this. Use what you've got. Anything can be a weapon. Tossing the jacket quickly, she clamped both hands on the helmet and brought it swinging up in an arc. It jangled her entire arms when it connected with the skull of the first biker, catching him in the side of jaw, hard. Shit, incredibly hard, and he dropped like a stone. So did the helmet, falling from her fingers with the impact, and she only barely had the presence of mind to dodge the punch thrown at her head.
Double shit. Don't let them hit her face. The only part of her skin that was uncovered. That would just be all-around bad. So she dodged backwards again, and again, increasingly frantic because she was running out of room and there! An opening and she leapt into it. Knuckles grazed her cheek - she heard the whisper of a connection and then it was gone, leaving her with a splash of rage, like a bad taste on the back of her tongue. Then her fist thudded into his solar plexus, the second into his chin as he started to double up. he staggered back, too big to be felled by punches from her, but the roundhouse kick in the ear did the trick. He tumbled with a clatter into a pile of rubbish, and she turned to Logan.
He was holding two at bay, the third starting to climb groggily to his feet. He was on one knee when Rogue's kick caught him in the lower back and he sprawled forwards again, his head thumping on the ground. She deliberately trod on his fingers as she ran past to Logan.
With their training, two on two was anything but fair. It didn't take long for the remaining bikers to realise this, and they broke, gathering up the rest of their number - one still out cold, another one staggering - and running down the alley.
Her blood was rushing, her adrenaline pumping, her breath heaving, and Rogue felt alive. So beautifully, wonderfully, totally alive. Exhilirated. Thrilled. She turned to Logan, standing barely a step away, her eyes bright. He had a split lip where one of them had scored a lucky blow early on, and it was oozing blood. Acting on instinct, Rogue reached out, wiped it away with a gloved fingertip. Eyes locked on his, such dark, dark eyes, she raised her hand to her mouth. Her pulse was slowing a little, settling into a different rhythm. She trailed her finger along her bottom lip, her tongue coming out to follow the gory smear, and finally to lick her fingertip. Salt and copper and *Logan*.
Just a little space between them and it took him no time at all to cross it, hands on her hips to drag her to him and he was pushing her backwards. A wall, a low window ledge, and he hoisted her up, stepping between her knees as she parted them to press against her, all of him against all of her and -
God! Her head tilted back, her skull hitting the glass of the window, her breath coming fast and harsh in her throat. Hands bracing herself on the ledge, and her legs wrapped around him, heels pressing against him, pulling him closer. Her senses were on overload and it didn't get any better than this.
Until it did. His hips moved, jerked, a thrust of strained denim against heated leather, and a whimper escaped her lips. One of his hands came up, tangling in her hair, while the other curled around her, sliding down to hook a thumb in the waistband of her hotpants, to hold her even closer as he jerked against her again. He was leaning into her, his whole body, bent over her and she could feel his breath against her lips. Forcing open her eyes, she stared up into his eyes. Those incredibly dark eyes. He was so close, as close as he could without kissing, their breath mingling. Rogue wanted to kiss him, but she hadn't brought a scarf - why hadn't she brought a fucking scarf? - and she couldn't. Couldn't do anything but gasp as he did it again. Her eyes flickered closed. And again. Her breath coming in ragged gasps and her fingers gripped the ledge. Again. And again. And again. And a- oh God, yes.
"Logan!" She couldn't stop it, the name forced from her lips on a groan as her world contracted and shattered, splintered outwards in a hundred thousand pieces, each imprinted with this moment, as he thrust against her and shuddered, a growl deep in his throat. She raised one gloved hand to his sweat-slick neck, curled her fingers into his hair as he leaned forward, forehead resting against the cool glass above her head.
"Marie," he whispered into her hair, and they didn't move for a minute.
Then he pushed away, and she slid off the ledge. Found her jacket miraculously unharmed. The helmet had cracked, and they left it in a dumpster at the end of the alley. Rogue rode home with her arms around Logan and the wind whipping through her hair.
Not a word as they drove quietly up the driveway. Not a word as they left the garage. Not a word as they moved quietly through dark corridors to her door. She opened it, stepped inside and paused, looking out at Logan. He waited. Silence.
"Stay," she whispered, the word a breath between her lips.
He shook his head, and her heart fell. "We'll talk tomorrow," he said quietly. Eyes unreadable, he leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. "Good night." And he pulled the door shut.
Not a word. Not a single word of caring. Of gentleness. Of love.
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