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Fic: First Trick of the Day - 1/1 - R [L/R]

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  • victoria p.
    Title: First Trick of the Day Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: Sequel to Angel of the Evening -- Logan visits Hooker!Rogue again. Rating: R,
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 10, 2001
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      Title: First Trick of the Day
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: Sequel to "Angel of the Evening" -- Logan visits Hooker!Rogue
      again.
      Rating: R, highly offensive language, sexual situations - she's a
      hooker, people. Whaddaya expect? Though I think the language in this is
      worse than the sex. You'll see. But I have my reasons.
      Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
      fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
      Archive: With Angel of the Evening, please.
      Feedback: Love me, love my fic!
      Notes: Thanks to Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete.
      Dedication: To Jikei, who let me use her dream, and for everyone who
      wanted to know what happened next...

      < > indicates thoughts

      ***

      First Trick of the Day

      Logan sat in his truck and waited for the girl -- Marie -- to show up,
      like he'd done every night for the past week. He felt like laughing at
      himself. He spent fifty bucks every night for a blow job from a hooker
      who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. A scarred hooker
      who wouldn't let him touch her. He was a sick fuck, for sure. But he
      couldn't stand the idea of having her after someone else had. Hell, he
      hated the idea of anyone else touching her at all. He couldn't explain
      why.

      So, he waited every night for her to come out to the corner she worked,
      so he could be the first trick of the day.

      There she was, the white stripes in her hair glowing faintly in the
      darkness of the winter evening. She had a smile on her face as she
      approached the truck. She knew him now, knew he wouldn't hurt her, he
      hoped.

      "You're early tonight," he said as she got into the truck.

      She shrugged. "Got bored -- can only watch so much television, ya know."
      He handed her twenty-five bucks and drove quickly to the lot she'd
      directed him to that first night. They didn't talk. Even though he liked
      to pretend it wasn't strictly business to her, he knew he was just
      another john.

      Every morning he told himself he was leaving -- his work in New York was
      done, and he wanted to get back to Canada, get back to the world he was
      comfortable in, but he inevitably found himself at the corner of
      Forty-fourth and Tenth, every night.

      He groaned as her warmth engulfed him through the rubber, her teeth
      dragging along the sensitive underside of his cock while her gloved hand
      gently squeezed his balls. "Yeah, baby, that's it," he murmured. "Oh,
      fuck, yeah, baby. Oh, Marie. God, Marie." He liked saying her name when
      he came. It made him feel like there was a connection between them. He
      had a feeling she wasn't lying when she'd told him her name -- he'd have
      smelled it on her, but all he ever smelled was the scent of vanilla and
      Marie. He knew she was wet for him, but he'd never asked for more than a
      blow job. He didn't think she was the kind of girl who got off on
      fucking strangers, but she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He tried
      to think of ways to ask her out, but then reality would hit him in the
      face; she was a hooker, he was a john. That was all.

      When he was done, he gave her the rest of the money and started the
      engine. He felt like saying thanks, but that was stupid. He was paying
      her to suck him off. He said it anyway, and she gave him a half-grin. He
      turned the corner and saw the lights flashing as the cops loaded her
      fellow streetwalkers into a van.

      "Shit," she muttered.

      "You wanna go get something to eat?" he asked gruffly, pathetically
      grateful for the intervention of the NYPD.

      She looked at him, shocked, raising an eyebrow. "You're kiddin' me,
      right?"

      "Nah, kid. Look, there's a diner on Fifty-eighth and Ninth -- the Flame.
      We can go and I'll buy you dinner and we can talk." He'd eaten at the
      diner before -- his job had taken him to the neighborhood.

      "Talk?"

      "Yeah, you know, talk. Like, how was your day, and shit like that."
      <God, Logan, you sound pathetic.>

      She laughed. A little giggle that reminded him of how young she was,
      even if she looked like she'd been through hell already. "You wanna know
      how my day was?"

      "Yeah." He glanced at her, and saw the eyebrow was arched again. She
      looked skeptical. "What? Didn't anyone ever ask you how your day was?"

      She sobered quickly. "Not for a long time," she whispered.

      <Fuck.> "Ah, shit, kid. I'm sorry. How long you been on the street?" He
      found a spot on Fifty-eighth and pulled in.

      She sighed. "Four months, eight days, fifteen hours and," she looked at
      her watch, "twenty-seven minutes. This time."

      "There been other times?"

      "I was on the road for eight months the first time. Got mixed up with
      some bad people. Met some better people, but I couldn't stay with them.
      So I left as soon as I could. Ended up on the street. Could be worse."

      He wondered what had happened that hooking was a step up, but he didn't
      ask. She'd tell him when she was ready.

      The host remembered him, led them to a booth near the back without
      batting an eye. There were things to be said for the city, he thought.
      Nobody looked at you twice. He could probably pop his claws in this
      place and they'd ask him if he wanted a job in the back as a chef.

      The waitress came over with two glasses of water. He didn't need to look
      at a menu. He knew what he was having.

      "You ready, kid?" he asked her.

      She smiled and he felt his heart lurch. <Jesus, what was that?> "Yeah."
      He nodded, and she said, "Cheeseburger deluxe, medium-rare, extra
      pickles. And a vanilla shake."

      "Same for me," he grunted, and the woman took the menus and walked away.
      "So, Marie, how was your day?"

      She giggled again, and it transformed her face into a thing of beauty,
      even with the scars that seemed to ooze angry red in the light of the
      diner. "Good. Quiet. Met a nice man who helped me avoid getting arrested
      and took me to dinner. How was yours?"

      He couldn't help but smile back. "Nice. Met a girl. Saved her from the
      cops. Bought her dinner."

      Their food arrived then, so quickly that even he was surprised. They
      were silent for a bit and he watched her scarf down the food as if she
      hadn't eaten in days. Which was possible, he thought. He didn't know if
      she was an independent or if she had to pay off a pimp or what, but she
      wasn't making near enough to live on, he'd bet that. Then he noticed she
      hadn't removed her gloves.

      "Hey, aren't your gloves gonna get greasy?" he said softly.

      She finished chewing what was in her mouth before she answered. "I, I --
      it's okay," she stuttered, avoiding his eyes. And he knew, suddenly,
      that she was a mutant. She was like him. And he wondered how to let her
      know that it was okay.

      A cell phone rang and Marie reached into her boot. Flipping it open, she
      said, "Hello?"

      He heard the woman on the other end of the line saying, "Rogue? It's
      Chyna. Nellie came and bailed us out, but he's looking for you. He's not
      happy you went off with your john."

      He quirked an eyebrow as she said, "I was supposed to get out of the car
      and get arrested with the rest of you?"

      "I don't know, Rogue. I just know he's pissed and he's looking for you.
      Be careful."

      "Thanks, Chyna." She flipped the phone shut and stowed it back inside
      her boot.

      He wasn't sure what he wanted to say first. He decided that Nellie was
      more important. "Your pimp's name is Nellie?" he asked in disbelief.

      "Nellie D. Short for Nelson Dominguez. He's a mean motherfucker." She
      slid out of the booth. "I better go. He knows your car, your plate
      numbers. He'll find us and that would be -- bad."

      He put a hand on her wrist, shaking his head slowly. "He's not meaner
      than me, kid." He jerked his chin and said, "He do that to you?"

      She put her hand, the one he wasn't holding, to the scars on her face.
      "No. No. That was before. Remember I said I met some bad people? One of
      them did this. He, he got off on the pain." Her voice broke.

      "You know his name?"

      She shrugged. "No."

      He knew she was lying. "I can protect you, Marie. Let me help. I'll take
      care of you," he said, trying to be persuasive. He didn't want to use
      his usual method -- intimidation -- to get her to go along. He still
      wasn't sure why he was so attached to her. She was beautiful, yeah, but
      damaged. Like him. She was a freak. Like him. Hell, maybe that was the
      answer right there. He hadn't met many people he felt a kinship with,
      and this girl called to him, called to something in him he hadn't
      remembered existed -- she called to his soul.

      "Promise?" she asked softly.

      He smiled. "Promise."

      She sat back down and they continued the meal in companionable silence.

      When they were done, he threw some money on the table, paid the cashier,
      and followed Marie out into the night. He pulled a cigar out of his
      pocket and stuck it in his mouth, searching for matches.

      "Here," she said, holding up a lighter. She lit the cigar for him and he
      thought, <I could get used to this -- used to her.>

      "You need a ride home, kid?" he asked, trying to think of ways to get
      her to come home with him -- and not for the cash.

      She shrugged and looked around nervously. "Okay."

      They walked to the car, his mind racing to find things to say. He'd
      never been big on conversation, but then again, he'd never really been
      interested in just talking to a woman before. What was he supposed to
      say?

      His head snapped up when he smelled someone whose cologne didn't go with
      his natural body odor.

      "Nellie," the girl whispered.

      Logan grinned. It was a fearsome sight. The large Latino man didn't look
      afraid. <Not too bright,> Logan thought. He was itching for a fight
      after seeing the scars on Marie's face, and he'd enjoy beating the shit
      out of this guy.

      "Rogue, you stupid cunt. You think you can get away with my money?"
      Dominguez shouted. "I'll fucking put you and your friend in the ground,
      you hear me? You're goin' down, marricón."

      "Get back, kid," Logan said, pushing her behind him as the pimp advanced
      on him, swinging.

      Logan easily blocked the punch and threw a left into Nellie's stomach
      and a right at his jaw. Rogue climbed into the flatbed of Logan's pickup
      and watched carefully, wondering if she'd have to help out.

      "Why you tryin' to steal one'a my girls?" Dominguez wheezed, throwing a
      wild punch and missing.

      "Whoa, Nellie," Logan snickered.

      Then Dominguez shouted, "Mierda!" as Logan landed another punch to his
      face. The pimp went down.

      Logan turned to look at Marie. "You all right, kid?"

      She nodded, watching as Dominguez reached to the back of his waistband.
      Marie knew he carried a Glock back there.

      "Look out!" she screamed as Nellie raised the sleek nine-millimeter.

      Logan turned, unsheathing his claws and slicing through the barrel of
      the gun. "Ay, dios mio," Dominguez breathed. "What the fuck kind of
      freak are you, man? Mira! She's all yours. Take the bitch. I got no
      fucking beef with you, man." With that, the pimp tore down Fifty-Eighth
      Street like he was being chased by the hounds of hell.

      "Punkass pissed his pants," Logan muttered. "That was your badass
      motherfucker, Marie? You could have taken him." He realized he still had
      the claws out; he tensed and they retracted. <Shit, I hope she's not
      freaked out by that,> he thought, worried for the first time ever about
      what someone might think of him.

      She was staring at his hands, a fascinated look on her face. "You okay,
      kid?" He was hesitant to get close to her until he was sure how she
      would react.

      "When they come out, does it hurt?" she asked softly, jumping down off
      the flatbed and reaching out for his hand.

      "Every time," he told her as she stroked the spaces between his
      knuckles.

      "Could you--" She flicked her fingers out.

      *Snikt*

      She raised his hand, running her fingers carefully along the blades.
      They were warm, which she hadn't expected, though it made sense -- they
      came from inside his body. And she knew from experience how much heat he
      generated.

      On top of her nervousness, he suddenly smelled her arousal. <That's
      new,> he thought. Usually women ran screaming the other way if they
      caught a glimpse of the claws, even when he tried to explain that he'd
      never impaled anyone during sex, and he never stuck around long enough
      to find out if it would happen in his sleep. His nightmares made him an
      uneasy bed-partner at best.

      "We better get out of here, kid," he said, his voice husky as he felt
      his own desire for her rise again. "I don't think you should go back to
      wherever you live. It might not be safe." She nodded. "I can get you a
      hotel room, and you can call your friend for your stuff in the morning."

      She looked at him, her brown eyes too big for her thin face. He felt
      like he was falling into them and drowning in their depths.

      "Couldn't I stay with you?" she asked, a hint of a southern accent
      coming through.

      His heart started to race, and he could feel the blood rush in his
      veins.

      "Sure, kid. If you want."

      "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to, Logan," she said, using his
      name for the first time.

      "Let's go, Marie," he replied, putting an arm around her shoulders as
      they walked around to the passenger side of the truck to unlock the
      door. "Let's go home."

      End

      ***

      victoria

      --

      "Sorry it took so long to get to this one. Got distracted by the
      necrophilia and marshmallows." - Jen [one of Vic's betas] on chapter 6
      of Untouchable Face

      --

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      Unfit for Society - http://www.unfitforsociety.net
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