X-Men: Dark Mirror (22 page)

"So it's okay? They've got carte blanche to discriminate and kill anyone who they think
might
be a threat?"

"Don't you twist my words, Cyke. You know that's not what I'm saying."

Scott remained silent, stewing. He was good at that. Logan wondered if he ever tried to pull that shit with Jean and decided he wouldn't dare. At the moment, she watched him sternly, and if Logan had not been certain she was no longer telepathic, he could almost swear she was giving him some kind of mental lecture.

She probably is. He just ain't hearing it.

"So," Rogue said, breaking into the silence with a wry smile for Logan. "How long until we get there?"

"You're only allowed to ask that question once a day," Logan said. "We're about twenty-four hundred miles from home. That's, what, almost thirty-five hours of road time. If we don't stop much, we'll be home the day after tomorrow."

"We'll probably run out of money before then," Scott said. He seemed calmer, more in control. Logan gave all the credit to Jean's nontelepathic vibrations.

"Too bad we can't sell this car," Rogue muttered.

"And then steal another?" Logan gave her an amused look. "Have I created a monster?"

"The monster was always there," Rogue said, and there was a slight edge beneath the humor, enough to give him pause. He did not push her for more, though. Logan was not a big fan of dredging up issues. If people wanted to talk, they did. Simple as that.

The sun came up, illuminating rock and tree, mountains bright. Logan rolled down his window, inhaling the scent. Homesickness swelled inside his heart—not for New York, but for this, this precious solitude—and if the situation had not been so dire, if he had been whole and healthy inside his body, he would have forced Scott to stop the car and let him out. Let him go, deep into the wild to disappear for a day or a year.

They pulled over at a truck stop in a little town outside Bozeman. It was midmorning and the tank was banging on empty. They had only ten dollars left and all of that went to the gas.

"What's our food look like?" Scott asked, leaning on the car. His black hair looked a little on the greasy side, but his skin was clear and his dark almond eyes had that glint in them that was pure Fearless Leader.

Kurt peered into the plastic bag. "We still have some bread and peanut butter left, but the doughnuts are gone and we're almost out of water."

"We could always fill up inside a bathroom faucet," Logan said. "Food is another matter. We might just have to go hungry until we get home."

Jean pulled her dreadlocks back, twisting and knotting them into a bun. "There are some pay phones over there. I'm going to call the Mansion."

"Okay, but if one of us answers, hang up. The less we talk to them, the better. No need to give our counterparts an excuse to start looking for us, or tracking our location."

"I'm going to the bar," Logan said. Everyone stared at him.

"Bar?" Rogue asked. "There's a bar?"

"Sure," Logan said, amazed they hadn't noticed it. "Look over there by the gas station."

Rogue squinted. "That's a shack, sugah. I've seen tool sheds in better condition."

"Yes, but this one has beer. They've got it advertised with a nice little neon sign."

"It's ten in the morning."

"And there are cars parked outside."

"You're broke."

"Who says I'm going to buy?" Logan hefted the water botde. "I'll be back."

Scott frowned. "I better go with you."

"Oh, Lord." Rogue looked at the sky, while Kurt crossed himself. "Save us now."

"Laugh it up," Logan said, and marched off toward the little bar which did resemble some rough toolshed, but no doubt carried the scents of cigarettes, liquor, and cheap women:
parfum d'Logan.

It was all of those things when he went in, minus the cheap women. Just a bunch of men sitting at a tiny counter that barely had room for a bottle of vodka, let alone glasses and elbows. The rest of the bar's floor space was taken up by an emerald holy grail, illuminated by perfectly placed track lighting that seemed to light that gleaming surface from within.

"That's some pool table," Scott said, peering over Logan's shoulder.

"Sure is," he said. Men stood around, holding their cues like spears, weapons of war. They looked at Logan and Scott, looked with the eyes of men unaccustomed to having their inner sanctum invaded by outsiders, and Logan suddenly had a brilliant idea. He glanced at Scott, and smiled.

"Oh, no," he said. "Logan—"

"Hello boys," Logan said. "Nice sticks you've got there."

They had to leave the bar for several minutes in order to tell the others where to park. Logan also used it as an opportunity to give Scott some instructions.

"Unbutton your shirt," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have much cleavage, but if you unbutton your shirt a little more that won't matter. See? Look at me."

"I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"Think of yourself as breadwinner. Like some boxer from the thirties, throwing himself into the ring to bring money home for the wife and hungry kids."

"It's a little different," Scott said. "You want me to
sell
my body."

"I don't want you to sell your body. I want you to sell an image. When they buy that image, then kick their butts."

"What are you doing to my husband?" Jean asked, meeting them as they walked to the car.

"He's trying to make me sexy," Scott said. "Is it working?"

Jean closed her eyes. "I don't want to know. Really, I don't."

"Did you get through to the Mansion?" Logan asked.

"Busy signal. I must have called twenty times, using different room extensions, and it was always busy. I think they've cut off the school."

"Makes sense, if they were worried one of us would get through. Crap. I hope the others are okay."

"Who's there right now? Ororo?"

"Gambit," Jean said. "Jubilee."

"Jubilee," Logan said, clenching his fists. "She's going to figure it out."

"Why would that matter?"

"Kid's going to spend one minute with my alter ego and know that something's wrong. And then she's going to start making some noise."

"If we're lucky, all of them will figure it out and start taking action."

"And the busy phone lines? That's not the kind of action I was hoping for, Cyke."

Rogue and Kurt waited for them outside the car. Logan looked for cops. He didn't see any, but it made him nervous, the car sitting out in the open for any length of time. Driving felt different, but this was like being a sitting duck.

"We're paid and ready to go," Rogue said, and then, "Scott, honey, your shirt is undone."

"Yes," he said. "You need to park the car over by the bar. Logan and I have ... business in there. It may take a while."

"Business," Jean said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, no." Rogue covered her mouth. "We're not
that
desperate."

Scott shook his head. "Just. . . move the car."

"I want to know what this is about," Jean said.

"Earning some easy cash," Logan said. "They got a pool table."

"Oh," she said, and then,
"Oh."

"Exactly."

Jean looked at her husband and mussed his hair a little more. She tweaked his shirt, pulling the tail from his jeans and tying it in a knot around his thin waist.

"Go get 'em," Jean told her husband with a crooked smile.

The men in the bar certainly appreciated the new look. Whistles accompanied Scott and Logan's entrance. Jean waited outside with Kurt and Rogue. Having male friends join them at the pool table would ruin the illusion of sweet innocents just wanting to pass the time, to try their hand. They had no money to add to the betting pool, but that did not matter. No one expected them to win, anyway. Taking their money in a bet would have been ... ungentlemanly.

But that did not mean Scott and Logan couldn't collect.

Logan played only two games, losing both. Scott went up next, and Logan let the bartender buy him a beer as he sat back and watched the show.

One of the lesser-known facts about Scott Summers was that the man played pool like a god. Even Logan knew better than to compete with him. It had something to do with his powers, his ability to know exactly how objects would move, rebound, deflect. A side effect, perhaps; Logan had seen him hit mission targets that were out of sight, simply by calculating the best angle at which to release his energy beams. Bing, bang, bong.

A couple of balls and a cue were child's play.

Following Logan's example, Scott lost the first two games, fumbling miserably as his opponents smiled, enjoying the spectacle of having a beautiful girl at their table, trying so hard to be as good as them. Oh, how cute. Oh, don't worry, you'll get better. Oh, Harry, cut the girl some slack.

And then the wager hit one hundred dollars—not a lot of money, but enough to get them home—and Scott stopped losing.

He did it subtly, no grandiose gestures that screamed "hustler." Just a ball here, a ball there. In retrospect, Logan wondered if that was the key mistake, the one thing they did wrong. They did not leap about and cheer every time a ball went into the hole. They did not cry out for support. They did things quiet, because that was their nature, and neither of them, for all their big talk of looking sexy, could change that one aspect of themselves. Logan knew plenty of women who were exactly the same, but those were professionals, not young things who supposedly didn't know much of anything about playing pool. It was all about perceptions and expectations.

The game was an easy finish. Scott, doing a decent job of acting surprised, smiled tentatively at the men and reached for the money.

"I think we should play again," said his opponent,

Fred, moving just enough to block his hand, "Double or nothing."

"I would love to," Scott said, "but we need to get back on the road. Besides, this was a lucky finish. I don't think I could win a second time."

"That so?" said the other man, a local lumberman named Daniel. He stroked his pool cue, thoughtful. "I'm not sure I believe in luck."

"Now, now," said the bartender, as Logan got off his stool. "There's no need to be sore losers."

"What, exactly, is the problem here?" Logan asked.

"The problem is that I think you cheated."

"Cheated?" Logan gazed around the room. "You telling me there's a way to cheat at pool?"

"There is if you've played before and now you're lying about it."

"And what makes you think we're lying?"

The bar's door opened; light flooded in from the outside, blinding them all. Logan blinked, recognizing the outline of a body that stood in the doorway, the silhouette of dreadlocks reminding him of old Greek tales about Medusa.

Scott, again, reached for the money. Fred tried to grab it first, but Scott was faster. He snatched the cash and then he and Logan started moving to the door, ignoring the protests that erupted behind them. Logan had anticipated this part, though usually it didn't happen unless the wins were bigger. One of the men he had been sitting beside at the bar stood up and tried to block the door. Logan said, "You better move," and when the man just smiled and reached out his hands, Logan did not mess around, but slammed his fist into that jaw, rocking the drinker back on his heels so that he stumbled and hit the wall.

His hand hurt but he didn't dare rub it. He turned in a slow circle, meeting hard gazes that flickered and then broke away. It was like playing a game of chicken with his fists. After pulling that first bluff, no one wanted to play for keeps, especially if it required hitting a woman. Fine by him.

Outside, Scott said, "You always make things sound so easy. And then people start hitting us."

"You should be used to that by now." Logan turned to Jean. "You could have helped. They accused us of cheating.

"Big surprise. Now come on. I was coming to get you. We have to get out of here."

"Police?"

"Worse," she said. "Cerebro."