Can't run, cant hide (you can't run)
You know you can't get away
I often wonder who you know
What you thinkin, where'd you go, baby
Can't Run, Can't Hide - - JRAY
I'd die without ya'.
Those were the last words Victor Creed remembered saying the previous night when he awoke in the morning. Usually a light sleeper, he wondered how Ororo could have slipped from his grasp without waking him. A smirk played on his lips and he cockily sat up in the bed, flipping back his blond hair. He had given it to her good. And it served her right.
Who was she to walk around on her high and mighty horse and decidedly cast judgement on him?
The plan had gone awry, that was all. It wasn't like he had intended on killing that man.
Not that soon, anyway.
He yawned and scratched his leg. Adjusting himself, under the sheets he called for Ororo and looked around. Something wasn't right about this setting. The many nights he and Ororo fought (a fight consisting of him tossing her around and fucking her until she passed out), she would be up the next morning, fixing breakfast for the both of them. Scratching his pits and snorting, he called for her and climbed out of bed.
Walking naked and admiring himself in the mirror as he passed, he never noticed the black duffel bag missing from the top of the dresser.
"Oror - ooo!" He called her name in a sing-song voice. Spreading his legs, he began to use the restroom, using his free hand to scratch his backside.
He was almost done when realization suddenly hit him and he jiggled himself clean.
"What the fuck?!" He cried angrily and turned to look at the empty spot that once belonged to the black duffel bag.
His heartbeat pounded into his ears and he felt as if he were going to be sick. Things began to move in slow motion as he stepped towards the empy spot that belonged to the duffel bag and hit the counter top. He yelled but due to the pounding in his ears, he couldn't hear himself scream.
That bitch had stolen his money. He did not bother with covering himself as he ran from his bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the (unlocked) front door.
The car was gone.
"BITCH!" He yelled at the top of his lungs.
He ran back inside, slammed the front door.
"I'd die without ya'," he whispered to himself.
He headed back upstairs slowly and sat down on his side of the bed. "Ororo, Snow White, baby, you done fucked up. Royally." He pulled open the drawer to his bedside table and pulled out his Thirty-eight Special and pressed it to the side of his face.
"You'll die without me."
Down. Down. Down for the count. Logan looked at his fifth shot of tequila and smirked. One more of these and Tom, Phyllis, and scrawny little Weasel would be dragging him home.
"I think you've had enough," Weasel's soft voice came from the other side of the room.
"Ain't it past your bedtime?" Logan turned and shot his eyes in the direction of Weasel, who was sitting at a table in the corner with his nose buried deep in a text book and his left hand moving furiously as if he were taking notes.
There was only a handful of customers left in the bar and Phyllis had turned in for the night, making her complaints be known about her lousy tips for the night. Tom kept quiet as usual, always keeping an eye on his boy Weasel and calming down the rowdiest customers, which were really just a few drunk assholes here and there that liked to keep up a lot of noise.
A few of them decided to calm down and stay. The booze was cheap here and Logan couldn't blame anyone that wanted to stay around for the booze. Considering there wasn't a cage fight tonight, the bar was next to empty and it looked about as pathetic as it did when Logan came during the day. The broken television in the top right corner on the left side of the bar, caught Logan's eyes and he couldn't help but to laugh.
"What's so goddamn funny?" A man's throaty growl came from behind Logan.
He didn't even bother turning around. What trouble was it worth? It was just going to be an ugly face that he'd have to make even uglier by the end of the night. Tom didn't bother to look up either.
"One more, Tom." Wolverine tapped the shot glass and slid it towards Tom. He put his elbow up on the bar and put his chin in his hand. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to play a little before he went home.
"Hey, you ugly bastard. What the hell is so goddamn funny?"
Sighing, Logan turned around and could not believe his eyes. "Didn't I fight you a few months back?" Logan could not hide the smirk from his face. He could never forget this face, even if he wanted to.
It was Jimmy "Babyface" Richmans. Babyface was putting it lightly. Jimmy Richmans made a baby look corrupt. He had the eyes of an angel, dimpled chin, rosy cheeks that kind of creeped out other men, and after Logan was done with him, the same amount of teeth that a one year old posessed.
"Well if this don't beat all! I see you still have your baby teeth!"
And that was all it took.
Babyface Richmans had jumped up and made the swing for Logan. Narrowly missing but tilting slightly from his large consumption of alcohol, Logan had turned and nailed Babyface Richmans with a punch to the back of the neck. Richmans cried out in pain and one of the men from his pathetic group of an entourage had jumped up and was making the jump for Logan. By this time, Richmans had regained his ground and his fist connected with the corner of Logan's mouth.
"Now why is it that a bastard's always got to go for the corner of another bastard's mouth?!" Logan didn't bother wiping the blood from his mouth as his fist slammed into Richmans' jaw, sending him backwards and making his head bounce loudly and painfully off the bar.
"One down." Logan walked over to the bar and downed his tequila shot, the one that would have him dead to the world and commenced to kicking some more ass.
"Out! Goddamnit, Logan!" Tom was practically shoving Logan out of the bar. "You realize, Jimmy (he rarely called him by his first name, nickname, or any other name), that this is the ... goddamn I don't even know how many times I've had to kick you out and go clean up a pile of pathetic bastards!?" He flailed his arms dramatically as Logan stumbled backwards.
"Damnit! Go home and sleep it off!" He was about to yell once more and sighed, giving up.
"Just - go home." His hard expression softened and he patted Logan on the shoulder. He'd wait a moment and let Logan leave before he sent the poor assholes home or wherever the hell they went to clean their wounds.
A fifteen minute brawl that felt like an hour left Logan with a cut eyebrow, bruised lip, and aching ribs. He was going to kill himself this way. He was quite sure of it. Fighting was the only thing he knew. He came into the world fighting so he may as well go out the same.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Pulling a cigarette from the pack, he lit it up and looked up at the moonlight. Where was she and what was she doing right about now?
"You know those will kill you, don't you?" An all too familiar accented voice caught his attention. He turned his head in the direction of her voice. Still slightly drunk, he stumbled in the direction of her voice and laughed. "I'll be dead before it kills me." It made no sense but it sounded so right coming from his lips.
Coming from the shadows and wearing a large jacket with a hood over her head, his 'Ro reached up and pulled the cigarette away from his lips slowly. Logan's lips were pursed and he decided not to suck on air, desperately needing and wanting that cigarette. He needed some sort of dignity.
She tossed the cigarette over her shoulder and smiled.
"Why did you - " he was silenced by a long, thin, beautiful finger pressed to his lips.
"Shh," she said.
Quick as a flash, his keys had been taken from his jacket. How on earth had she...
"I'll drive," she commanded in her sweet voice and all Logan could do was climb on the back of that motorcycle and wrap his arms around her waist like a child that had finally found their lost teddy bear.
Victor Creed looked over his shoulder and back at the road. The engine purred as he sped along the highway.
His destination was Ororo Munroe and he knew exactly where she had gone to hide.
His gun lay protectively at his side as he turned a dangerous curve almost flipping the car over. He should be extra careful with this car. His former associate, David Moran sat on the toilet in his five thousand dollar condo home with his brains splattered on the wall.
Of course, Victor really didn't need to kill David. But when a man kills, a man gets more money. Not only does a man have a trunk full of unmarked bills that could total up to well over a million dollars, but a man is now the owner of a baby blue nineteen sixty-five Buick Wildcat. Life was great.
It was going to be even greater when he found Ororo, took back his duffel bag of money and smash that pretty little head to pieces.
He couldn't wait to see the look of surprise on her face when he could come waltzing through whatever seedy motel room door she would be hiding behind.
The surprise would just kill her!
