Chapter Text
It took a lot of effort not to tell dad that Logan was alive when I met him in court for our 10am date. Two minutes was all it took for him to comment on my lighthearted mood. He pried, and I confess I wasn’t very convincing in trying to give him a good reason for being so cheerful, but he finally dropped the inquisition when I told him I’d cook dinner for us. We haven’t had our regular daddy-daughter dinner in a very long time, so he welcomed the suggestion with open arms.
Logan and I had talked a lot about how we were going to break the news to dad. Any scenario we could come up with made us realize that there wasn’t going to be an easy way to do this. So we decided I’d just tell him over dinner point blank while Logan waited at Dick’s for my call. That sounded like a more reasonable plan than him walking in through the door and giving dad the shock of a lifetime.
My home-made lasagna is cooking in the oven when Pony announces dad’s return home by happily bouncing towards the front door with his tail wagging even before dad opens the door. I can hear him praising the dog before he calls out for me.
Whatever you’re cooking, it smells delicious.
There’s lasagna in the oven, I shout back just as he walks into the kitchen, holding up a bottle of red wine.
Clairvoyant? he says and puts the bottle on the counter before he goes for the shelf with the wine glasses. He places them next to the bottle and then just leans back against the counter, studying me as I get the lasagna out of the oven.
What? My butt look big in these pants? I scoff, getting exactly the response from him I was hoping for.
This is exactly the kind of conversation I was thinking about having with my daughter when she gets back into town after six weeks on the road. Does her butt look big in her pants.
So you were thinking about commenting on my butt, I knew it.
Honey, you’re the daughter of this stud, he mounts his argument by pointing his thumb at his own chest, you can only be absolutely perfect in every way.
He places a kiss on my cheek before he goes for the corkscrew in order to open the bottle of wine.
Fancy. You picked a wine without a screw cap.
Figured times like these deserve some celebration.
Inadvertently, I do a double take and deadpan for a second while I put a piece of lasagna on a plate for him. I recover quickly, however, realizing that he’s obviously referring to me returning to Neptune and not talking about the news about Logan that I think about breaking to him tonight. I take a deep breath, plaster a smile across my face and turn around to hand him his plate, which he accepts graciously.
So for how long can Pony and I expect your company? he asks as he picks up the wine glasses with his free hand.
Cutting right to the point, are we?
I serve myself a piece of lasagna as well, pick up the bottle of wine and follow dad to the dinner table.
Your dog’s been really lonely lately. You didn’t hear all that heartbreaking whining during the night, he informs me matter-of-factly as he takes the bottle from me and starts pouring each of us a glassful. And you really spoiled that dog. You say no, he still jumps right into bed. Hogs the covers like no-one else, too.
I spoiled that dog? It wasn’t me who bought Pony that doggy bed that’s taking up the whole side corner of the living room. That was all your girlfriend’s doing.
In an effort to keep him out of the bed that obviously was very much in vain.
You mean cuddling with those 50 pounds of dog isn’t much of a thing for Charlotte?
She rather likes to cuddle with these 180 pounds of sizzling grade A meat. Amongst doing other things.
Yeah, about that… I start slowly and stuff a forkful of lasagna into my mouth. Obviously, I give him a completely different idea of where this conversation is headed because his reaction is a Keith Mars classic.
You know that people in their fifties still can have a very active sex life. I am a very considerate dad though and just want to make sure that all that noise won’t interfere with your beauty sleep.
I roll my eyes, You wanna know why I really bought those earplugs? Newsflash. It wasn’t cause Pony’s rattling the shingles.
Your dad’s getting laid and it’s awesum!
Oh gross.
When did my daughter turn into a prude? He raises his eyebrows and starts to mimic my voice, Dad, can’t you knock? I could’ve had sex you know.
No more sex talk. Eat.
He grins mischievously as he digs into his lasagna, Double the cheese.
The Mars secret recipe, I say, putting my fork into my mouth in a deliberately slow move just to proof a point .
The Keith Mars secret recipe, he corrects me immediately.
C’mon, I figured that one out when I was ten. Double the cheese. That’s your secret recipe on pretty much any food dish that has Keith Mars special attached to it.
So…
So… I mimic him playfully, not quite sure what he wants to get at.
About that…
About that, yeah. Ah hell, just say it, Veronica. It’s not gonna get any easier. Start with the first revelation of the night, prepare the ground, and then move in for the kill.
I can’t stay here any longer, dad, I blurt out, and immediately receive an expression of shock from him that I thought I wouldn’t be getting until I spilled the news about Logan.
You know you’re very welcome to stay as long as you want, honey. I don’t want you to feel like you need to move on because I’m dating again.
Look, this isn’t about you and Charlotte. I’m really happy you have her in your life. She’s good for you, so keep her, all right?
Then what’s this about?
There isn’t going to be an easy way to break this news, so I’ll just say it. I take a sip from the red wine, in desperate need of some liquid courage, before I just say straight out, Logan’s not dead.
Dad drops his fork on the plate and looks at me with an expression I can’t really read. It’s a mix of shock, confusion and also concern. He probably thinks I’ve gone off the rails.
Excuse me? he starts, but I cut him off immediately, just hear me out, okay?
Veronica, we’ve been down the coulda, woulda, shoulda road so many times. Please don’t go there again. It’s not healthy.
Logan’s not dead, I repeat, and it slowly seems to sink in that I am dead serious about this. He’s currently at Dick’s.
No jokes about this.
Trust me, this is not something I’d be cracking jokes about.
I’m taking another sip of my wine, studying dad closely while trying to figure out which version of Keith Mars I am about to encounter. The compassionate dad or the protective dad?
Do I need to get my gun and shoot that bastard? You know I totally would do that for you.
And the protective dad wins out 10 to 1. This will be fun.
So after over a year, he suddenly walks back into your life after having everyone believe he was dead? Because he really did a pretty convincing job that the body found in your car was in fact his. Or wait, no, he paid off people so he could just disappear off the face of the earth. And on your wedding day no less. Maybe Epner really didn’t place that bomb in your car like he keeps on claiming. Where does he get off, really?
Dad’s talking himself into a rage which is just one of the many possible outcomes I had for this conversation. It’s still one of the better ones though, as the others ranged from a high noon shootout to a possible heart attack. If he continues down this path though, I am pretty sure we’ll have that shootout at the O.K. Corral by tonight. Gotta reel in the cowboy.
Look, I don’t expect you to understand right now, but would you please just hear him out?
Honey, do I have to remind you of all those times we sat on the couch and you cried in my arms?
No, you don’t need to remind me of that, I cringe. How could I forget. There were days when I could barely drag myself out of bed. I woke up crying after my nightmare, furious and helpless that I couldn’t save Logan. Dad was always there – picking me up when I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. Comforting me when the memories just got too much to handle. He nursed me back into a state where I was okay enough to at least go on.
I know he’s concerned about me. He only wants the best for me, and me crawling back into what he had started calling my desperately-missing-Logan-hole-of-misery certainly isn’t what he wants for me. I’ve since filled up that hole, never to be dug up again. But Logan’s back, and I need dad to understand that he’s here to stay. We’ve had plenty of discussions back in the day about how Logan wasn’t the right one for me. How he didn’t deserve me. How he was always going to hurt me, because that’s what people like him do. How I could do so much better.
The first time we broke up, dad didn’t say a thing. No lecturing, no you can do better , nothing. He just wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me close for the next hour, letting me know he was there should I need him. The second time we broke up, I got the full lecture about how I needed to pick guys more carefully and that maybe someone more relaxed and down to earth would be more suitable for me. The kinda guy who wouldn’t have a run in with the law at least every other week. The third time Logan and I broke up, I got the full ice cream pampering for three days straight while he allowed me to wallow in my misery. The fourth time we broke up, all I got from him was a kiss and a simple are you okay?
Logan was never his first choice for me, and I can understand why. Who’d want to see their teenage daughter date a guy that seemed to be the perfect embodiment of a hotheaded, rampant and short-tempered nitwit. He never got to see the boy I fell in love with and deeply cared about though, the person I saw Logan could and eventually turned out to be - not until I returned to Neptune for good a whole nine years later.
For almost a year, dad was Mr. Mars to Logan which was just the bit of warning he yielded that said you better not mess with my daughter again. His offer to call him by his first name came unexpected, in the middle of a conversation, when Logan started off his sentence with Mr. Mars and dad immediately corrected him with just one word – Keith. That was when I knew that dad finally approved.
Where the hell was he all this time?
His voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I look up at him.
It’s complicated. He needs to tell you himself.
And you trust him?
I trust him that he wouldn’t just walk out on me like that.
Consider me the skeptical type.
I get that you’re pissed.
Now that may be a slight understatement. There’s an awkward moment of silence between us, before he speaks up again. Is that why you’ve been away more often than home? Because you were with Logan?
No, I shake my head slightly, I didn’t know until he showed up at my motel in Tennessee on Monday.
I really don’t know, Veronica. He’s put you through so much already.
He reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, stilling my nervous fork tapping against the plate.
And you’ve always warned me off him. But he’s changed, you know that. Do you honestly think he’d do this to me on purpose?
Dad pauses for a moment, and I can see him collecting his thoughts. I know he’ll give me an honest answer, whether I want to hear it or not. He’s my dad, and that’s what dads do. I brace myself for the inevitable yes I suspect I’ll be hearing, but instead, I get the answer I was hoping for.
No, I don’t.
Thank you, I give him a short smile. So can I give him a call and tell him he can come over without the prospect of you shooting him on the doorstep?
Fine, he huffs exasperated. But I think I may need something a little bit stronger than that red wine.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting outside on the steps of the porch waiting for Logan to show up. Pony is lying by my side, and I absentmindedly stroke his fur when we both hear a car drive down the usually quiet street. Pony’s head shoots up, and he gets quite agitated when Dick’s Porsche pulls into the driveway. I reach down to grab him by his collar to keep him from leaping off the porch, but he dashes for the car’s passenger side before I even get a chance.
Hey Ponyboy, I can hear Logan’s voice over the dog’s happy barks as I walk towards the driveway to greet him. I can’t help but smile at the sight in front of me - Logan on his knees, ruffling the dog’s fur while Pony’s slobbering his face with sloppy wet doggy kisses.
Someone’s happy to see you, I say and wave at Dick in the driver’s seat who just grins back at me and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Logan gets up and grabs Pony by his collar to stop him from bouncing happily around our feet. He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back instinctively. There’s no way he’s going to kiss me with the same lips that just got slobbered over by our dog.
At least Pony was happy to see me, he says, and there’s this cross of pretend hurt and light amusement flashing over his face.
You just kissed a dog with that mouth, I reply as I start walking back to the house. I stop at the front door, waiting for Logan and Pony to catch up.
Just a fair warning. Dad has tipped back a couple or three.
He took it that bad, huh?
He was pretty cool actually. Only threatened to shoot you once.
I’m very much relieved, he snorts and holds out his hand for me. I bite my lips curled into a smile, before reaching over, lacing my fingers with his. Suddenly, I feel like I’m nineteen again, bringing home the boyfriend for dinner for the first time, hoping that he would pass dad’s thorough inspection and earn him his approval. Except I’m no longer nineteen, and Logan has since passed that test with flying colors, but still – it feels as if this is what I need. Dad’s approval about having Logan back in my life.
Pony dashes into the house before I even manage to fully open the door, tail wagging, barking loudly and thus, announcing our return.
Pony, down! I shout after him, trying to get him to quieten down but I’m not very successful. I can hear dad giving him the same command in the kitchen, which eventually does the trick, and the barking dies down.
Not a second later, dad shows up in the doorway. He lays an eye on Logan, his eyes widen, and with a short excuse me, he turns and walks back in the kitchen. We follow him in and find him at the counter, the bottle of Scotch in his hand as he pours himself another glass.
I think I need another one of these first, he announces and downs the contents of the glass in one go. So, Logan, what’s new with you? And while I’m asking, do you even remotely have any idea what you put my daughter through? Any plans for a repeat? Because if you have, just let me make this clear right now: I’ve got an unregistered weapon stashed away that I’m not hesitant to use.
Dad!
Am I shocked about his outburst? Hell yeah. Am I surprised? No.
No, it’s fine, Veronica, Logan cuts in, obviously a lot calmer about this than I am . I know he’s just looking out for you.
And apparently had a lot more to drink than just the couple of Scotches I saw. You promised to be civil.
I am civil. The gun isn’t even in play yet. We’re merely talking about the hypothetical use of said weapon and maybe where I possibly could hide a body that’s never supposed to be found.
I narrow my eyes and shoot him a glance that could kill, which obviously gets my point across because he raises his hands defensively.
Fine. I promised I’d listen so I’ll listen. I didn’t promise I’m gonna like what I’m hearing, though. That’s yet to be determined.
Fair enough, Logan says, trying to ease the tension.
We’ve been sitting in the living room for quite a while, with the Scotch and three glasses on the small coffee table between us. The conversation so far has been pretty straightforward. Logan’s story is pretty much the same one I heard from him in a motel room in Tennessee four days ago. Woke up in a hospital room alone, thought I was dead, signed up for a covert operation in Syria, found out I was still alive, went AWOL. And here he is now.
Dad’s listening with an open mind, interrupting him only once or twice with valid questions. He’s civil, I have to give him that. It isn’t until we dig deeper into Logan’s story that the Scotch finally comes into play. One glass that leads to another, then to a third.
I take a sip while stealing a glance at Logan. His elbows are resting on his thighs, fingers curled around his tumbler, his head bowed and staring at the dark amber liquid he’s swirling around in his glass. His body language is easy to read - he’s not comfortable going into detail about the last year. Avoiding eye contact, that’s the first tell. The second? His fingers tightly gripping the Scotch to keep them from trembling. The slight shift in his voice in tone and volume as he’s answering dad’s more in-depth questions – that’s the third.
I hadn’t even left the hospital yet, let alone been cleared for duty when this Commander came to see me, offering me what he called a once in lifetime career opportunity. Word was that ISIS was aggressively recruiting again in order to rebuild their strength. They needed someone to answer one of their recruitment calls and infiltrate from within. ISIS wanted trained, reckless mercenaries. The Navy needed someone with training in intel and speaking Arabic. I fit their profile as much as I fit ISIS’. I had nothing left to lose, and I thought maybe this would at least give me some purpose again. The Navy had pulled me out of my shithole once before. They gave me a new identity, and two weeks later I was on a plane to Rammstein for further briefing. Three weeks after, I was headed to Aleppo from where I started my journey to ISIS bootcamp.
Who were you reporting back to and how?
In the beginning, I had a contact in Aleppo. The camp was so far out, it took the better of a day to make the trip there and back. After a while, I couldn’t justify anymore why I needed to be on any of the convoys headed to Aleppo. They started to get suspicious, so I stopped asking to go. I flew rather blindly after that until ISIS split the camp and moved us over the border back to the region around Mosul. Since the move didn’t go unnoticed and I knew the NATO still had soldiers posted in Mosul, it was just a matter of days until I had a personal contact among the locals.
Do you have any idea who they could’ve been reporting to?
Logan shakes his head, Protocol would be to have information go through as many hands as needed to cover tracks without compromising the intel. My best guess is that the end of the chain was probably someone at the Pentagon, given the importance of such a military operation.
How many hands are we talking about here?
From me to end, five, maybe six. It would go from me to the first contact. From there it would go to another middleman, then on to the first Navy contact. From there to higher up the ranks and then to the Pentagon – if the Pentagon was the final recipient.
Logan and dad going back and forth without me gives me the chance to just listen and observe. Dad all businesslike, rattling off one question after the other to probe for more information, getting right to the point. Logan nervously tapping his foot as he answers, hands still clutching the glass of Scotch he has since emptied. His gaze is wandering aimlessly through the room, almost scared of making eye contact.
It’s not the psych major that realizes that Logan is holding back. It’s me, plain ol’ Veronica. I’ve known him long enough to recognize the subtle changes in his demeanor that tell me there’s more to what he’s telling. He’s all factual, rattling off one explanation after the other. He’s giving dad and I just what we need to hear – but not necessarily what I want to hear.
Facts are all nice and dandy when it comes to doing groundwork for a new case. Get down the basics and run from there. No personal attachment needed or wanted. But this isn’t just any ordinary case. This is Logan’s life we’re trying to repair. Personal attachment and involvement very much wanted and needed. I hope that once we dig deeper and unearth most of the dirt he’s been fed, he’ll be comfortable enough to tell.
So we track the intel, I comment, and pat his knee as I reach over and place my glass back on the coffee table.
His feet shuffling stills as he looks over at me. Except that once you get to the first Navy contact, you’ll need high-level military clearance to get any further.
I raise my eyebrows, as I first look at dad, then turn to Logan. Or a pretty good hacker.
Hacking into a military computer? Dad puffs, that’s bold. Connections could be more helpful.
That’s not the kind of connections I have, Logan injects.
Which brings us back to a hacker.
Of course Logan knows exactly what or better who I am hinting at. As much I adore Mac and her mad computing skills, this is not something I’d want to drag her into.
I shrug my shoulders, she might know someone. She’s made quite the connections over the years.
You do know that hacking a military computer is considered treason.
But only if you get caught, I reply with just a hint of snark and immediately get a testy response from Logan.
And what would you call it if you don’t get caught? Hypothetical treason?
If it’s hypothetical, it can’t be treason.
You don’t want to start that discussion with some of the inmates at Guantanamo.
Point taken, I shrug it off . If we can’t get the files that way, then we need to work our way up the chain in person. Start with your contacts in Syria and Iraq and go from there.
You don’t wanna go down that path, Veronica.
You said we can’t hire a hacker, so you gotta give us something else to work with.
This isn’t it.
Why not?
Because it just isn’t.
We can’t hire a hacker, we can’t go after your contacts… you said you wanted to get to the bottom of this, so give us something.
Stop asking! he shouts, but lowers his voice immediately, just trust me on this one, okay?
So I’ve found the sore spot. For a moment, I ponder whether I should really drop it as he’s asked me to or if I should keep on pushing. It’s in my genes to dig deeper once I’ve caught onto something. I’ve lost friendships over that. I’ve lost Logan over that. Letting this go won’t be easy, especially since trust is not one of my stronger traits. But Logan has shown me over and over the last few years that I can do just that – trust him blindly. I take a deep breath and drop the inquisition – at least for today.
Let’s go back to the beginning then, dad brings the conversation back on track. There’s the other chain of command we can follow. You said your Captain came to see you at the hospital.
Yeah, I was still in the ICU when he showed. I guess I must’ve driven the nurses crazy asking about Veronica and why they wouldn’t let her in to see me. He… He turns his head over his shoulder, his eyes seeking mine in a desperate attempt to find some comfort and reassurance. He said the car bomb that injured me killed you. He left a folder with a couple of police reports, said he was sorry and that I should move on. He never visited again. And I never asked anyone about you ever again.
I’ve always thought of Logan’s Captain as the understanding and compassionate CO who actually cared about the well-being of the officers in his command and their families. But this paints a completely different picture of the guy who came to visit after his death. It doesn’t sound like the guy who held my hand and choked on his words while talking about Logan. How can a guy tell me to treasure the moments we had and then turn around and tell Logan he better move on?
I can’t believe he had the nerve to lie to my face and tell me how sorry he was for my loss when he knew damn well you were very much alive in a hospital on the other side of the country.
I pick up my glass and swirl the Scotch, trying to keep my emotions in check. I’m seething with anger just thinking about how I’ve been played. How I’ve failed myself. Dad taught me how to read people even before I was in high school. How could I not see that he was lying to me?
Maybe I should drive down to San Diego and pay him a friendly visit, dad suggests, and pulls me out of my self-doubt, a place where I really don’t want to be right now.
Don’t bother. He was killed in a training exercise last fall. At the same time, both dad and I turn to look over at Logan, who just furrows his brow in response to our puzzled faces. Heard it through the grapevine.
Now that sounds like one lucky coincidence.
Poetic justice. What goes around comes around. I take a sip from my Scotch and notice both Logan and dad narrowing their eyes at me, brows knitted. I place the glass back on the table and shrug my shoulders. What? Excuse me that I can’t really bring myself to mourn the guy who played us all.
Dad gives me his dad stare that tells me I’ve crossed the line. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. I know Logan’s Captain was a husband, a father, so there’s people out there in mourning. Been there, done that. I feel sorry for them. But what I can’t really bring myself to is forgetting and forgiving all the lies and the deceit. Not right now, at least. I know I have to find a way to let go of all this anger I’ve bottled up cause if I don’t, it’ll destroy me, it’ll destroy Logan and it’ll destroy us. We’ve all been down this road before, and I never ever want to walk that path again.
I can see dad’s spidey sense kick in. He crooks his head to his side and shakes it slightly - his non-verbal warning to tell me to stop right there. I knit my brow, then rub my fingers against my temple. Why do dads always have to be so damn annoying when they’re right? I roll my eyes upwards and plop back against the couch with my hands up in defeat. His reply to me is again a silent one. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and gives me a comforting smile. Then his expression shifts back to all business, and he turns over to Logan to start their one on one interrogation once again.
The guy who offered you the undercover job. Do you remember his name?
Yeah, Newman. He must’ve had a background in naval intelligence, I could tell from the badge he had on his uniform.
You worked with him before?
No. Never saw him before that. Also never saw him again after I left the States. I think he was just a messenger.
But it’s a place to start. Do we book a ticket to Guantanamo if we do a background check on this guy?
Logan shrugs, Probably not. Just remember you’re dealing with naval intelligence here, so tread carefully.
Any more names from your time in Rammstein we need to check out?
Abbott. Gibbons. Harrison. Those were the guys that briefed me on ISIS. Since I was introduced to them under my alias, I am not sure if those are even their real names. Abbott and Gibbons were supposed to be ONI, Harrison an outside contractor. Again, not sure if that was just part of the setup or not.
Never hurts to check it out. Maybe we should also check you out.
Me?
Yeah, you, dad repeats, receiving a confused stare from Logan in return. Your alias. Track down who cooked up your history and what kind of trail you left where and when.
Patrick O’Neill. That was my identity.
Of course, I can’t keep my amusement about that choice of name for myself. Spiffy name. You look exactly like a Paddy, I hum, winking at him before I pick up my Scotch from the table .
Okay, so we got names. That’s a place to start. Logan, I gotta ask though. If you were sent undercover to an ISIS camp, how did you get out? I’m not particularly keen on having ISIS show up at my doorstep looking for you.
I don’t think ISIS has the resources to track me down. They don’t even know who I really am or who sent me, so they won’t be a threat. But there are things I know that some other people could consider a threat to national security.
I’m tempted to ask what, but I bite my lip. As a naval intelligence officer, all of his missions were classified, so of course he must have knowledge about a lot of things normal people aren’t supposed to know. He once told me that I’m far better off not knowing because with knowledge comes power and with power comes enemies. It’s a slippery slope between knowing just enough and knowing too much. I know that one from experience.
Do you really wanna stir up the hornet’s nest? Getting your life back is one thing, but vengeance is something entirely different, especially considering who we’re up against here.
I can’t just let this go, Keith. This almost destroyed me. And at what cost?
He looks over at me for a short moment, and I can’t really tell the expression on his face. Anger? Hurt? Frustration? His mouth curls into a short smile, so at least I know it’s not one of those three, before he turns his attention back to the Scotch in his hands and empties the glass, then picks up the bottle and pours himself another one.
I’m not saying we should drop this entirely, dad starts, but let’s just take one step at a time, okay? Also take into account that there might be a point somewhere down the road when we have to stop investigating this or it’s gonna destroy this family.
I don’t know if I can do that.
Then you’ll have to find a way, he warns him. We all walked down that road before, and we’re still picking up a lot of the pieces.
Dad pushes his almost empty glass over the table, indicating that he could need a refill, too. Logan is just about to screw the cap back on, so I empty my tumbler in one swig, and hold it out for him – I’m in for a new round of Scotch as well.
One thing I don’t understand, Logan comments as he places the bottle back on the table after pouring, that body they found at the scene, how could that have been identified as being me?
There wasn’t much left for a physical identification, dad answers before I can, starting off yet another flip-flopping between them that doesn’t necessarily include me. They ran a DNA test. It was matched against the sample the Navy kept of you.
Who ran the test? The local Sheriff’s department or the Navy?
The Navy did. The local lab was seriously backlogged and Langdon wanted to get this done quickly, so she handed it over to the Navy after your Captain offered. They returned the results in two days.
So there’s three more leads to follow. Who was that body found in the car, how did it get there and how could the Navy match his DNA to mine?
After everything you just told us about your CO, my best guess is that the test results were as bogus as his initial offer to actually have a DNA test done in the first place.
We gotta find out who signed the test results, cause it sure wasn’t him. You think you can get a hand on the file?
I’m pretty sure Langdon will allow us a peek once we tell her she’s been screwed over.
And the body?
The body. Pictures of dad and I in the morgue flood my memories, standing in that dim hallway, waiting for the coroner to come talk to us. The words I heard will probably haunt me forever.
I'm sorry you can't see him. – Trust me you don't want to. – Keep him in your memories the way you remember him. – There’s nothing much to recognize. – We need his DNA to identify him. – Do you have something of his we can use as a match, like a toothbrush?
Silently, I get up from the couch. This is just too much to bear right now. I walk out into the hallway and slump against the wall, resting my head in my hands. Why didn't I insist on seeing the body? Why did I just back down and accept what I've been told? No matter how badly that body must’ve looked, I would've known that it wasn't Logan when I saw it. In my heart, I just would have.
This is just one of the shouldas I’ve been mulling over since that day. I should've gone to see the body. Instead, I listened to my dad, I listened to Wallace. Don't do this, Veronica. The last memory you want of Logan is of your wedding, not of his body lying on a steel table in the morgue. I backed down. I never requested to see the body.
Dad and Wallace took care of most of the funeral arrangements. I just couldn't deal. We had a service I don't remember much of, most of it is just a haze. Somehow I'm glad for that, because the parts I do remember, I want nothing but to forget. Logan's picture on an easel, a simple flower arrangement hanging from the edge. A Navy chaplain praising his life and his service. That goddamn flag they folded and handed to me.
There was no casket. Upon suggestion of the coroner, the body was cremated. We buried the urn a week later. Just dad, Wallace, Dick, Mac and I. Standing in front of a small stone plaque in the grass as the dirt was shoveled into a small hole next to a bouquet of white lilies, covering what I thought was left of the man I loved more than life itself.
Sweetheart.
I look up and see dad standing in front of me. He has that look of comfort on his face that's always made me feel understood and cared for as long as I can remember. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently.
I think Logan needs some company.
That’s just his way of telling me he doesn’t want me to be alone right now. He places a tender kiss on the top of my head before he vanishes down the hallway towards his bedroom. I look after him shortly, then take a deep breath and rise in order to head back into the living room. I see Logan leaning back on the couch, running his hands over his face. He’s in a state somewhere between more-than-just-slightly drunk and absolutely tired. A glance at the clock tells me it’s close to 1am – we’ve spent way more time talking than I anticipated.
I hold out my hand to him, waiting for him to lace his fingers with mine and gather me into his arms. This urgent need to feel his warm body against mine demands to be answered, reassuring me that he is indeed very much alive. He responds by pulling me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me as he flips both of us to the side, bringing me down on top of him as he stretches out on the couch.
He pulls me in for a kiss, and I respond readily but realize immediately, he’s not in for the long run. While my irresistible charm was usually enough to get his undivided attention, his mind currently seems to be elsewhere. So if all he wants to do is cuddle, I guess I’ll settle for that.
I place my head against his chest as I make myself comfortable in his embrace. His elbow is resting against my shoulder, his hand gently stroking my hair while I listen to the faint thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump of his beating heart. It’s been a long time since we’ve done this – me wrapped securely in his arms, doing nothing but reveling in the stillness of the peaceful night around us.
441 days, he says wearily.
441 days... It’s not that I’ve been counting really, but somehow I know that it’s been 441 days since that short weekend getaway to Catalina Island on Big Dick’s boat – the last time we really could be just us before all this shit hit the fan. Curled up under a blanket on deck, Logan spooning me, and we were doing nothing but watching the clear night sky and listening to the waves crashing around us. A short moment of tranquility with nothing to worry about. That night was ours, and ours only.
I absentmindedly play with my necklace, twisting the pendant between my fingers. It’s a habit I picked up a long time ago. I wore Lilly’s necklace for the better of four years. Every time when life was a bitch and I needed a reminder that I can be strong enough to cope, I reached for the sparkly star pendant. It was my tether, what kept me grounded.
When I left my life in Neptune behind and headed to Stanford, I also left behind Lilly’s necklace. I needed a new start, and my tether, the one that reminded me of everything that had turned me into the person I didn’t want to be anymore, was no longer welcome.
Nine years down the road, the day of my birthday, I woke up to find a little red box sitting on the doormat in front of my apartment door. The note simply said, Happy Birthday. L. Even though he was halfway across the globe flying off an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf, he hadn’t forgotten. What I found inside the box was a necklace with a golden pendant of Joan of Arc. I’ve been wearing that necklace ever since, and once in a while, I find myself twisting that pendant in order to remind myself that I can be strong just like her.
I never told you why I picked that one for you , Logan says quietly, his face partially buried in my hair.
Because I was a teenage witch? I answer, tilting back my head to look at him.
He just shakes his head lightly, Joan of Arc was one of the strongest and fiercest women in her time and stood up for what she believed in without caring what others thought about her. ‘One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.’
Oh, now I really know you’re drunk. You’re quoting Medieval Literature.
I laugh and pat his chest before I move slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to snuggle up against him. I place my head in his nook, and his arms find their way around my body immediately, cocooning me in a comforting embrace. 441 days. We can have this back. We just need to take it.
I must have dozed off at some point because pictures of fire and dust start flooding my mind, the ground beneath my feet shaking, and my body starts to quiver and tremble. My eyes snap open, and I immediately realize it’s not my body that’s shaking, it’s the body resting against mine. Logan’s head is tilting from side to side, his fingers are clenching the back of my shirt – I can see he’s having a nightmare. His lips are tightly pressed together, and tears are forming at the corners of his eyes. I’ve seen him struggling, crying, breaking down. Yet, there was still always that sense of self-control, that last barrier that kept him in check. This - I’ve never seen him like this before – so not-in-control.
I turn over, now lying fully on top of him. My hands cup his face, trying to still his movements, as I whisper, Logan. Wake up.
He’s slowly settling down, and then finally opens his eyes. They dart around the room for a second before they focus on me. I see confusion wash over his face.
I’m here, I tell him, as I try to give him a comforting smile to reassure him that he’s safe and that everything is alright.
Veronica?
He takes a deep breath, before he slips out from under me with a simple I gotta get some air. He wipes the tears from his eyes with his hand, and he’s out the back door before I even fully realize what’s just happened. I’m slowly understanding why he wanted three days without diving into the specifics of his time in the Middle East. It’s haunting him – just as his death has haunted me.
I give him some time on his own before I decide to pick up our glasses and the bottle of Scotch and head outside to join him. He’s sitting on the stairs of the back porch, staring off aimlessly into the night sky. I place the tumblers and the Scotch next to him, before I sit down as well. That’s when I notice the jimmy in his hand. I know where that came from… and I’m not sure if I should thank Dick for giving that to Logan or if I should curse him to hell and back.
I know it’ll take the edge off and calm his nerves, so in a way, it’s probably the thing he needs right now. But there’s this irrational part of me that believes I should be the one to calm him, to take the edge off, and not the weed. Silently, he holds out the bud. Oh, what the hell. If he’s gonna get baked, so will I. I take the joint and draw a long, hard breath. Logan doesn’t say a word as I puff. He just reaches for the Scotch, pours each of us a drink, and then takes a big swig out of his glass.
Maybe I did have some asinine death wish when I agreed to infiltrate ISIS, he finally says as he takes another sip.
I hand the weed back to him, then pick up my glass and down the contents in one go. I don’t like where this is headed. I’ve rarely seen him so vulnerable, and it scares the shit out of me.
You know I wanna tell you about the last year, right? he says as he twists the bud between his fingers.
I know, yes. And truth is, I want him to tell me because I can see it’s tormenting him, and I wanna help him get through it. Half the weight, half the burden. But I promised not to probe and push his buttons, so I’ll try not to. It will be hard sitting on the sideline not being able to help, but I’ve learned to trust him – trust him that he tells me what he feels is necessary to tell when he’s ready and keep to himself what he feels is not. He just needs his own pace and his own timing which may not always be my pace or my timing. But as long as there are no lies between us, I’ve learned to more or less manage.
If you don’t wanna tell me, then you don’t tell me. Easy as that. I’m a big girl. I learned to live with you not being able to talk. I’m cool.
I reach over to take another draw of the weed. Inhaling deeply, I feel my muscles relax and the weight of the world being lifted from my shoulders, even if only for the next few hours. Yup. No cursing Dick. Need to thank him for this.
Logan sighs, his eyes darting up to the night sky. We’ve been down this road before. Me not telling, you not being cool with it.
I’ve been cool about it ever since you joined ONI. Never probed you about any of your trips to Afghanistan? Somalia? Liberia?
No shit, Sherlock. He turns to face me and runs a hand down my face. I really wanna tell you – I’m just afraid you won’t like what you hear about me. About the things I’ve done.
Logan, you’re the guy who bashed in my headlights with a tire iron. You’re the guy who brought liquid X to Shelly’s party. And you’re the guy who gave my ex-boyfriend three broken ribs, a split lip and a shiner over something that wasn’t even his fault. You did a lot of shitty things – to me and to others. Yet, here I am.
I hand him back the joint, and he eagerly takes it, sucking hard on the bud before puffing the smoke into the night.
That was the old me that couldn’t hold on to you because of all those fucked-up things. The current me, that’s the one that really needs you to know that putting you through everything that happened the last year really wasn’t my choice. I can’t lose you again. I wouldn’t survive that. But everything I have told you so far just sounds so… lame.
I push the Scotch out of the way and scoot closer to him. Studying him for a moment, I then place my arms around his neck, tip my head back just a bit and try to give him my best Hollywood impression in order to at least lighten the mood a bit. I’m in for the long run, and even though I think he already knows that in his heart, I know that he needs to hear it from me right now as there seems to be some sort of disjointed miscommunication going on between his heart and brain.
Listen to me, mister. You’re my knight in shining armor. Don’t you forget that. You’re going to get back on that horse, and I’m going to be right behind you, holding on tight, and we’re gonna go, go, go.
I usually don’t get the Katherine Hepburn treatment unless we’re five tequilas in and high as fuck, he snorts and kisses the tip my nose.
Scotch, tequila... one’s as good as the other, I reply nonchalantly as I rest my forehead against his. I inhale sharply, taking in the smell that is so unmistakably Logan. Cedar and sandalwood with a hint of seawater and orange. And just a whiff of pot.
We’re not the same anymore that we were back then. You tell me or you don’t tell me. I’ll be fine with whatever it is you decide. And I promise you won’t lose me. It’s gonna take a lot more than a bomb and some fucked-up highly secret covert sting to make me walk away.
I kiss him, and he responds with such an intensity that I need to tighten my hold on him so I won’t lose myself in his kiss completely. The side effect of smoking pot – it always makes Logan horny as hell. It usually takes a bit longer than tonight’s fifteen minutes and a couple of draws though for him to reel me in and ask me to surrender to his mercy.
I’ll tell you. Just not tonight, he drawls, nibbling on my earlobe as his hand slips under my shirt, fingers sprawling on my lower back. Trailing kisses along my neck, he soon finds his way back to my lips before he covers my mouth with his again. He once told me that it’s this hunger for me that makes him feel alive, makes him feel connected. It’s also what makes me feel alive – his hands roaming my body, his lips slipping over my bare skin, his breath tingling against my face.
His hand snakes from my back to my butt, and he lifts me up ever so slightly, letting me know he wants me to move. I raise up on my knees with the intention of straddling him, when he swiftly turns me around and pulls me down to sit between his legs. His arms envelop me and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder as he buries his nose in my hair.
You’re a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde tonight, I huff in frustration. He can’t turn me on like that, only to flip around and request nothing but a cuddle. Don’t get me wrong, cuddling with Logan is never a bad thing, but when he sets me on fire, he needs to make damn sure he also extinguishes the flame he ignited and turn this into a cuddle fuck.
His response isn’t one of his usually cocky remarks or the slam dunk I so desperately crave which again tells me he’s not his usual self tonight. For the last three days, I had my Logan back, the one with those loose lips, snarky, on point while at the same time smart, in control, caring. This Logan – he’s different. Something’s out of sync, broken, and I am not sure how to fix it. It almost feels as if he’s clinging to me so he won’t lose himself.
Your dad’s gonna kill me for smoking pot with you on his porch, he smirks as he picks up the joint and takes a hard draw.
I think that’s probably number ten on Keith Mars’ list of ‘ten reasons to kill Logan Echolls’.
Are you telling me getting stoned with his daughter ranks below getting kinky with his daughter?
I think shagging me used to be on number five until it got replaced by dropping E with me.
Oh, he does differentiate. Interesting.
I laugh, pass the blunt, dude.
He obliges and hands me what’s left of the spliff, then reaches for his Scotch again and takes a sip, watching me take a final draw before I stub out the roach and push it into that small crack between the floorboards. I hear the clinking sound when Logan puts his tumbler down on the porch, and feel him shifting positions behind me. He fumbles with something in his back pocket, and eventually pulls out his wallet, flips it open, and retrieves a picture. He twists it in his fingers for a moment, before he brings his arm around again, holding out the photo for me to see.
Wow, I gasp, that brings back memories.
It’s us, on the beach, sitting much like we are sitting now, his chin resting on my shoulder while his arms are protectively wrapped around me. Our seventeen-year-old selves after a long day of surfing and sunbathing out in Huntington Beach, trying to hide from everything that’s waiting for us back in Neptune. We’re wrapped together in a large beach towel, laughing as I try to take a selfie with my camera pointed at a weirdly crooked angle because my arm is just too damn short to fit us both into the frame. It isn’t until I’m firmly attached to his body, sitting half on and off his lap, my head tilted back just a bit to level with his that I’m able to finally get both of us into the picture without either cutting off the top of his head or the side of my face. We look so content in that picture, so much in love.
Look at that spunky hairdo, I hum as I trace my finger around his face in the photo.
The chicks digged it, he replies, and he’s really not far off. I really did dig his messy haircut, just because it wasn’t the perfectly combed classic taper that most 09ers were rocking back then. A bit too much American Crew, hair sticking up in pretty much every direction. It was a perfect mirror of Logan’s personality. Spunky. Messy. Wild.
Maybe I should grow my hair out again, he muses and ruffles the top of his hair so the now rather short strands stand in pretty much every direction.
Oh no! I warn him as I turn around and gently run my fingers through his hair, smoothing out the mess he’s created. Adult Logan doesn’t need the spunky, messy, wild haircut anymore that his teenage self kept all the way through high school and college. He’s not the kid anymore that needs to prove that he’s not your run-of-the-mill rich kid – he’s anything but.
Keep the crew cut. Neat, proper, with just a bit of bravado at the front. That’s who he is. Makes you look all serious and grown-up.
He taps his thumb against the picture, bringing my attention back to the photograph. That girl was seriously into my hairdo.
Really? She doesn’t strike me as that kinda girl.
Yup, kept running her fingers through my hair whenever she got a chance. And of course, I proved his point even before he pointed it out ever so nonchalantly. But he has to mention it again, just for my benefit. Was really distracting at times because she couldn’t keep her hands off me.
Maybe she was just trying to smooth out all that American Crew?
Trust me, she loved the spikey hair. I was told she had a thing for the bad boys. And that made me look all badass.
I nudge him with my elbow, enticing a playful wince from him before he places a kiss against the side of my neck. With a chuckle, I take the photo from his hand, running my fingers over the rough surface marked with creases and spots. It’s old and worn, much used and apparently, much loved.
Seriously. Junior year? You have a picture of our seventeen-year-old selves in your wallet and I didn’t know about it? Where did you even find that?
I am pretty good at hiding things I don’t want people to find.
Says the guy who ordered a surprise birthday gift for his girlfriend off Amazon and had it delivered to her office under her name.
See, that’s what happens when before-mentioned girlfriend is really distracting me by playing with my hair while I’m trying to order her the perfect birthday present on my phone. My mind goes into the gutter and I can’t focus on the important things anymore and check off the wrong delivery address. Men’s minds are weak.
His nose nuzzles the spot behind my ear, his lips are gently brushing against my skin – oh, I know what he’s trying to do. His mind is definitely on its way into the gutter. What did I say about getting stoned turning him horny? We’re on our way to that cuddle fuck he still owes me, but I’m not gonna let him off that easy. You do it to me, I do it to you. I tilt my head to my side, lift up my shoulder, and deny him access to that side of my neck which results in a frustrated groan from him.
You’re dodging the question, smartass. Why that one?
I flick my finger against the picture, trying to bring his attention back to the photo. His hand slips over my stomach and comes to rest on my hip, fingers gently stroking my pelvis. He’s doing it again… oh hell, we can play on first base if he wants, but advancing to second will have to wait a little.
That’s the girl I fell in love with, he murmurs and places his other hand on top of mine, brushing his thumb first over the back of my hand, then over the picture, caressing the cheek of my likeness in the photo . Epic love story and all, you know. Seventeen years later, and she still smells of marshmallows and promises.
His nose is nuzzling my neck again, and this time I let him.
Mmmm, I breath as I reach up and place my hand on the back of his neck, letting my fingers trace circles along the nape. I thought she'd traded for S’Mores and compromises.
Nope, he draws out the p , popping his lips against my skin, still marshmallows and promises. That’s never gonna change.
Really, it’s S’Mores with all the added layers and flavors.
I guess we just have to agree to disagree on this one. He places a kiss behind my ear before he turns his attention back to the photo. That girl wasn’t just any girl. She was the girl.
The girl, huh?
Yeah. The keeper. Took me for a wild ride. Lots of detours on the way. But look at me, seventeen years later, and I can call that girl my wife.
I chuckle, Seventeen years…. Those two had no idea what they signed up for back then.
Thank God they didn’t. I think they never would’ve jumped on the bandwagon if they did. Which really would have been a shame.
Because you would’ve missed out on all the heartbreak?
I would’ve missed out on all the hot and heavy breakup-makeup sex. That was always amazing. More than amazing. Fucking breathtaking. In every sense of the word.
I turn my head slightly, trying to catch a glance of that smug grin on his face that I know he’s donning, Past tense?
We’ve gone from on and off to steady since 2016. The we’re-exclusive sex is still pretty good though. Better than good actually. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Sensational. Spectacular. Heart-stopping. Kinky. Pervy even. Want me to go on? Cause I still have a few more expletives up my sleeve.
I laugh and place a quick kiss on his cheek. You’re such a perv.
I take that as a compliment. You know, the tone in his voice suddenly changes, and I can feel his body tense just a smidge, it’s the only thing in my wallet that survived the blast. The edges got a bit singed, but other than that… He traces his finger around the rigid edges of the photo. That girl always looked out for me, even when I didn’t deserve it.
I thought we left the melancholy part of the night behind us when the joint came into play, but apparently, I’m wrong. Gotta rectify that. No more sullen looks, no more somber memories, no more sinister thoughts. At least not for tonight. I push myself up which immediately results in a groan from Logan at the loss of body contact. He grabs for me, his sole intention to pull me back into his embrace. I comply, but it’s not until I’ve turned around and bracketed his legs with my knees that I sink down on his lap again. My palms cup his face, demanding his undivided attention, which I’m granted immediately.
She’s still looking out for you. And you deserve every second of it. Always have.
Do I? There’s this tremor in his voice that always creeps in when he’s getting all emotional and doubting himself. I wasn’t particularly nice to her at times. And yet, I could always count on her. Even after nine years of radio silence.
No more heartbreak tonight. I just can’t deal with anymore shit thrown my way. I’m checking out at least until sunlight, and I’m sure as hell taking Logan with me.
Every single second of it. I draw his face towards mine and place a tender kiss on his lips. And just so you know, in that picture? That’s the boy that girl fell madly in love with. Head over heels, bad case of butterflies in the stomach, all the works.
His lips curl into a smile, and that darkness that I saw flickering in his eyes is replaced with that glint of mischief I notice whenever his mind wanders off to wherever a guy’s mind wanders off to when they think about sex. My thumb brushes gently over the creases at the corner of his mouth while I close the distance between us, moving just enough so my breasts barely graze his chest. I hope he takes the hint.
Butterflies, huh? His hands slip over my back and come to rest on my butt again. Do you remember when?
Yup, he’s completely understood my maybe not so subtle hint.
When I fell for you? I inquire, lazily trailing a finger down his chest.
We've played this game of when did you fall in love with me so many times before - with or without booze, weed or worse involved. I think the first time, we were huddled against each other on his bed at the Grand with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. Housekeeping must've had field day with the mess we created that night.
Yeah, Logan gulps just when I hook my hand behind his belt, teasingly grazing his skin as I run my fingers slowly towards his hip bone. He’s twitching under my touch, and I can feel his grip on my ass tightening. Ding, ding, ding, jackpot. My irresistibly charming qualities strike again. Men’s minds are indeed weak.
Do you remember when you fell in love with me? I drawl, seductively gliding my tongue over my bottom lip.
Now who’s dodging questions here.
He pulls me in, closing that last inch of space between us and traps me in an embrace that doesn’t give me a lot of room to move. I can feel his hand slide up the curve of my bum, around my waist and come to rest on my side, fingers seductively caressing that section of bare skin my shirt fails to cover.
Sorry to disappoint you, lover boy, but you didn’t just snap your fingers and make me fall for you. Didn’t work that way.
You mean I can’t take pride in the fact that I was such a good kisser that I swept you off your feet, made you all dizzy and ran off with your heart?
Ah, the ever-charming tease that is Logan Echolls. An overconfident ego, mixed with a smidge of arrogance. That’s just one of the things I love about him.
Nope.
So tell me, his lips are almost grazing mine as he talks, what awesomely sappy moments can I pride myself with that made Veronica Mars fall in love with me?
You’re most definitely high as a kite, I chuckle .
And drunk, he places a kiss on my lips, I think, another one on my jawbone, we’ve already, one against my throat, established, on my neck, that. He pulls back, giving me a wickedly sexy grin. So? No dodging. You tell, I tell.
I told you there was no one single moment.
I said moments, he draws out the s with a long, sizzling sound, So what did I do, smarty pants?
Fine, if you must know.
I tip back my head in annoyance, giving him full access to my throat in hopes that he will take on the offer. He doesn’t disappoint, his teeth gently grazing my skin as he starts to playfully nibble on my jawline.
Oh, I must, he mumbles as he sucks on my skin, eliciting a guttural moan from me. God, the things this guy does to me… how much I’ve missed them.
You’re a marshmallow, Mr. Echolls.
I’m a marshmallow? He pulls back, giving me a pretend look of surprise and hurt.
Yeah, a marshmallow. Tough in the outside, soft on the inside. Okay, I wriggle my butt in his lap, scooting back just a fraction, so I can place my palms against his chest, tell-it-all it is. I fell in love with you somewhere between you beating up a federal agent, my hands are slowly trailing upwards, because you thought I needed to be rescued, my ever so charming knight in shining armor, they glide over his collarbone, and you basically telling everyone to fuck off, slip over the curve of his shoulders, if they didn’t like me as your girlfriend, and come to rest on his shoulder blades, which was incredibly hot.
Man, he rasps, faking exasperation, and I really thought all those make out sessions in the girls’ bathroom were the actual turn on.
The making out in public restrooms part is usually the first major turn on point when this game starts moving past second base. When ripping off each other’s clothing isn’t really an option at this stage, either his hand will end up in my pants within the next three sentences, or mine will end up in his. That’s just how this game’s played.
The first time sure was an eye-opening lesson.
You know it’s all about physics. The perfect angle, he props up one leg, traction, his thumb hooks into a belt loop on my jeans, jerking me towards him, pressure, his hands slips between us, the heel tightly pressed against my crotch, and friction, he runs his hand back and forth in a slow, but steady rhythm.
Okay, so he wants to have the upper hand this time. Mmmmh, let’s see if he can handle me tonight. I’m not going down without a fight. I grind my body against his, matching the rhythm of his movement as I trap his hand between us, guiding him with my rocking hips and thus, forcing him to not only stroke the nether regions of my body, but also massage himself.
As far as I remember, you failed physics your junior year and had to take summer classes.
And those summer classes taught me extremely well.
They taught him exceptionally well. While Logan may not have been the first boy I had sex with, he was the first to send me over the edge - in the extremely large and comfy backseat of a bright yellow SUV parked in the empty parking lot of Neptune High. His hand in my panties, his fingers dipping in and out of me, first in a teasingly slow manner which transformed into an agonizingly swift rhythm, applying just the right amount of pressure in just the right spots at exactly the right time. I tumbled over the brink, calling out his name over and over while he cradled me in his lap, rocking his hand against me, drawing out my climax for as long as he could. No one ever quite managed to pleasure me just the way he does. And he fucking knows it.
Don’t flatter yourself, I admonish him and slowly pull his hand out between our bodies, causing an audible grown of displeasure.
Please allow me my five seconds of pride about the fact that I’ve just been told that my seventeen-year old self was such a stallion that making out on a public bathroom sink was a mind-blowing revelation.
I pinch his side to which he responds by slipping the hand I’ve just removed from my body in the waistband of my jeans, tickling that spot just above my hip bone that he knows will drive me almost insane. I curl my fingers around his wrist, trying to stop him, but he just splutters out an evil laugh and dips his hand even further into my pants. His fingers graze lazily over my skin, and as fast as he has slipped his hand inside, he withdraws.
Spoilsport, I sulk, and rub my body against his, enticing just the reaction from him that I‘m anticipating. He’s growing harder by the minute, and I confess, I’m having a tad bit too much fun with this than I should have outside on the porch.
Logan’s hands fly to my hips, stilling my movement. He looks at me with a warning intensity, telling me that we can’t keep on playing this game of teasing and groping out here in the open. I know we need to take this back inside, preferably to the bedroom. Well, most definitely to the bedroom, and behind a securely closed door. He starts to get up, but I shake my head at him and push him back down. He keeps forgetting that this game isn’t yet over.
What was my big moment when I so skillfully ripped your heart out and ran off with it? I receive an irritated groan from him. I tell, you tell. That’s the deal.
Fine, he relents and reaches for my hands in a desperate attempt to keep me from touching him anywhere below the waistline. His fingers lace with mine, and he brings one hand up to his lips, placing a tender kiss against the back.
I think it was somewhere between ‘ your mother was always nice to me’ and ‘ I loved Lilly’. My hormone struck teenage brain checked out completely when you almost started to cry. It was such a revelation. Veronica Mars indeed had feelings.
It’s all about keeping up appearances, I quip.
And that’s exactly why no one will ever play poker with you again.
C’mon, I’m a pro. Take me to Vegas, put me with the high rollers, and this poker face here, I airdraw a circle around my face with my finger, will getcha all you want.
Glad we got that covered, he laughs.
He picks up his Scotch and takes one big gulp, emptying the glass in one go. He then flashes me a devilishly wicked smile as his free hand slips around my waist, dips into my pants and sprawls out on my butt, giving it a light squeeze. He winks at me as he jerks me closer, then narrows in on me before his lips come crashing down on mine.
I can hear the tumbler clinking as it's dropped onto the floorboards just before his hand finds its way to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss. I can still taste the Scotch on his lips, and I can’t stop myself licking off the remnants, savoring the mix of Logan and Scotch. This most definitely means game over and I can finally claim my well-deserved prize – that cuddle fuck he stills owes me. I’ve earned it fair and square.
Bed? Logan rasps as he pulls back just enough, his lips barely brushing against mine.
Who’s asking?
He flicks his eyes upwards, reflecting for a moment, before he says, Dr. Jekyll has left the building.
Well, then, Mr. Hyde – bed?