Chp. 1 – Logan's Exposition
Slumped in one of the cushy leather office chairs they keep for exclusive use in the executive conference room, Logan Echolls fidgets absently and stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. He fusses with the crease of his trousers and unbuttons and then rebuttons his suit jacket, twice, just to have something to do. He pushes the lever hidden underneath his seat and suddenly drops a foot or so with a thump, grinning like an idiot until he catches Maria, the office manager, rolling her eyes at him pointedly. His smile turns sheepish as he stands and releases the lever again to return the chair to proper table height.
Connor Larkin is talking emphatically into his cell phone, smiling and gesticulating. His voice is warm and pleasant, which is precisely why they made him the public face of DreamJob Productions, LEG. Larkin could convince butter not to melt in his mouth, a talent that Logan has always envied. His good looks and easy personability have made him a Hollywood favorite for more than fifteen years now, though he somehow maintains the youthful character that made him an It Boy in the first place. He is a first-rate business partner and a genuinely good guy, so Logan hates him just a little.
Luckily for Logan's self-esteem, for all his excellent qualities, Larkin has his flaws. He is good at the glad-handing and negotiations, but he suffers from terminal indecision. So either Logan or Casey Gant, the "G" in "LEG", always has to be there for the handholding the first time they work with a new vendor. Today they are looking for a new security firm after that unfortunate incident involving the paparazzi, a ham-handed bodyguard, and an aging diva's prize Pekinese.
Logan glances over the memo again. They are meeting one "V. Morrigan", the COO of God of War Personal Security Services. Logan snorts at the company name and dramatic stylized centurion medallion that makes up the logo. This is going to be an epic dick-measuring contest, which Logan doesn't mind. He's never lost one. His eyes stray to the clock again before catching Connor's eye and tapping his finger on the imaginary watch on his wrist. Connor nods and wraps up his conversation. "Maria, send in Mr. Morrigan please," Larkin says after ending his phone call with a flourish.
Maria nods and heads into the reception area and a few seconds later ushers in the tiniest, blondest security officer he's ever seen.
"Veronica MARS!" Connor grins as he barks out the name.
Logan's glad Connor has taken control of the situation because he's distracted by this omnipresent buzzing sound that might be his brain cells screaming.
"Mr. Echolls, Mr. Larkin" she smiles winningly, first holding out her hand to him. Logan takes it and clumsily pumps it once in the international symbol of neutral business before she turns and offers it to Connor who takes it with much more friendliness and grace.
"So, how are the abs? Not overly shiny?" she asks Larkin with a quirked eyebrow as he guffaws loudly, still holding her hand.
Logan blinks, his expression cloudy. Oh good. They have an in-joke.
"God," says Connor grinning broadly, "It's a small world, hunh Logan?"
"Yeah," he replies attempting a smile of his own. "Claustrophobically so." He's waiting for her patented offended look, but she just throws her head back and lets out a rich laugh, and the buzzing in his brain is just a touch quieter.
They settle down to bland pleasantries quickly, and Connor doesn't seem to need the hand holding today. He's the picture of affability and ease, smiling at Veronica and showing too many teeth. And he's off-again with that starlet he's been seeing for the last two years, so that's more good news. Jealousy swills around in Logan's stomach, competing with the buzzing in his brain for the title of least pleasant physical reaction to Veronica Mars. Those two are chatting like old friends- which they aren't- obliviously ignoring him. Logan is torn between gratitude he needn't take a more active role in the conversation and acute embarrassment at his obvious non-essentialness in this meeting.
He's the quiet one, the hardliner in this partnership, but he suddenly feels compelled to make small talk. "So, you dropped the Mars name? Papa can't be pleased." When he notices the trace of venom he injected into the question, totally unintentionally, he wants to cut out his own tongue. Something about her makes him break out in snark, and he can't seem to control it.
But she replies with smiling candor, completely unfazed, "Well, Mars is a bit notorious. Bad for business, and Dad gets that. And besides, I sneaked it in there. The God of War! So butch," she says with a kittenish moue as Larkin laughs again.
His laugh bounces around the room like a friendly animal. Now Logan wants to cut out Connor's tongue.
Logan is studiously silent through the rest of the meeting, smiling absently, speaking only when spoken to and making only the blandest comments. Finally, the God of War security team has been interviewed as thoroughly as Logan can stand. It's handshakes all around, and Logan walks to the door as quickly as is humanly possible while still allowing him to claim he didn't run from her presence.
He likes to wander the studio lot before he heads home. It's a bit "master-of-all-he-surveys", but he chooses to believe that it keeps him grounded. In touch with the little people. And for the most part, it seems to work. He is very much regarded as a benevolent dictator, and he is allowed an air of camaraderie with the grips and cantina staff that usually thrills his A-lister heart. Tonight, he's a little too preoccupied to play the part to the hilt. He smiles inattentively at everyone who calls his name, shuffling through the back alleyways between the soundstages with his hands in his pockets.
He'd never intended to get into movies. He'd planned to stay far, far away from that particular poisoned well. When he'd transferred to USC from Hearst abruptly the spring of freshman year, he'd suddenly been faced with way too much time to think. He'd settled down into academic excellence just to give himself something to do other than thinking about her. As the heir of a vast fortune he was burning through at a ridiculous rate, he decided a business degree would be the best use of his tuition. At least he'd be able to tell who was screwing him and for how much.
That summer, Trina had finally managed to lock down the particulars on The Aaron Echolls Story and begged him to help finance the thing. He'd refused her flat out, repeatedly, but ultimately she wore him down. She was his sister, and she'd been there before it all went to hell. He was running out of people he could say that about. And perhaps most importantly, she'd never felt sorry for him. While that may have made her unobservant, if not outright blind, it also made her unique in his private circle. That uncalculated insouciance, that talent for just being the bitchy older sister, a piece of the normal family life promised by sitcoms, well… That was a precious commodity indeed. So he signed on as an executive producer.
It was a piece of shit, The Aaron Echolls Story, and for the most part he was happy to wash his hands of it. If Trina and Jurgen, the artfully inept Eastern European director, wanted to paint memories of Aaron both misty and water-colored that was fine with Logan. He read the script with supreme disinterest. That is until he hit the third act, and they introduced a certain tiny blonde villainess.
Suddenly, he had a lot of problems with the script. He was suggesting all kinds of changes, punching-up the dialogue, and blocking out an alternate ending when Jurgen ejected him from the set entirely. He may have been a bit drunk when he called out the head writer as a "hemorrhoidal parasitic twin feeding off the dead." That was when Harry Liscombe, veteran studio exec, pulled him aside and explained that "executive producer" meant thank you for your input and we'll call you at awards time.
Still, Harry went to the mat for Logan's improved dialogue, and while the audience was never in doubt of Aaron's ultimate innocence, the tiny blonde villainess was a much deeper and more interesting character by the time the picture wrapped. Liscombe told Logan he had a real eye, and he encouraged the boy to take some screenwriting courses in addition to his dry-as-dust business classes. And to cut back on the drinking. The stars could get away with just about anything, but nobody was going to put up with a shit-faced line producer. He spent that summer, and every subsequent summer for the next three years, working a number of Harry's films in positions from PA to full-fledged, "above-the-line with a capital P" producer.
Already accustomed to pushing himself relentlessly to avoid painful, idle imaginings, Logan got permission to extend his maximum credit load and graduated a full year early. By the time he graduated, Logan had augmented his transcript with a BA in film producing in addition to his BS in business administration. Six months after he got his MBA, Harry made him junior VP of Development for the studio's art house imprint. He was a permanent fixture at Harry's for Sunday dinner where he helped Mona, Harry's wife, perfect her already flawless spaghetti sauce.
Three years later, Harry was dead at seventy-five of a heart attack. In the hospital, Harry had made Logan promise he'd tell everybody that the old man had gone out with a bang, snorting rails off the stomach of a former Pussycat Doll. Logan had laughed and laughed until the sound spontaneously morphed into sobs, and Harry's hand went slack in his own.
Harry had put Logan in charge of Mona's trust and turned over a controlling interest in the studio to Logan. The smart move was to finagle this into a board position or even a vice presidency, but Logan's meteoric rise hadn't made him any friends among the other execs, and he was tired of the politics. This was the position he found himself in when he ran into Connor at some tired after-hours club.
Almost a decade into his career, Connor was looking for a little more control in his projects. A few more Oscar nods and a few less stunts requiring him to wear a harness that forcibly divested him of his testicles. When Logan ran into Casey Gant over the novelization of a prospective summer blockbuster, the stars had aligned. Connor's star cache, Gant Publishing's extensive catalog of optioned properties, and Logan's wunderkind production skills had made them instant media darlings, but it was the 125 million their first picture did opening weekend that made them Hollywood fixtures.
And now, ten years since he left Neptune, he is the head of a hugely successful studio. He is one of the most powerful and influential people in an already celebrity-spangled industry. His own work has, to a significant degree, eclipsed his father's. He's broken big stars and been designated a kingmaker. He built one of the highest grossing animated franchises of the last twenty years. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
And what's he doing right now? Well, right this second he's hiding in an empty wardrobe trailer because his ex-girlfriend had the temerity to wander back into his orbit.
Sitting on the built-in banquette with his head in his hands, he gives himself a forceful shake. This is stupid. It's not like he thought she stopped existing when he couldn't see her. He is not, despite all indications to the contrary, an emotional infant. He straightens himself, smooths the gentle creases out of his bespoke trousers, and opens the squeaky trailer door with a little more force than strictly necessary. With no weight to slow it's trajectory, the door slaps forcefully against the cheap siding and makes a distractingly loud, brittle sound. He glances around to see if anyone caught his performance, but he is blessedly alone, and he jumps down and heads back to the office.
He stops in the cantina for a cup of the ironically bad institutional coffee and walks past reception smiling, in a carefully friendly-but-not-sexually-predatorily sort of way, at the vapidly pretty blonde seated behind the high desk. She's now going by something ridiculous like SinDee Star, undoubtedly suggested by her shyster agent. He knows she's a struggling actress because, first of all, she's a receptionist in LA, and secondly, every time she delivers his messages he's treated to what they would sound like as a dramatic monologue. She kind of reminds him of Trina, and this has given him extra reserves of patience heretofore untapped.
He's winding his way back to his office when a triumphant scream pierces the air. Somewhere, there is a small child, very, VERY proud of herself. The onsite daycare was originally a somewhat grudging concession to the parents on staff, but it has already paid for itself many times over as a choice morsel in the benefits package. And he gets to be one of those loving, proletariat-embracing bosses who's all about balancing work and family. So it's win-win.
He's weighing the cost/benefit of soundproofing the daycare when he hears her voice ring out, weary but amused, "That'll be mine."
He turns the corner just as Veronica receives the little blonde into her arms. She's gorgeous, this child, and not in the every-baby-is-beautiful way. Her blonde-white hair is kept short and wraps around the contours of her face in messy curls, and she has these huge, intensely hazel eyes. She looks about three though Logan is not good at guessing the age of children, as it's not a skill there was any pressing need to hone.
Veronica turns and stops abruptly when she sees him.
"Oh hey, Logan," she says, smiling and hefting the little girl up onto her hip in a practiced fashion, "This is Emma. Piz's daughter."
The buzzing is back again, louder this time, angry.
"Emma, this is Logan. He's a friend of Daddy's and mine from college." Emma turns her face into Veronica's neck, suddenly shy. Veronica stage whispers to the little girl in her arms, "He made MagicSuperPandaBot 3000," and makes an exaggerated goggling face at Emma who suddenly turns away from her to give Logan an awed, appraising look. "It's our FAVORITE," Veronica says, maintaining the impressed tone and turning her goggling expression to Logan before letting it collapse into a conspiratorial smile.
"It's always nice to meet a fan," he tells Emma, holding out his hand to her.
She takes his index and pointer fingers into her small grip and shakes those two finger of his hand very solemnly, nodding. It's enchanting. He's enchanted. Veronica smiles even bigger, and nuzzles her nose into Emma's ear setting the little one into peals of ticklish laughter.
"Well, we need to be getting home," she says her face turned back to the baby, "Time for dinner, hunh?" Emma nods emphatically and wraps her arms around Veronica's neck tightly.
"It was really good to see you, Logan," Veronica says, her voice faintly choked by Emma's grip, as she starts to walk backwards down the hallway, her body and Emma's still slightly canted in his direction. "Can you wave bye?" she asks Emma as both of the blondes begin to wave at him. "Keep up the good work! More SuperPandaBot!" Veronica calls down the hallway with a chuckle as she pushes against the release bar with the small of her back and steps out into the failing evening light.
He waves until they turn away from the door and begin to walk across the parking lot. Then he stalks upstairs to his office, takes off his jacket, and throws it over the back of his desk chair. He walks over to the wet bar against the wall and pours himself a glass of something congratulatory and expensive a director gave him a few years earlier.
He hasn't done much drinking since he left Neptune- there just wasn't time, and Harry had been right about the expectation of sobriety when millions of dollars were involved- but he feels he's earned this one.
Logan never wanted children. Never. There was nothing worth passing on in the way of genetics in either the Echolls or Lester lines, and he could never be sure- absolutely sure- that he wouldn't turn out just like his father. Just like his grandfather.
It had taken him trips to three separate doctors to find one willing to do the procedure on a kid barely out of his teens, but he'd had a vasectomy at the tender age of twenty-one after a busted condom and pregnancy scare with a starlet on a one night stand. Now, seeing Veronica's baby, he's regretting… Well, so many things.
Piz. He can't believe she's still with Piz. He'd always seemed like a placeholder. Soft and stable and undemanding; Duncan 2.0, except without the exciting incest and rage epilepsy storylines. When he'd jumped ship and enrolled at USC, he'd known that it was over for him and Veronica. She was never going to forgive him for Madison, and he was going to drown by degrees in her condemnation if he didn't get gone yesterday. He just hadn't thought that meant Piz forever and always.
When he beat Piz up, he really did think it was The Right Decision. Granted, his logic circuits had a tendency to short out when he got that blindingly wrathful, but this seemed like a fairly simple equation. Piz hurt Veronica, ergo, Piz must be hurt in turn.
So when it came out that Piz wasn't the video voyeur, of course he'd felt bad. Because he beat up the wrong guy, yes, but mostly because he'd managed to push Piz even more into her arms. Because now she HAD to stay with him, had to prove to herself- to everyone- that she didn't consistently make the same bad choices. That she made new and different bad choices every time.
And that's what he was. The bad choice. She'd made that abundantly clear when she showed up at the door of his suite the evening after the cafeteria incident with Gory.
He'd felt electric all afternoon. He replayed the way his fist connected with Gory's face over and over again each time getting the same epinephrine high. And the way she'd looked at him, that barely there quirk in the corner of her mouth... She knew it to, couldn't deny it now. They belonged together; no one was ever going to get her the way he did.
So when she knocked on his door, he wasn't surprised. He'd been waiting for this. She was going to yell, and scream, and curse him, and then they were going to have angry, mind-bending sex. And when she woke up in the morning, she was going to try to run and he was going to make love to her until she was boneless and couldn't move. And then he was going to tell her he loved her, that he couldn't live without her, and that he wasn't going to let her leave until she told him how she felt, definitively, one way or the other. And it had gone pretty much exactly like that…
He arrived at the door shirtless and rubbing a towel through his hair, having just stepped out of the shower. He hadn't wanted to wash off Gory's blood until the last possible second, wanted to stay wrapped in that moment as though the Russian's blood was a totem, a charm that made him stronger.
She'd stood in the doorway with that desolate thousand yard stare she could summon at a moment's notice. "What is this poor little rich boy, bullshit!?" she'd screamed as an opening salvo. "You never listen! Why couldn't you just leave it alone? I don't need you to protect me, not when you don't even have the good sense to protect yourself! They're going to kill you Logan; don't think for a second this is something you can talk your way out of."
When she paused for breath, he leapt in crushing her lips with his own. He felt the soft skin of her lower lip split against the enamel of her teeth, but he couldn't find in himself to care, the soft copper taste of her blood on his tongue. And she was no less eager to spill his blood, raking her blunt nails over the taut skin of his biceps and leaving little pink furrows as he held her captive against the wall.
He'd planned for her to find him this way, half naked and flushed with his own triumph, and it was plain that she'd had similar designs as evidenced by the short skirt she had worn now creeping obscenely up her thighs as he pressed himself between her legs. He pulled back from her mouth as white dots began to dance in his vision, fuzzing out in a lack of oxygen. "You're going to die," she hissed out between clenched teeth tinged faintly pink by the wash of blood and saliva. "Yeah, some day," he growled back before claiming her mouth again.
He shifted his weight so that she was pinned against the wall by one broad shoulder, giving him the freedom of his left hand back as he reached down to cup the slick heat of her center through the material of her panties. He'd barely touched her, had barely stroked his finger with almost imperceptible pressure against her slit and already the thin cotton was soaked with the proof of her arousal.
His laugh was harsh and guttural, "I knew it. It's like I told Duncan. You get off on this," and he snickered for a brief second before hearing a growl from her throat that didn't sound human. He lost all track of his breathing as her fingers closed around his cock just a degree tighter than was strictly pleasurable, fisting him sharply.
He pulled the crotch of her panties brusquely aside and pressed one long digit into her, then two, pumping them into her and then curling them back towards himself, beckoning her orgasm to him as he rubbed her clit with his thumb. She let go of him, her hand sliding from his boxers as her head fell back against the wall with a sharp thump, the first wave overtaking her.
Kicking off her shoes, she climbed his legs, bracing herself against the wall, and pressing her sharp heels into the soft flesh behind his knees. She almost took him down, his knee buckling just slightly before he locked himself in place. She'd stopped her advance as she bound her legs around his hips, having won the high ground.
She wrapped her hands into the curve of his neck and forced his mouth to hers, her fingers pulling the skin and hair at the base of his skull painfully taut. He slid his hands under her tee shirt, his stabbing fingers bumping over the expanse of her ribs with enough force to bruise her too thin skin, before he pulled the garment off entirely.
He pushed her bra up roughly, and her small breasts were forced out from beneath the cups as the thin material came to rest higher on her chest, the sharp cloth points of the underwire jabbing painfully into her clavicle. He took one nipple into his mouth and bit down, not gently, not playfully. Veronica whimpered and twisted her heels into the small of his back, forcing the muscle into a thick knot that burned painfully. Using the leverage of her heels, she ground against his pelvis relentlessly, feeling his hard-on pulse against her.
Logan pulled back from her, his lip curled into a fierce sneer as twin flowers of pain blossomed in his lower back. Veronica panted sharply, her eyes narrowed and dangerously bright. He wrapped one arm fully around her waist, the tips of his fingers burrowing uncomfortably into her kidney, and strode towards the bedroom, slapping the heavy door open with the flat of his free hand. The sound was almost impossibly loud, startling both of them, and for a split second they stilled against each other. Then he saw that irrepressible defiance reappear in her eyes, and, resolved, he fell down with her onto the thick coverlet of his bed, allowing the weight of his hips to pin and immobilize her.
Veronica struggled underneath him, twisting her hips trying to flip him off her, but was rewarded for her pains only with a guttural moan from Logan. Changing tactics, Veronica began to press at the elastic waistbands of his pants and boxers, forcing them down his legs with her heels and insinuating one hand into the hot, tight space between their bodies. She stroked him hard, palming him roughly, as all the air rushed out of his lungs in a prolonged hiss. He grabbed her wandering hands and secured both arms over her head, holding both wrists in the firm grip of his much larger hand.
Logan pulled back and watched her, stretched out beneath him. She was still pushing, grinding against him impatiently, her eyes flashing between frustration and smug satisfaction at the man towering over, completely in her thrall. His mouth fell to hers as he thrust into her, as always impossibly hot and tight.
It seemed like a lifetime since he'd been allowed into her body, not a month, and he had no faith in his ability to survive without this. He leaned into a kiss ending in a clash of teeth, Veronica hanging bulldog-like from his lower lip. Logan used his free hand to stroke her clit, and she finally released her lock jaw as her body arched, every muscle contracting beneath him. The sudden change in angle brought him to his own orgasm, and he collapsed onto her heavily.
"I hate you," she said, her voice muffled and conversational.
"It must be an even-numbered day, then," was his curt reply.
He was too tired, too sore, too drained to move, and it was his fervent hope she felt the same, but just in case she was planning on leaving, he rolled off her by the smallest possible margin, threw a weighty arm over her, and promptly fell into heavy pantomime sleep. She struggled halfheartedly for a second or two before she allowed herself a deeply annoyed sigh and tucked herself under his chin. He smiled as her breathing slowed and shallowed in sleep.
He dozed fitfully, trying to refuse himself sleep, because he couldn't risk her leaving yet. This was only phase one of the plan. Still, for all his good intentions, it was her early morning shifting that awoke him, suddenly anxious. But she wasn't leaving, not yet.
"Hi," he whispered into her hair, stroking a finger along her cheek.
"Hi," she returned looking up at him, not smiling, but not running either.
"I love you," he said, "and I don't need you to say it back," he stated quickly seeing the panicky look that passed over her face. She seemed to relax, although wariness was certainly the most obvious emotion in her repertoire that morning. "But I do need to know, if it's… Should I… Are you ever coming back?"
She turned her head, let her bangs fall into her eyes, and watched the shimmery swimming image of him in her peripheral vision.
"Logan, I…"
Her phone rang, and she leapt up began digging through her discarded clothes, through her bag as though missing this phone call would mean the end of the world. She located the phone at the bottom of the pile and clung to it like it was an electronic beacon on a life raft.
"I'll be back. Soon. I have to deal with this. I'll be back," she said, gesturing with her phone to the door. She smiled, reassuringly, as she ran to the door and glanced at him, "I'll call you."
He smiled back and waved her on, leaning on his elbows over the back of the couch. As the door closed behind her, he stood and headed back into the bedroom to pack up his things. He had his answer. And it wasn't going to get any more definitive.
Everything he owned, two years of living in the Neptune Grand, and he was able to fit all his belongings into a cardboard box which had once contained mozzarella sticks, donated by the kitchen.
Two years of living in Neptune, a town he fucking hated. Two years in a goddamn hotel living like a fucking gypsy in the hopes that she'd make up her goddamn mind and pick HIM.
Well she had picked. And he was heading north on the Pacific Coast Highway.
He hadn't been back to Neptune after that. Although, apparently, she hadn't made it her home too much longer either. He'd seen Dick in LA or Vegas, and there was really no one else in town he owed any loyalty to. That realization had been simultaneously freeing and incredibly pathetic.
But this is too much to ask of him, this sudden re-insertion of Veronica Mars into his life. And Piz. And sweet god their baby. Fuck. They'd been doing just peachy on opposite sides of the continent.
After a long night of trying to come up with legitimate reasons not to hire God of War Security, Logan decides just to throw his weight around.
"I don't know if they're the right fit for this company," Logan says, his voice placid as he leans back in his chair and tents his fingers. He calmly regards Casey and Connor. "The staff would be all new in the West Coast location. She has no experience with LA events. It'll be a clusterfuck."
Connor waves off Logan's objections, "Psh. What are you talking about, she's fantastic!? She did the security for the premiere of that werewolf space opera POS I was in two years ago. In fact, she's been doing all my East coast privates security for the last five years. And despite her New York area code, she has south Cali connections all over!" Connor goes a little quiet, his tone understanding and a little beseeching.
Logan's hackles are immediately raised.
"I know you guys used to be friends when you were kids. I don't know what happened, but I think it's time you gave her another chance. She found Lilly's killer! Isn't that enough bona fides right there? I mean, it's been almost fifteen years, let it…"
Logan breaks in, "Former childhood friends? No. Dude, we dated. For like two years."
Connor's eyes round a little. "Oh. Wow. She never said anything…"
Hmmm. What an odd little stabbing sensation, Logan thought as he struggled to keep from fidgeting.
"…Still, we're all grown-ups, right? It's been years. And we can't eliminate everyone you've 'dated' from the hiring pool, or we'd never be able to make another movie."
Done with appeals to common sense, Logan tries another approach. "She's 95 pounds soaking wet! What's she gonna do, snark some gun-toting maniac to death!?"
Connor spreads his arms in an expansive gesture, "First off, at least in New York she has big guys who do all the actual 'threats of violence,' and secondly, you are completely underestimating her. I once saw her take down this asshole with a leg sweep before she tasered the FUCK out of him. I'm not gonna lie. It was pretty hot." His eyes go slightly dreamy.
Logan tastes just a little bit of bile at the back of his throat.
Casey nods firmly, "I'm with Connor on this. The reputation of her company precedes her. And Veronica is sharp as hell. That MoonCalf collective thing was not my finest moment, but I got some real good out of it. I trust Veronica's judgment. Still feel like an asshole for acting like that at my grandmother's funeral, but I had to show my parents I understood my reprogramming… Maybe I take this opportunity to apologize…" Casey's eyes seem to drift into memory.
"Gentlemen!" Logan shouts, "The question is not whether or not you want to pork my ex, the question is whether or not she can run security at the fucking premiere!"
Connor looks bemused but there is a wicked glint in Casey's eye.
"Fine, let's take a vote," Casey shrugs unconcernedly.
"Great. Nay," Logan spits out.
"Aye," say both his partners in unison.
He just glares at them stonily, "It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried. Winston Churchill."
"Hey," says Casey brightly, "Logan's back!"
A/N: So there it is, the first time I have ever shared smut I have written. Yeeeeesh. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I'd love a nice review to bolster my confidence. Of course, if you didn't like it, let me know that too so I can try to improve! Con-crit is always greatly appreciated.