He hates the crappy cable channels on the hotel television. Two o'clock in the morning on a weeknight, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, and he keeps ending up on the channel playing That 70s Show.
The only good thing about it is that none of the characters remind him of Veronica.
When Logan answers the door, Gia is not so much standing as slumping against the frame, in a miniskirt so tight he almost finds it painful, and he wonders for the space of a moment if there was ever a time her father didn't lust after little boys alone.
"Hey."
She's more drunk than he is, which is almost impossible, and her eye makeup is caked on so thick that he can't even tell when her eyes are open, but he can see the faint lines where she's jammed her tight fists against her cheeks and dragged her knuckles down. Her sandals are dangling from a limp hand. She doesn't so much walk in as slide unevenly past when he stands aside.
"Hey."
Dick would joke that Logan can't keep his hands off the girls in his life, but one day there will be more than a vacant, half-approving look when he says it, and for that very reason Logan hasn't bothered to mention it to the guy who has been his new best friend ever since Duncan left, bequeathing him sometime rights to a girlfriend who never stopped loving him and a penthouse suite at the Grand. Gia slumps on the couch and her halter top slips up another inch, revealing a further swath of damp ivory.
"What are you doing?" Gia slurs, and Logan makes some vague gesture at the television set. The curly-haired guy wearing glasses is exasperated with the pouty brunette, and Logan fumbles his thumb over one small round mark, a circle of raised and smooth pale pink flesh on the inside of his elbow, out of sight.
"Nothing."
When she stares him down he gives in, and she tastes like vodka and the first time his father ever hit him.