"That'll be twelve dollars."
One hand on her Tequila Sunrise, she uses the other to remove fifteen dollars from her black leather wallet and tosses them on the bar.
"Don't worry about it," the bartender – traditional dark vest and all – pushes back the money with a wink. "It's on the house."
She lifts an eyebrow. She's been here way too many times, often in outfits scantier than her current electric blue ensemble. Simple sleeveless dresses are almost a grandmotherly crime in California. If the house had any intentions at all, it wouldn't have waited till today.
Instantly, her fingers clutch the surprised bartender's wrist. He almost drops a glass.
"Listen, Ratner," she hisses. "don't try to sell me any of that nonsense. You know I can send your parents a copy of all your recent credit card splurges at the bat of an eye. Or wait – is that your dad's name on the card?"
He winces, and she smirks.
"Who is it?" she barks.
The bartender subtly nudges his head to the right. Her eyes blaze down the length of the bar.
At the tail end, in a dark blue dress shirt and an army-short haircut, the tall man leans back with a smirk of his own – his face openly indicating his witness of her recent exchange with Ratner. He lifts a glass in her direction.
He knew she would figure it out. And that ability to be predicted – particularly by a stranger – bothers her to no end.
She lets go of Ratner. Then slipping off her bar stool, cocktail in hand, she saunters over to her stalker for the night. Flirt, charm, and shoot him down – it's always worked before.
"You're welcome," his voice – calm and smooth – cuts her off right when she reaches him.
"Excuse me?"
"You're welcome," he repeats, cocky smirk in place.
She almost laughs at his shamelessness. "And who said I was about to thank you?"
"Nobody." He leans forward ever-so-slightly. "But now you want to talk to me rather than keep watching him."
Her eyes dart to the direction he just indicated. She catches a glimpse of her target through the oriental carvings, dancing the night away. He's a party boy – that's obvious enough; but he hasn't exactly cheated on her client.
"Still no money shot?"
Her eyes jump back to the man beside her. "Do you see a camera anywhere?"
His long fingers dart up to tap the edge of her glasses. "Here."
She swallows. "What makes you so sure?"
"You're young, you're hot, and you're single." He points at her empty ring finger. "No one with those credentials aims for a Sarah Palin look during a weekend at the 09er."
She curses him silently. Should've gone with the necklace cam.
"Veronica Mars, private eye." She sticks out her hand, opting for professional over friendly. He shakes her hand politely.
"Logan Echolls. Nice to meet you." He flashes a disarming smile.
She smiles back instinctively before she feels a vibration in her purse.
"Excuse me," she mutters and pulls out her phone.
Caitlin Ford: Any news?
These heiresses can be ridiculously impatient.
She looks up again at her companion – his face all interest. Can't deny he's far more intriguing than the mop of hair currently bobbing on the dance floor.
She shakes her head. Since when did she become so easily distracted?
"Mr. Friedrich is not a cheater." His voice cuts through her thoughts. She perks up – he knows the guy?
Her companion – or Logan, rather – turns his body slightly towards the dance floor. "You see that?" He gestures towards the latest rich-kid fiancé she's following. "He hasn't bought a single drink all night. He dances rather than dines; he snags the men's fries and not the girls' butts."
He leans closer to her. "He's not a cheater. But he's definitely – "
"Broke," she interrupts and concludes.
He nods.
How did she not notice that before?
"So I suppose your client can rest easy," he speaks casually.
"Only if she wants to be married for her money."
Logan looks at her in surprise.
Veronica shrugs. "Not only married women hire private eyes, you know."
Logan nods. "Guess it's smart to screen first, marry later."
"Yup." She snaps playfully.
They fall silent for a moment.
"Why do you think he'd even come here if he's broke?" She asks openly, her eyes still on Sean.
"Well, contrary to popular notion, men care very much about the image they present."
"And that's why they come to a club without their fiancée?"
"Sometimes," he pronounces matter-of-factly. "But that's definitely why they want to mingle with people who will make them appear to have more than they actually do."
"Wealth by association."
"Exactly."
She turns her head to face him, her mind racing to catalogue her perceptive new companion. Is he working the same trade, picking her up, or merely killing time?
"Nothing?"
"Huh?" She blurts involuntarily.
"You're analyzing me, and you've got nothing." He states with prideful confidence. His brown eyes look straight into hers.
She licks her lips, annoyed at his successful prediction – again.
"If you'll buy me another drink, maybe I'll tell you."
He grins. "Deal."
She angles herself strategically under the warm, entangled lights of the 09er. She slides a hand behind her ear to steady the minuscule camera lens. She waits for him to kiss the lady - either one would do - on his arms. He kisses both. She collects her shots and inches away satisfied.
Strolling towards the bar for a well-deserved drink, she realizes, for once, that she's actually happy to find her assignment cheating. She recalls the garish nail polish on her latest client's fingertips as her hand ran up and down her over-enhanced cleavage. "Hotshot superstar Connor Larkin marries model Madison Sinclair. Can't you just see it?!" The client gushed in her office yesterday, complete with sparkly eyes. She so doesn't deserve him.
Yes, Veronica Mars has a celebrity crush on Connor and his impeccable abs. So what? Sue her.
She gobbles down the glass of ice water in her hand.
"Didn't know you changed your job."
She smirks in recognition of that baritone before whipping around. "Logan."
"Veronica."
He walks over to lean against the bar beside her. She angles to face him. "You were saying?"
He points at the technology imbedded in her earring. "The paparazzi has levelled up, I see."
She slams her glass on the marble, offended. "I am not paparazzi."
Logan shrugs. "Care to explain why you're stalking Connor?"
"You know my job, Logan."
"Or so I thought."
"I never lied to you," she seethes.
"Then someone else must have lied to you." He turns towards Connor. She follows his gaze. The two ladies dancing beside the action earlier have been replaced with fresh faces. He has an arm around each, freely enjoying their gyration against him. Veronica squints. Connor is swaying in perfect rhythm to the music - not stumbling nor mumbling. His behavior, for all intents and purposes, is sober and deliberate.
"He's doing this on purpose?"
"Maybe."
She faces him again, annoyed. "What are you trying to imply anyway?"
The cocky smirk returns.
He doesn't answer her. Instead, he hails down a waiter, passes him a note, and stares at Connor Larkin. She looks along with him.
A minute later, the actor gets the note, looks at it, smiles, and walks straight towards them.
Veronica freezes. What is he -
"Logan!" Connor greets him with a friendly slap on the back. Logan nods upwards in the universal male code for 'hello.' Then he turns and winks at her.
Because, of course, he's figured out her little celebrity crush too.
"Connor, meet Veronica." Logan gestures with his hand. "Veronica, my friend, Connor."
She spares one last killer stare at Logan before turning to the actor. She accepts his handshake, willing herself not to tremble as his eyes deliver an obvious appraisal of her skin-tight red dress and its contents. "Hi, Connor. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you." His smile is charming, though his eyes blank. "Are you here with Logan?"
Her heart races. Did Connor Larkin just ask about her availability?
"She's yours for the taking, man," Logan speaks behind him. She glares at his knowing eyes.
Connor apparently misses the wordless communication occurring around him. "Ah, then. Could I buy you a drink?"
Veronica blinks. Will she actually get to boast that Connor Larkin once bought her a drink? She hears someone clearing his throat. She sighs. What kind of private eye would she be?
"Thank you, Connor. I'm flattered. Another night, maybe." She smiles.
"Cool." He says, nonchalant. He turns to Logan. "See you later, man. Catch up with you before Cannes."
Logan nods, and they both watch him go. It takes a minute for the facts to sink in.
"He's single, isn't he?"
"Completely and utterly so," he replies.
Veronica sighs. "That girl - "
"Whether she's trying to get a private collection of photos of her idol or just plain delusional, I can't tell. But both are common in Hollywood."
"And you know all about Hollywood?" She rests back against the bar, resigned.
He shrugs. "I've been around."
The side of her mouth tilts up fractionally. "Should I be afraid?"
Their eyes meet.
"Maybe." He grins.
She pulls her pony tail a tad tighter and perks up like every overly-painted bar hostess. The fact that Mr. Gant and his buddies rented a private room forces her to be a little more - creative.
The sound of two dozen men shouting "Cheers!" assaults her senses the moment she enters the dimly-lit room. She scans the faces. For a group of people who are two hours into a bachelor party, the number of sober faces strike her as quite impressive.
"May I help you, miss?"
She looks up at the very, very tall person addressing her. Awkward haircut, broad shoulders, and childlike grin - it's him alright.
"Hi." She reaches out to shake his hand eagerly, practiced smile in place. "I'm Mary Beth from reception here. I have a brunette in the front door saying she was booked for this party. She's tall, curvy - wearing a nurse uniform?"
The seated members of the group roar in approval while the groom-to-be flushes to his roots.
"There must be a mistake," he stutters. "We didn't ask for - "
"Well, she's here, isn't she? Just let 'er in!," his best man hollers, drunken arms flailing.
Veronica smiles - all innocence. She stares at her prop clipboard. "She did indicate being here for the stag party of Mr. Casey Gant. Is that the wrong name?"
"Uhm, no, that's my name," the man in front of her stammers while plugging his hands in his pockets. "But I didn't ask for a, uhm, lady entertainer."
"No?" She blinks her eyes. "She sounded pretty sure."
"Let her in!" The best man renews his protests. "None of us will tell Susan."
Casey rolls his eyes at the crowd and turns back to Veronica.
"Whatever it was must've been a miscommunication." He leans forward and hands her fifty dollars in crisp, ten-dollar bills. "Please give this to her to make up for her wasted time. Thank you."
Veronica stares at the bills in her hands. She looks up. Do good men really still exist?
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, sir." She hands him back the bills. "I saw a few others eyeing her as it was. Sorry for the interruption."
She bows and slips out the door.
Two minutes later, she's gulping down a Bloody Mary, her elbows perched on all-too-familiar black marble.
"Care for company?"
She sighs. "Depends."
"I'll take that as an opening." He slips on the stool beside her.
She smiles sadly. For some reason, being alone tonight doesn't feel particularly appealing. "Nothing better to do?"
"An implication-laden question." He raises his glass with his non-answer.
She smiles before heaving a heavy sigh. "Do good men really exist?"
If he's surprised by the non-sequitur, he doesn't show it.
"Depends on your definition of 'good.'"
"I dunno - nice, faithful?"
"Does the opposite of what you expect of them?"
Her eyes jump up to his. An untapped tenderness flits through his gaze.
"Am I expecting too much?"
"I think you're expecting too little."
She furrows her brow. "Right, I am the lonely maiden at the bar who needs your pity and company because I expect too little of men?"
Logan smiles. "When you constantly expect the worst, how could you expect to get the best?"
She scoffs. "You think 'best' exists?"
"Different variations of it - yes."
She quirks a brow.
"There's no one-size-fits-all in love and life, Veronica. Every match is tailor-made." His eyes dart down to her lips. "And it's not always who we expect it to be."
She inhales slowly. "Yeah?"
"Yes," he responds, suddenly pulling away. "And for the record - "
"Yes?"
"It's not pity that's keeping me here."
A/N: Special thanks to irma66 for all her help. This should run for three chapters :) And I'm working on that last WFMF chapter...I promise. Please let me hear your thoughts!