THE OBLIVIOUS MODE
Chapter 1
"Sock, sock, where are you?" There's a stumble, a curse, and then a: "Stop grinning at me like that," he muttered. Marty's looking hopelessly ridiculous searching through his empty pants and I must say, desperate. "You could help," he accused. I was still lying prone, waiting.
My sleepy eyes stared at him, bemused. "It's on the table to your right." The happiness was transitory. "You're going to be late if you don't hurry."
His hand fumbled, putting his socks on. The grandfather clock chimed 8 times on the hour. "I hate that clock."
I grabbed his wrist and kissed it. "You need to go Marty."
"I don't want to." Lips brushed mine. "I want you." I shove. "Oh fine, be that way." A frown then another kiss and one more push. "I'm going, I'm going." He went.
I sighed and wrapped the blanket around me, smelling his earthy scent. I ought to get up. I ought to go check my messages. Today there might be a job for me. I needed the money, God knew that. If only I could get my lazy ass out of the bed and actually be falsely enthusiastic, then everything would be all right.
Squint. It's only 8:10. One more 30 minute nap and I'll get out of bed. My head's partially buried and my body's all ready to drift out when the avalanche of knocks came. It's enough noise that I wanted to mimic Marty and use curses in several different languages except that I only knew one.
"It's time to get up, Rory."
I groaned. Leave me alone. It's only 8:11.
"You've got ten messages."
Double groans and back popping.
"I've got black, black coffee just the way you like it."
I needed my caffeine fix.
"Your mobile's ringing."
It's too early I chanted, far too early to get up and out of bed into the shower then out and get into clothes and grab the coffee and check the messages and run off to work.
"I'm coming in if you don't come out."
He's going to see me semi-naked. Whoop-dee-doo. Been there, done that. Oh hell I bet he's going to come in and tickle me. I swung my legs over and planted my feet on the floor just as he walked in.
"Marty was here," he stated blandly, looking at the clothes strung all over the floor. I ought to be embarrassed. Really, I ought to. Logan might not be my real brother, but he's the closest thing to family that I've got left. Unfortunately, I can't manage to blush. But I can yawn. "He told me to tell you that he'd pick you up at 7 tonight for dinner."
His tone. It's acidic. "You don't like him."
"I don't have to like him. You do."
Point taken. "And I do."
Whatever expression was on his face was mute; I couldn't see a thing without my glasses. Knowing Logan, he's probably got that disgusted Huntzberger superiority on full blast. I reached for my glasses, deciding that I might as well get up since he wasn't going to let me sleep. He beat me to it, placing my Modo frames on for me.
"Better?" he inquired dryly, sounding like he needed some sweet water in him. "Now that you can see, would you like to get dressed and clean up so that you don't hurt my eyes and injure my nose?"
So I stunk and looked bad, brilliant. If I had been 18, I would have stuck my tongue out. I thought it better and more mature of me to merely pout. He laughed and his hand proceeded to mess my hair up. "You're not helping," I whined. "Now my hair's a mess."
Taking me by the hands, he pulled me up and propelled me into the bathroom. "Shower first, then wash your face and brush your teeth, and meet me in the kitchen in 15 minutes, okay?"
"Bah."
"Lovely."
Forehead kiss. Door slammed. I stared at the shower stall and contemplated actually listening to my bossy best friend. Covering my lower jaw, I breathed out and sniffed. Yes to foul, damn Logan. Might as well shower then scrub my teeth so minty clean that even he can't complain.
"Shit," I cursed. The water was cold.
-
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
Shaved and groomed, and frightfully well dressed. Logan was looking killer in Marc Jacobs. "Morning," I grumbled. I, on the other hand, didn't even want to look at myself. What was this rag I was wearing? The name? What name?
"You look nice," he commented. I did a double-take on him suspiciously. Logan's Mr. Snazzy. This rag I was wearing would dement his ego to wear. It was shapeless to the point of unisex. "Here's your coffee."
"Thank you." I cradled the cup. Hot, strong, black coffee was 8:30's salvation. "When are you leaving?"
"Soon," he answered. "Are you working today or writing?"
The simple gist: (1) working meant running around doing odd jobs for strange people that paid me to put up with their inanities and (2) writing was my real love which unfortunately did not pay at all and only seemed to eat up what money I did earn. Dubiously, I glared at the beeping Samsung. Ten messages. There had to be a viable job out of them that I could stand to stomach.
"Working."
"Oh."
I chugged the coffee. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He waved his hand carelessly. "If you were staying home, I'd drop you off something to eat." I stared at him blankly. "There's nothing in the pantry," he explained. "You'd starve if you stayed home."
"My, aren't you the example of kindness and generosity?"
"I care," he stated while refilling my cup. "You'll ring me and let me know when to expect you back tonight, all right?"
Logan was my damn keeper. "All right," I agreed. He smiled and it was worth it. He was gorgeous when he smiled. "Are you going to cook tonight?" I tried not to sound alarmed, but if he was cooking I wasn't coming home.
"Aren't you eating with Marty tonight?" he inquired instead, deliberately ignoring the carefully hidden insult to his lack of cooking skills. "Surely he must be cooking you something spectacular in his humble abode."
"He's got a gig in Boston," I explained. "He won't be back until the day after tomorrow."
"Long gig."
"He's just playing at a few clubs around the area."
Out of the blue: "I preferred Tristan."
"Well," I bit a lip, "he and I aren't like that, and we never were really like that. Just friends, good friends. A few kisses on the cheek don't mean anything." Before he could ask something I don't want to answer, I suggested, "We should go eat out at O'Rourke's tonight."
It was his favorite place to eat, but we normally went with the places I liked to eat. More of the tasty, fatty fast food variety. He raised an eyebrow.
"You're being awfully nice," he phrased carefully. "Do you need something?"
I frowned.
"Well," he murmured, "it's not like you to offer to eat somewhere you don't really like even if it is for my benefit."
Unfortunately, what he said was true. "I don't know," I mumbled, feeling foolish. "I thought it might be nice to go out and eat and I don't know, talk and stuff. We haven't done much together recently."
"No," he agreed. "You're too busy sexing up Marty."
He really did not like my boyfriend. "Do you want to go or not?"
He looked at me, really looked at me. "Do you want me to go?"
"OF COURSE!"
There was a grin. "Okay then."
Logan was absolutely infuriating. "If I knew I was going to be interrogated asking you to dinner, I wouldn't have asked," I muttered. I took the buttered bread he handed to me and took a huge bite. "Yum!"
"You're easy to please."
The clock read 8:45. "Don't you have to leave?"
He looked and sighed. "I do." Leaning over, I knew what he wanted. I kissed both of his cheeks soundly; I made those childish smacking noises that made him wiggle his nose in unfailing repugnance. "Call me."
"I said I would," I poked his chest, "and I will. I'll be back before the reservations. Oh and before you leave, do you want to call them or do you want me to?"
"I'd better call." It'd be impossible to get reservations this late without him making his impossible Huntzberger demands. He glanced again. "I'd better get going. Talk to you later?"
Another unsubtle hint to call. "Yes. Now go!"
Logan was gone and I stared at my once again buzzing mobile. Message time. I stuffed the rest of my morning deliverance in and took the Samsung gingerly. Flipping it open I dialed up my voicemail.
"You have reached the voicemail of... Rory Gilmore. After the beep, you may leave a..." I pushed pound. "Welcome to your voicemail, please enter your pin code followed by the pound button." I dialed the numbers. "Hello, you have ten new voice messages. Press one to listen to the first of your new messages." I pressed one. "Your first message is: Hello Rory, it's Paris. It's 7:45 pm. If you have time tomorrow call before noon. Basically it's running around doing some organizing and whatnot. You know the number."
Paris Gellar-Richmond. Rich was a clever part of her surname and it suited her aptly. Unlike the typical trophy wife, Paris had brains. It was unfortunate she had the tendency to overdo everything. And it was never perfect until it was absolutely perfect.. However, she was smarter than the average multi-millionaire's wife, and it wasn't that distasteful. Also, she paid well.
I jotted her name. Working for her today was a viable option.
"Press seven to delete..." I pushed seven. "Your second message: ANNNNT ANNNNT ANNNNT..." Ear trauma. The atrocious hang-up sound. It must have been Missus Rich calling again to make sure that I hadn't just missed the call and decided not to call back. Impatient witch. "Press..." Seven. The third and fourth messages were the same as the second and I was starting to want to cross Paris off my possible to-do list.
"Your fifth message is," I braced myself, "Hi Rory, Louise Price here. If you're not busy sometime this afternoon, our nanny decided to be sick and I don't have anyone to pick the kids up from school and carpool them to lacrosse practice. If you can do it, that's great and if you can't, do you know anyone that could? Call me back. 731-456-2943."
Louise was a kid creating nut. She had five already and with the way her husband still looked at her, there were probably more on the way. It was rather sweet, but alarming too. There were enough little Prices running around in NYC as it was. It might be possible for me to take on Paris and Louise both, and if I did this week was saved.
Monday had started off slow. Tuesday had continued that rhythm. Wednesday had perked up and Thursday had been dismal. TGIF. I had to work. I listened to the 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th messages listlessly. One was a hypochondriac. Another was a shrew. The next had anxiety issues and was an obsessive compulsive cleaner. But the last one, Madeline was simply single. But compared to Louise and Paris, Madeline was easy to deal with. Too bad I had already promised to be at O'Rourke's with Logan.
I rang him up anyway. "Hi Madeline, it's Rory."
"Good morning. How are you?" came the polite, well-bred response.
"Not good," I responded honestly. "You?"
"Better if you can come and get some work done for me."
"I can, but..."
"That's never a good word, but."
"It isn't," I agreed. "I'd love to come to work for you..."
She inserted the, "But..." for me.
"I have dinner plans."
"I suspected, the hot blond you're living with?"
I choked on air, cleared my throat, and said, "But if it's possible, I could come early Saturday morning and get things done."
"You would? Could you?"
"I could if you wanted me to."
"Of course I do. My office's been a mess without you. I really ought to hire you full-time for me," she mused. "It's a pity I can't afford you all the time."
"A pity, so when would you like me to stop by tomorrow?"
"7?"
No out loud gasping. It was a successful attempt at squelching raspy throat noise. "I'll be there."
"I'll see you tomorrow then, and Rory?"
"Yes Madeline?"
"You're crazy."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Good day."
"Good-bye."
Now I only had to call Paris and Louise.
-
Author's Note: I realize this is very different from the GG-world, but that's what I intended. In this one, Rory wants to be a writer, which I don't think is such a stretch for her. The most important interactions are between Rory and Logan, and the other characters are very minor. I'll explain why Lorelai and her grandparents aren't in this later, but they aren't. However, Logan's parents will make a showing. Bah, so for a complete AU how did I do? Also I'll be yanking this off the web if there's not enough interest shown. Thanks for reading!
TBC (as soon as you review)