"How is she not freezing?" Logan asked. His brown eyes were wide and full of amusement as he turned away from the alley. Rory loved his eyes; they were always so expressive.

"I'd guess that hottie is keeping her pretty warm with his hotness," she giggled. "Go Stephanie." At least someone was getting some. Rory couldn't remember the last time she'd seen any action…although the alcohol could be impairing her recall abilities at the moment. Even still, she was quite sure her love life had been non-existent since Mitchum. And she wasn't exactly looking back on those encounters fondly.

"We should probably give them some privacy," Logan suggested.

"Yeah," Rory agreed. She was happy her friend was having fun, but voyeurism wasn't really her thing. She turned away to head back towards the club, but the ground seemed to have other plans for her as it wobbled uneasily beneath her feet, knocking her off balance. Her heel slipped out from underneath, disrupting her—admittedly poor—center of gravity, and the world started rushing up to meet her.

She felt a pair of big, strong hands grab her around the torso, just under her arms, the heat of the fingers tingling through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. "Woah there, Cherry," Logan's deep, rich voice reverberated in her ear as he hoisted her back up until she was standing in his embrace. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a niggling voice was telling her to move, to step away, to distance. But her feet wouldn't listen.

"You called me Cherry," she whispered.

"I guess I did." He smiled down at her. A smile that made her stomach flutter and her heart glow. Not one of his smirks, but a full, open mouth smile that went to his cheeks and lit up his eyes.

"You have a nice smile."

The smile in question grew even bigger. "I do, do I?"

"Mmm, good teeth…" straight and white and perfect. "Beautiful lips…" The top one pulled taught, curling in a bit, but the bottom one remained full and plump, glistening with just a touch of moisture. She reached up, caressing her thumb over his mouth. "Soft."

"Must be the Chapstick," he whispered huskily, the sound of his voice making her shiver with desire. She wanted to feel those lips against hers. She pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Everything fell away; from the chill of the crisp winter air, to the sorrow and grief of the last year of her life. The only thing she felt in that moment was him. She felt the pressure of his lips and the rasp of the stubble that was still too fresh and too fair to be noticeable to anyone who was just looking at him. She felt the warmth of his hands radiating through her shirt as they moved off her sides and onto her back pulling her body into his. And she felt the press of the bulge growing harder against her stomach.

They stumbled backwards a few feet until she found herself sandwiched between him and the brick wall of the building. That was good; she could use all the support she could get to keep her legs from giving out completely. One of his hands was in her hair now, massaging at her scalp before grasping at the roots to tilt her head at just the right angle to deepen the kiss. The other hand ran up her side, lingering near her chest, his thumb caressing, firm but gentle, over the side of her breast.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched her back trying to get even closer, though she was pretty sure that wasn't possible with clothes on. A shuddering gasp left her mouth as his lips relocated to the pulse point on her neck.

"Logan," she breathed out raspily, turning her head to give him more room. But instead of the feel of his tongue dragging over her throat, she felt him push himself away.

"Fuck," he cursed.

Her eyes fluttered open, her brain still in a fog.

"What?"

"We kissed."

Her lips curled up into a dreamy smile. "Yeah, we did."

"No, Rory, we just kissed. In the middle of the fucking street.

"Oh…." Her eyes went suddenly wide with the realization, every drop of alcohol in her blood evaporating. "OH! Oh god!" She scanned the street, her heart thudding with fear…and slightly still from the exhilaration of the kiss. It was a really good kiss.

"We should get inside," he said, also taking a moment to study the seemingly empty street before starting back towards the entrance of the club.

"I mean, it's really late," she said as she hurried after him, trying not to trip on her heels. "He wouldn't still be hanging around this late, right? Or if he is still here, he could have gone to the bathroom, or fallen asleep or something. Or he could have been getting his jollies off by watching Steph and her boy toy, and I'm a terrible person for even remotely wishing some perv was watching my friend get screwed in an alley. But, I mean, the point is that we don't know that he saw us…"

Logan shot an annoyed glare over his shoulder, then grabbed for her hand pulling her faster to get them out of the street. They paused at the door, but the bouncer just shrugged them in, obviously beyond caring at this hour.

Logan looked around for a second before pulling her off in the direction of a relatively empty corner.

"Should we be talking here?" she asked. "Maybe we should go upstairs."

"Where people we actually know can hear us?" he pointed out. "Where Jackson can hear us?"

"Oh." Jackson. He was going to be so beyond pissed at them. This could ruin everything. If they had been seen, if Mitchum found out, he would rain his fury down upon them even more so than he already was. Not to mention the damage it could do if they were caught on camera.

"Maybe it will work out in our favor," Logan suggested. "I mean, maybe he'll be so consumed with…" He inhaled deeply, unable to finish his sentence.

"Revenge?" Rory finished for him. "That's your bright side? That he'll be so consumed with revenge on us...on you that he'll be even more oblivious to what Jackson is doing?"

"Well, do you have any better silver linings?" he snapped.

Her shoulder's slumped defeatedly. "No." Actually, she could think of one. That kiss. Dear god that was an amazing kiss. Sixty seconds of Nirvana. Was it worth it? She knew the answer was 'no' and yet she couldn't shake the tingly sensation in her lips that made her want to do it all over again.

"Well," Logan sighed. "I guess we need to hope Mitchum's spies don't do their best work at 3AM. And we keep this to ourselves. No point in saying anything if it turns out there's nothing to say."

"Is there?" she asked. As sobering as this experience was, there must have been at least a little buzz left to make her mouth form those words.

"Is there what?"

Is there nothing to say? She shook her head. "Nothing," she replied instead. "Forget about it. Forget about it all. The question, the kiss. We were drunk." She squared her shoulders, straightening up to look him in the eye. "It didn't mean anything."

She started to turn away to head back to their VIP room but she felt him reach out to grab her hand. She tried to pull it away again, but she stopped at the next word out of his mouth. "Cherry." Her heart thudded in her chest. She took a deep breath before turning around.

"It was a mistake," he said. Her heart dropped again. "For some pretty obvious reasons."

"Right." She crossed her arms defensively over her chest, her gaze casting down.

"But it did mean something."

"What?" Her eyes shot up again to meet his.

"I don't know what, exactly, if I'm being honest. Even without the whole All the President's Men crap going on, this thing between us is complicated and messy, and not just a tiny bit psychologically scaring. But none of that seems to matter, because I can't stop thinking about you. And I just…I wanted you to know that it didn't mean nothing. If circumstances were different…"

"But they're not," she interrupted him. His rejection hurt, but somehow knowing that there was a world where it didn't have to be that way…that hurt more.

"No, they're not," he concurred.

"So then, we're agreed," she nodded succinctly. "It can't happen again."

"No, at least not until…"

"It can't happen again," she cut him off, her voice firm and resolute. There was no point in wasting away in 'what-ifs,' or 'maybe whens.' It was what it was.

"I guess we should head back up then, before we're missed."

"I guess so." She turned on her heel and headed back towards the stairs, not allowing herself to look back to see him follow.

"Mr. Huntzberger." He looked up at the saccharine voice to see a petite blonde girl sticking her head through the door of his office. "There's, uh, there's someone here to see you?"

She looked confused. That wasn't surprising considering it was Saturday and he wasn't even supposed to be there. He certainly had no planned meetings. But the news didn't stop on the weekends, and sometimes things came up. Plus, as much as he liked the fast-paced environment of a newsroom, there was something almost serene about the slower pace it took on the weekends. And sure, the weekend receptionist was so dumb she couldn't even figure out how to use an intercom, but that was part of her charm. He certainly didn't mind her interruptions; especially when she was wearing those snug, low cut sweaters. Of course, that explained why Mitchum was there, but it still didn't explain the unexpected visitor. "Is that a question?"

"No, umm," she shook her head, biting her lip anxiously. He loved how nervous he made her. He loved making people nervous in general, but especially pretty girls; there was something intoxicating about seeing the quiver of their lips, the tremble of their shoulders, the darty look in their eyes. "There's someone here to see you," she repeated and while her voice no longer went up at the end of the statement, she still seemed less than sure.

"Well?" he asked. "Who is it?"

"He wouldn't say," she informed him.

Mitchum waved his hand dismissively as he turned his attention back to his work. He was an important man, he didn't take unsolicited visitors. Especially ones unwilling to announce themselves. He expected the receptionist—Jenny? Ginny? Jessica? Whatever her name was—to let herself out, so he was a little surprised when he heard her speak again. "He said to tell you it's important and that it's about the Alamo."

That caught his attention. The Alamo…the mission. What was Anatoly doing making unplanned visits in the middle of the day? Sure, things were quieter here on the weekends, but there were still people around. He knew better than to show up without a planned meet unless it was really important. "Show him in," Mitchum said, keeping his voice calm and even. "And then go to that bakery on 24th that I like and get me a black and white cookie and a cup of coffee."

"But that's ten blocks away," she protested as though that weren't the point. "There's a bakery on the corner."

"I'm aware."

"Okay, so can't I just…"

"The cookies from the bakery on 24th are better."

"Okay, but who's going to answer the phone."

He didn't reply, just looked at her with a steady gaze and a slightly raised eyebrow—an expression that clearly stated he was not to be questioned any further. Fortunately, her less than genius brain cells seemed to catch on. "Right, I'll be back in a bit."

He let his eyes linger as she turned and walked away. A couple minutes later, Anatoly appeared. "Shut the door," Mitchum commanded. Anatoly did so, then helped himself to a seat across from Mitchum. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You're gonna want to see these," Anatoly informed him, holding up a manilla envelope.

"And you couldn't email them or have them couriered over?" he asked pointedly.

Anatoly didn't answer, just plopped the envelope down in front of him. Mitchum glared at him through narrow lids before picking the envelope up and sliding the stack of photos out.

Rory and Logan were walking down a darkened street; their faces were cast in shadows, but he could see their body language was loose and carefree. Though the photo was a still, he could tell that they were stumbling, most likely drunk. The time stamp on the photo was 2:18AM.

Mitchum felt the anger rising in his gut, hot and sticky as though his intestines were an inferno of rage, melting away everything else. They were together at two fucking eighteen in the morning. They were together and drunk and fucking giggly at 2:18 in the morning. They looked happy. They weren't supposed to be happy, they were supposed to be miserable. They had crap jobs, no money, no futures. They had nothing without Mitchum. And still, they were goddamn happy. That alone was enough to infuriate him, but he wasn't stupid enough to believe Anatoly had showed up just to show him this. Mitchum flipped to the next picture.

The next several photos were similar to the first, though occasionally the light of a streetlamp would catch their faces—their goddamn, fucking smiley faces—and Mitchum would feel the flames of his fury licking higher into his chest. He flipped further until he reached one of Rory, her legs buckling, Logan's hands stretched out to catch her.

Mitchum knew what was coming next and yet with each flip of a photo he felt his chest clench tighter. Logan's hands splayed out along her rib cage. Rory's head tilted up, mere centimeters from his. Logan smiling down at her. Rory reaching her hand up to stroke his face. And then their lips were touching.

He didn't need to see anymore. He shoved the entire stack from his desk, the prints scattering around him inappropriately, like confetti at a funeral. He reached for the Waterford crystal glass holding his Monteblanc pens, his grip tightening around it with almost crushing strength as he picked it up and hurled it across the room, the glass shattering as eight-hundred-dollar ballpoints rained down around them.

Anatoly ducked as the Newton's cradle went soaring through the air next. Then a rather large, leather-bound book. Mitchum was running out of things to throw, but he wasn't running out of unmitigated rage. That fucking slut. And his goddamn, fucking bastard of a son. He was going to kill them. How dare they make a fool of him like this. They weren't even trying to hide their crass and vulgar affair. They weren't behind closed doors; they were in the middle of the fucking street where anyone could see them.

They were going to pay for this. Mitchum would see to it. If they thought they were on his bad side before they didn't know what his bad side was.

Mitchum stopped throwing things, turning with a renewed sense of calm, to address Anatoly who was crouched by the corner of the desk, avoiding flying objects. "Stand up." He commanded. Tentatively, Anatoly complied. "We've got work to do," he informed his associate. "Here's what we're going to do…"

Rory threw one last glance over her shoulder as they approached their destination.

"There's no one there," Paris assured her. She knew there was no one there. But she couldn't stop looking. She'd been waiting for days for the other shoe to drop; for the fallout from her drunken kiss to come crashing down around her. She'd been looking over her shoulder non-stop for the last 90 hours or so. But still, there was no one there. Maybe they'd lucked out and they hadn't been seen.

"You're right," Rory shook her head, trying to let go of the creeping sensation of doom that was haunting her. "I'm being paranoid."

"I didn't say that," Paris corrected her as they made their way inside the gym. "Your ex is a psycho. Just because he's not having you followed right this second doesn't mean you let your guard down. Rule number one of Krav Maga…" Paris stopped her forward motion, swiveling around suddenly and clapping her hands mere inches from Rory's face, "never let your guard down."

Rory jumped backwards, cringing at Paris' intensity. She should be used to it after almost a decade of knowing the woman, but sometimes it still caught her off guard. Apparently that was going to need to change; Apparently Rory wasn't allowed to be off her guard anymore.

"Geez, fine," Rory huffed, trying to catch her breath as Paris approached the desk and checked them in. "I'm not letting my guard down."

"Come on," Paris said, waiving Rory along at a fast-paced clip. "Locker room's this way." Rory hurried after her, following her through the door labeled 'women.'

Rory set her bag down on a bench. "So," she said, dawdling with the zipper of her duffle. She was having mixed feelings about this Krav Maga stuff. On the one hand she knew getting some self-defense skills was the smart thing to do; she was tired of feeling scared and helpless. But on the other hand, she was plagued with abysmal hand-eye coordination and a pathologically 'nice' personality that made the thought of confrontations of all kinds nausea inducing. So physical confrontations in particular seemed like an epically bad idea. "Am I really going to have to, you know, fight people?"

"Krav Maga isn't about, fighting, Gilmore, it's about defending. It's about avoiding a fight. You do whatever you have to to neutralize the threat and get out of there. Do you really want to fight your six-foot tall, two-hundred-pound ex? Last time you did that he turned your kidneys into pâté. You were peeing blood for a week."

Rory cringed. "Thanks for reminding me…of the fact that he beat the crap out of me and of the fact that you wouldn't let me flush the toilet for an entire week so that you could keep tabs on my pee."

"Now that's friendship." Rory turned at the sound of the new voice.

"Thank you!" Paris replied exuberantly. "At least someone appreciates me, even if this dodo over here," she pointed a thumb at Rory, "just thinks I'm being annoying."

"Excuse me?" Rory asked the short, olive-skinned, brunette girl who'd interrupted their conversation. Her heart was beating faster with the knowledge that she'd been overheard. What had she been thinking talking about Mitchum in public? Hadn't she learned her lesson after Friday night? Isn't this what Paris had just been saying to her about not letting her guard down?

"I'm sorry," the new girl replied. "I didn't mean to eves drop, it's just, well…I overheard and…let's just say," she shrugged meekly, "I know what you're going through."

Rory immediately felt bad for the girl. No one should have to go through anything like what she went through. She wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," the girl nodded, not entirely convincingly. "I mean, I'm out of it. It's over now, right?"

"Right," Rory nodded. It was over. It was the one thing Rory kept clinging to. It was over; she was out. But she didn't feel out. If anything, she felt more trapped than ever. Maybe that's why it was so easy for women to keep going back; because at least when you were in it, you could convince yourself everything was okay. It was easier to stay and pretend that everything was normal, and just keep trying to mollify them than it was to fight and be constantly aware of just how much danger you were in. When you were in the relationship, you were made to believe it was your fault if they weren't happy, which meant that in some weird way, you had control over what they did to you. But when you left and acknowledged the type of person they really were, you had to accept just how little control you actually had. And in many ways, that was even scarier than their wrath.

"I just meant it must be nice not to have to go through it alone. I mean, not nice. Nothing about being in that situation is nice. Just less terrible, you know," the girl babbled. "I mean, maybe if I had someone willing to monitor my pee, it wouldn't have taken ending up it he hospital for the third time to get out. And clearly you can tell I have no friends by my terrible social skills. I'm sorry for word vomiting all my emotional baggage all over you before we've even exchanged names. I'm Rebecca, by the way."

Rory gave the girl a sympathetic smile. She could relate, after all; while Paris was a loyal and stalwart friend, Rory's overall social life had been beyond dismal for most of her life. And it had only gotten worse once she started seeing Mitchum. It probably was only because of her friends—Paris, of course but also Logan, and Stephanie, and Chase—that she had had the strength to realize just how messed up her situation was, and to get out of it. She never would have been able to do this alone. And no one else should have to go through it alone either. "I'm Rory," she introduced herself. "And this is Paris. And you've got friends now."

AN: Another chapter for you all, I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review, please and let me know what you think...here are some talking points to contemplate...I love writing Mitchum so much, lol. It feels wrong, but I can't help it. Getting into his twisted head is fun. Is it as much fun to read his wrath? Plus we got some more of the Rory-Logan smoochies. And sure, they agreed it can't happen again but I think we all know that won't last forever. Those two are incapable of getting over each other. And Rory's finally taking matters into her own hands and getting some self defense training, thanks to her pal Paris. And it seems her social circle is growing. We all need more friends, right? And sure, there was no JackFinn in this chapter, which makes me sad, but we know that Mitchum saw the kiss, which means at some point Jackson is going to have to find out that they kissed. How will he react? Will Finn be able to talk him off the ledge? Only way to find out is to keep reading. Which means I need to keep writing. And you know what helps me write more? Reviews. So leave one, really!