When Logan returned, she had a bucket, several scrub brushes, bleach, and an old bedsheet. The longer blood sat on the floor, the more difficult it would become to clean it up. With wood being absorbent, she feared it'd soak past the polish, stain the floor, and later have to rip up the floorboards. Of all the things she could have worried about, the floor had taken priority.

Spreading out the bedsheet, she got everything ready to move the body while John sifted through a discovered phone. Logan took this moment of distraction to study him, as she was wont to do.

Just last night, he arrived drenched and in dire straits. Now, it was different. The weakness had diminished, the pain across a terse brow as if it never happened. If she hadn't known any better, if she hadn't seen the amount of blood she administered as he slept, she'd assume he had a rough night, maybe a hangover. Also, how was he not affected by the dead body at both of their feet? He was barely moved by the corpse or the coppery smell that assaulted the air. Was the corpse merely another object in the house, no more significant than the coffee table or a light fixture? Moreover, who the fuck is John Wick? What man had her father delivered to her?

Chills raced over her shoulders, and she found herself wanting to look at his face. The cuts had been cleaned, small nicks made neat from a sharp blade. There was also a slit across the bridge of his nose. Someone must have head-butted him. He still wore her father's t-shirt, and suddenly she was uncomfortable with that. The next time she headed to the city—which would be in the morning since she had to work—she'd buy him something else to wear. Anything but her father's clothes. After the other night in the shower, it seemed inappropriate and weird.

Quick refraction of light caught by the moonshine snatched Logan's attention from his face to his hand. Her mouth went dry, and she blinked, stepping back as if the discovery startled her: a ring.

He's married? What did his wife think of him being here? Where was she now? Did Caldron leave to obtain her?

She blinked again, and something began to hurt, a wrenching in her chest as she stared at the tungsten band. Logan tried to swallow the tightness building in her throat, to pretend that it wasn't there, that she wasn't disappointed with the discovery. Where was the wife then? Logan glanced around the living room foolishly, as if the woman had been there the entire time and had gone unnoticed. She was an idiot, of course. When she looked back at John, flicking the tip of his thumb across the illuminated screen, she realized this shouldn't be happening. There was a dead woman at her feet—a dead woman. A woman Logan had shot and killed. She didn't think about asking questions either; that never even crossed her mind. Nothing did at the time because it had happened so fast. Even the gunfire still rang vividly in her head, reminding her how quick and fleeting life could be, reminding her why she never had pets.

Everything dies. Everything. Everyone.

A pool of blood, black as ink, blooming like a fresh rose across the hardwood floor and despite all these things...

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the wedding ring on John Wick's hand.

After they cleaned the floor, wrapped the body in the bedsheet, John went outside to burn the corpse, and Logan went to her room upstairs. From the second floor, Logan observed him from her bedroom window. Down below, just before the precipice descended towards the valley beneath, John stood at the foot of a wealthy fire. Strewn across the flames was the body and at his side, that newly acquired dog. She found it odd how fond they were suddenly of each other. Perhaps she was no better than the four-legged beast when it came to John Wick. Except this affinity was so one-sided, it was pitiful.

Uncrossing her arms, she turned away from the window and picked up her cell phone.

Dialing, her father's number would be in vain, but now the questions were becoming a burden. This was her house. She had the right to know who John Wick was, why a woman came bursting inside, threatening Logan's life for the location of his. If there were more after him, and therefore her, she needed answers.

It rang. Returning to her window, John still stood before the dancing blaze. Embers rose with the curling smoke, floating and drifting against the violet night.

"Hello?" It was Caldron's business voice, deep and shamelessly Texan.

Logan nearly choked; she was so surprised he answered.

"Dad?"

"Hey baby girl!" he drawled, swapping to his personal voice, softer than the tenors of a Blackwater mercenary. There was even a smile denoted within his parlance.

"Who is John Wick?" She went straight for the kill, like shoving a barrel directly into someone's mouth.

A beat passed—no reply, only static.

"Dad," she said again more firmly, "Who is John Wick?" Pulling the phone away, she checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped. By doing so, she also read the time. 0115. She brought the phone back to her ear.

"John is a friend of mine," her father said calmly.

In the dim light, Logan narrowed her eyes. That obviously wasn't enough. She could have guessed that on her own.

"What kind of friend?" she pressed, "You said he wasn't from Blackwater. What about Triple Canopy? DynCorp?"

"Logan."

"Then who is he!" she shrieked, realizing his disinclination to provide answers. "Because I just shot a woman in the fucking face for him!"

For him.

She didn't mean to make it sound so intimate, so personal. Emotions within her were in overdrive, burning her chest with anger as she desperately sought answers. Was she upset about death? It wasn't her first kill, no. She flew attack helicopters, her body count was staggering, but it was the first personal kill. A kill where she felt her victim fall lifeless and still beneath her. A death that showed her exactly how it took place.

Silence unfolded between them. A subtle tremor then took over her limbs, prickling her skin. A side effect when she became too excited or nervous or emotion was too extreme to withstand physically. The anticipating was starting to overwhelm her. It was getting late, and she had work in the morning. It took two hours to drive to Austin.

A defeated sigh came from her father's end. Logan perked up, becoming hopeful.

"The men who attacked your mother," Caldron began. Logan quickly sat down on the edge of her bed, away from the window and the distraction outside. "They beat her, robbed her, took her wallet, her car. And, if I hadn't found her, they would have taken her life. As you know, she was pregnant with you at the time."

Logan swallowed, pressing the hot phone to her ear firmly, afraid of missing any detail on the attack. He had never fully told her the story, and all her life, she had feared he was the culprit. That never stopped her from loving him, though. Somewhere within herself, she knew he withheld the truth for her sake. Caldron was an operator. A man who protected others, even the military. He hunted high-value targets, rescued kidnapped civilians, and helped established diplomacy where need be. If he killed those men who hurt her mom, that was okay. Logan understood that. Why would that be so difficult to tell her?

"I would have done it myself if the Marines hadn't needed me overseas," he continued, eliminating her suspicion, "But I needed to make sure you and your mother would be safe. There was a risk they'd come back and finish the job." He paused, took a deep breath. "You had just been born, Logan. Y'all were both in such fragile states. I was angry. I'm sorry."

Taken aback, Logan was confused. Why was he apologizing?

"You had John kill them?" she practically guessed, making sure she was stumbling upon the right page.

"Yes."

"To protect Mom and me?"

"I had to."

This didn't explain why John Wick was now living in her house, helping hide dead bodies, and toting a dog around. She remembered the large wooden trunk. It hadn't been down there when she woke—just another thing to add to her questions.

"Okay," she said quickly. "Were you even listening? None of this explains why a woman just broke into my house. Where does that play into this? You said people are after him. What kind of people?"

"Everyone, Logan. Crime lords. Drug lords," he sighed, and the sound filled her ear like a pressing weight. "There's an international bounty on his head."

Logan blinked incredulously, allowing the words and their significance to sink.

"And you're just now telling me!" Her voice became shrill. "I haven't heard from you in three fucking years! And one night, you come home, dump off a fucking hitman who has Hell coming after him! At not just any house!" She was shouting now, rising to her feet. "But your daughter's! If people are after him, how is this protecting me? Now I'm in danger!" The words spilled from her lips at such a rate; she was flushed and breathless. Panic now reigned her senses. The proverbial knot returned to cinch her throat. She palmed her forehead, trying to clear her thoughts as she paced her room. Caldron waited for her to calm down before speaking again.

"It was my last resort. The house has everything he needs," he chuckled. "It even has a helicopter pilot."

He meant it as a joke, to lighten to mood, but it was the tipping point for Logan.

"Fuck you." her voice trembled, becoming soft and low. "Fuck you for bringing me into this, after all this time. I don't give a shit who the fuck," she made her voice whiny, "John Wick is. I don't want him here!"

Furious, she hung up and cast her phone aside.

Logan had been pacing, and when she spun around, John was standing in her doorway.

How long had he been standing there, and how much had he heard?

It didn't matter; she realized quickly. What she said was true, and if he'd heard, maybe he would leave. Better to die out there than here, where he could drag her to her grave.

Closing her eyes, Logan gripped the back of her neck and gave a firm squeeze. The pain responded, prodding her already heated demeanor like a hot poker. It was now two in the morning. The commute to work was a minimum of two hours in ideal conditions. But no drive to the city was ideal. It was perpetual traffic.

John reached down and gave the dog a gentle pat, who thumped his tail against the floor.

In the quiet dark, they regarded each other.

She didn't know him, didn't want to know him. In fact, maybe she even went as far as hating him. If it weren't for his crime-riddled past, he wouldn't have needed Caldron's help and, therefore, wouldn't be here now, staring at her from the doorway, looking and smelling like the Devil himself.

But, a tiny voice came, if it hadn't been for John, who's to say you would've ever seen your father again? How pathetic and outrageous that this is what it took to bring her father back. Spite stirred in her gut, reminding Logan of his father's helicopter comment. She was a pilot, but not a civilian pilot. If he had been present in the last three years, that would not be a mystery to him.

"Thank you for not shooting him," John said with a voice as smooth and languid as lapping flame. It only reminded Logan how far she shoved the barrel into the girl's mouth. The smell of gunpowder and then blood. The ringing in her ears, how the pistol bucked in her hand when she pulled the trigger. She had every intention of killing that dog. He had decided that for her by staying.

Logan didn't say anything. She was out of words for the night and still fuming over the conversation with Caldron. The frustration she had accumulated over the three years came out as festered anger laced in sheer spite. A part of Logan wanted him to return her call so that she could hang up on him a second time. The other, more forgiving part wanted to apologize and admit she'd gotten out of hand.

Logan sighed heavily.

"You're welcome," she said finally. How he assumed this was beyond her. It was just a dog. Of course, now that John was here, she wanted some establishment between them. At the very least, she wanted to know what to expect. However, it was getting late, and Logan couldn't get out of work a second time. It'd have to wait.

Moving towards the door with the intent of ending whatever discussion brewed, she imagined slamming the door in his face. It would not be polite, but it would be satisfying. There was some degree of hate for John. There truly was. The way cuts and bruises somehow complimented the structure of his face. His trimmed beard and brown eyes, so dark and smoldering, they were almost black. Then there's the perfect parted hair just above a faint widow's peak. The way his voice was low and relaxed, calculated, and precise. Not a vowel or syllable was squandered or misused.

And most of all, she hated how married he was.

Reaching out, she grabbed the side of her door and went to shut it. John, with the speed of a striking serpent, stopped the door with his palm and forearm.

"Logan," he whispered carefully, the tension rising between man and woman. It was the first time he'd spoken her name.

"We need to talk."

Oooof! John Wick, y'all! *wags eyebrows*

HollyHobbit13: Hahahah! I promise nothing bad will happen to the dog! You have my word.

Guest(s): I'll admit, writing for John was different but I'm glad you still enjoyed it! I guess I'll have to keep stepping into his shoes!